“Good for you,” I say, forcing my voice to stay neutral.
“It was helpful,” she continues. “I think.”
I shrug. “Glad you had a nice day.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Logan, I-” she starts softly.
I lift my pen without looking at her. “Gotta work.”
She nods. “Right.” Then, hesitantly, “I’m guessing you showing me the ropes is out.”
Call me a masochist. Or an idiot.
“Why?” I ask. “You wanna spend the day relaxing?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “I just thought-”
I grab the nearest stack of reports and slam them onto the counter.
“You can handle these, right?”
She blinks at the pile. “Yes. Of course.” A pause. “Thanks for-”
I’m already walking back to my chair.
Jess stands there awkwardly for a second, like she’s waiting for me to say something else.
I don’t.
Finally, she gathers the reports and moves to the sofa.
We don’t have a dedicated office at home. Never needed one. Working from the kitchen table used to make sense. Used to feel comfortable.
Now I hate it.
I hate how close she is, hate that I can hear every page she turns. I even hate the smell her perfume drifting across the room.
The only sound in the house is the quiet clicking of my keyboard and the occasional rustle of paper from her side.
It feels like we’re strangers forced to share a waiting room.
Once I’m done returning the last of the pending emails, I lean back in my chair and finally let myself look at her.
From here I can only see the back of her head, the soft fall of her hair over her shoulders, the way she sits slightly hunched over the reports. Even from across the room I can see the tension in her body. The stiffness in the way she moves.
It’s weird.
A part of me wants to get up, walk over, and ask if she’s okay.
I almost do it on instinct.
Then I remember why she’s not okay. And why it isn’t my job to fix that anymore.
Still… ten years. Ten years of loving this woman.
You don’t just flip a switch on that.
