Chairs scrape back. Papers shuffle. Conversation splinters into casual chatter. Dr. Patel asks Dr. Liu about his latest research grant. Dr. Johnson mutters something about the dean. Dr. Wallace lingers, deliberately slower than the rest.
He leans toward me, lowering his voice just enough to feel intimate. “You handled that very efficiently, Victoria. I’ve been impressed with your organizational skills.”
Before I can thank him—or sidestep the weirdly loaded compliment—Leo cuts in.
“She’s good at what she does,” he says flatly. “That’s why she’s here.”
The edge in his voice makes the air heavier. Wallace blinks, adjusts his glasses, and mutters something about heading back to his office. He leaves, and the tension leaves with him.
But not Leo.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable expression. I shut my laptop with more force than necessary. “What?” I snap, finally meeting his gaze.
He smirks—slow, infuriating. “Nothing. Just, your GBF duties are safe with me. I’m here to protect you from Dr. Sweatervest’s poorly delivered mansplaining come-ons. Who knew Deondre Wallace had a passive-aggressive degradation kink?”
I groan, pushing to my feet. “At least he doesn’t say stupid shit like ‘you want this dick.’ Or sneak into the women’s bathroom. If I need saving from anyone in this office, it’s you.”
Slapping his palm against his chest, Leo mock-groans. “You wound me, bestie.”
I roll my eyes, done with this conversation. “GBF. You’ll never live that one down.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Tote.”
That makes me pause. I sling my handbag up my arm, hug mylaptop to my chest. “Okay, seriously. What’s with that nickname? Tote? It sounds like a purse. Or laundry detergent.”
His grin widens, lazy and smug. “Relax. You know, like Dorothy. Toto—the scrappy little dog. Small, feisty, loud bark, doesn’t back down from anybody. Remind you of anyone?”
My jaw drops. “You didnotjust compare me to a dog.”
“Survived a tornado, saved her girl a dozen times,” he says, shameless. “Honestly? Solid résumé.”
I glare, fighting the twitch of a smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t shove you harder in that bathroom.”
Leo stands, sliding his hands into his pockets and, thankfully, does not step closer to me. “If you had shoved me any harder we could have ended upinthe stall…together. That would’ve been way more fun than this meeting.”
He’s shuffling backwards, already heading for the door, grin carved deep enough to make me want to smack it off. “What can I say? It’d be fun to play tangent to your curves.”
Then he turns and exits the meeting room, leaving me standing there. Speechless.
My pulse hasn’t quite settled since the bathroom… incident? And I can’t decide which unsettles me more: Wallace’s too-probing looks, or the way Leo keeps finding his way under my skin. And did he just make calculusdirty? Of course he did.
If I’m honest, I haven’t had this much fun with a man in… well, ever.
Either way, it’s only 10 a.m., and it’s going to be a long freaking Tuesday.
FOURTEEN
TORI
Past
The drive to my parents’house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts run wild and loud and sharp. The kind that leaves room for second-guessing. For imagining different outcomes. For wondering if this decision—this monumental shift in the trajectory of my life—could somehow still be walked back. But I know it can’t. Not this time. I’ve made my decision. I’m choosing myself. And no, that is not selfish.
I’ve tried everything. Tried to be patient. Tried to be understanding. Tried to hold all the pieces together with duct tape and grace and optimism and self-help books and Bible verses and counseling and pure, fucking will. But you can’t patch something that keeps breaking the same way. And love shouldn’t demand I keep bleeding to prove it. I’m done here. Done pretending that I am strong enough for the both of us. Done holding together someone who refuses to put forth any effort to repair himself. Just. Fucking. Done.
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I pull into thedriveway. The porch light is on even though it’s barely dusk. She always turns it on when she knows I’m coming. The gesture tugs at something in me. A memory of being small and loved and safe. Before I knew how complicated love could be. Before that night—almost two years ago now—when I came to her broken, raw, and honest about how unhappy I was in my marriage, hoping to find safety and rest in her and instead finding myself met with manipulated Bible verses and hollow platitudes.
When I step inside, I find her in the kitchen, humming to herself and stirring something on the stove. The scent of garlic and rosemary fills the house. It’s comforting. Familiar. A piece of home I’ve always carried with me. It’s strange, that word, home. It’s so complex. I feel comfort, love, safety, betrayal, loneliness, anger, sadness, regret, hope, thankfulness, weariness, all at once.
