“I know,” I cut in. “I saw them.”
His hand paused. “You did?”
“I did. Reviewed everything, sent back notes and approvals.” I took a long sip of coffee, savoring the hazelnut.
“Seriously?” He blinked. “Then why am I here?”
“I have no idea,” I said lightly.
He huffed a laugh and pushed to his feet, but before he could escape, Jennifer appeared—perfectly timed, as always.
“Nuh-uh,” she said, blocking the doorway with a manicured hand. “You’re not getting away that easily.”
Kevin looked back at me with exaggerated sitcom-coded despair. “Help,” he mouthed.
A shrug was all I offered.
He turned back to Jennifer and sighed dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes, plucked the coffee from his hand to take a sip, and started down the hall.
Kevin trotted after her, grumbling something about tyrants in heels. Their voices faded into the city noise beyond the glass.
***
By four, everything on my checklist had been cleared. Every call answered, every deck reviewed, every line item checked off.
Nothing left to hide behind.
My eyes traveled to the dark screen again. Read’s unanswered message from this morning felt like a character accusation. Every hour I’d let it sit made the internal chorus louder, fueling the hate and criticism they spewed.
I scanned the room, searching for anything else to keep me busy, but nothing surfaced. Even the plants had been watered, though it did nothing for their health. Their leaves withered under the artificial light.
So, with resignation, I gave up, packed, and let Harold escort me home.
Traffic did what New York traffic does—the closest thing to quick the city allowed. We crept through a sea of yellow cabs and delivery trucks, the city’s neon glow flickering across the window as I tried—and failed—to still my thoughts.
“In the shower,” Candace called from down the hall, her voice floating over the steady rush of water as I stepped from the elevator.
The smell of umami drew me toward the kitchen, curling through the air.
“Good call on dinner tonight,” Susan said, dropping fresh linguine into a pot of boiling water.
“I thought she’d appreciate it. Plus, I was craving it,” I admitted with a shrug.
Susan’s chuckle followed me as I plopped onto the couch. My phone rested face down, my hesitation mirrored in its silence.
Work couldn’t save me now. I reached for it, the app opening with a twist of guilt. His message waited at the top:Good morning.
A morning that was long gone.
With damp palms, I typed the only safe words—small, neutral, pathetic in their simplicity.
Me: Good afternoon.
It found the cushion again, bracing for delay—for him to make me wait the way I had. If he even responded.
The screen flared. Bright as a struck match. I jumped.
