I manage a smile, then step into the corridor. The whole floor is already buzzing, word of my ‘showdown’ with Caleb pinging around like it’s the latest streaker at a Yankees game. I return to my office, log out of all the case files, and close my eyes. For the first time since undergrad, I have absolutely no idea what to do tomorrow.
Forty-eight hours can rewriteyour entire life. Friday, I was gunning for partner at Parras. By dawn Saturday, I was questioning whether I belonged at the firm at all. That morning, I smiled through a FaceTime with my mother, chopping cabbage for kimchi that will never taste like hers while assuring her everything is “better than ever.” I also dropped the news that I won’t be able to make it to Seoul at the end of next month—she wasn’t happy about it, but she said she understands. I think the fact that I promised to make it for Seollal next year made her okay with me missing Chuseok.
Now it’s Sunday evening, and I’m surrounded by the artifacts of my career—towers of yellow legal pads, unopened thank-you cards from grateful clients I’ve been saving for some hypothetical ‘rainy day.’ If this isn’t rain, it’s the first rumble of thunder before a deluge. After an hour of paralysis, I do something reckless: I pick up my phone. My thumb hovers over Aaron’s name, trembling slightly before tapping out a blank message. I want him to hear about the partnership. I need someone to be as furious on my behalf as I am—someone who won’t tell me to ‘move forward’ or ‘trust the process’ or any of those platitudes that sound profound in novels, but feel like sawdust in your mouth.
Me
You still in New York?
Aaron
I wouldn’t be anywhere else until you forgive me. You want to meet for coffee, or am I still on the Do Not Resuscitate list?
Me
Are you free now?
His reply is instantaneous.
Aaron
Your place or mine?
Me
Mine.
I jump up and rush to the bathroom. Three-day-old hair gets brushed, a pimple patch covers my chin, and lip balm goes on as a distraction. I try on a wrinkled shirt dress, change my mind, and settle on jeans and a black tee. Good enough.
He arrives in less than an hour, wearing a windbreaker over a black hoodie and sweatpants, carrying a takeout bag. His face is full of emotions—nervous, hopeful. I let him in silently. He sets down the food, and for a moment, we just stand there, awkward. Then he steps forward and pulls me into a hug so tight my feet nearly leave the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice near my ear but unhurried. “If I could go back in time, I would.”
“It’s not your fault, Aaron. Well, it’s not entirely your fault. I wasn’t trying to ghost you, but I just needed time to myself. It’s how I’ve always handled things.”
“I figured,” he says, arms still strong around me. “But I’d rather you run at me full speed with a baseball bat than shut me out for nearly three weeks.”
“A bat? That could be arranged,” I mutter into his shirt, which smells like home. “It feels more constructive somehow.”
“Let’s compromise,” he says. “If you still want to hit me after this kimchi stew, I’ll bring the bat.” His hand lingers a moment too long on my back before he lets go.
“Someone has been doing their homework.” I smile, reaching for the bag.
“Yeah, I googled what the best Korean comfort food is if your girlfriend is sad.” He smiles.
“What else did you search?”
“Any and everything that involves you and your happiness. Minji Lee, you are my entire search history.”
The line is so dumb it breaks something in me, and I start to laugh an ugly, hiccuping sound that sends him grinning with relief. We plate the food and sit cross-legged on my rug, with the coffee table between us. Aaron scoops out stew while giving a play-by-play worthy of anESPNcommentator, then accidentally spills some down his wrist. I steal a napkin to mop it up and notice his hands are shaking just a little. Maybe mine are too.
I tell him about William’s ‘surprise’ partnership, about how the meeting was more execution than promotion. I talk fast, rushing through the details before the shame can settle. Aaron listens, not interrupting, occasionally gripping my free hand with his. When I reach the part about Caleb’s ‘maybe you should leave early’ suggestion, he looks as if he wants to scream. Instead, he swears quietly and lets me finish.
“So what now?” he asks, setting aside his bowl. “What do you want to do?”
“I told Caleb I’d take the weekend to think about it, but all I really want is to burn the whole firm down and start over somewhere that doesn’t actively invent new ways to fuck me.”
He considers this for a second, then: “You want an arson buddy? I can bring the matches. Maybe also the bat.” Theempathy lands without pity, just the certainty that if I ever did decide to light up Midtown, Aaron would be right there at my side, probably passing out snacks.
