“Alright,” I agree cautiously. “I’ll have a think.”
After we hang up, I look out at Upper Street and the buses passing by, thinking about all those days I imagined my life with Alexander. He would’ve popped into primary schools for the occasional photo op, but there’s no way he would’ve put in the time day in and day out to actually be a teacher.There are people for that,he would’ve thought to himself, even if he was too well bred to say such things aloud. And he’d probably be telling me to just let the incident with Harold blow over—to look out for my own career goals and not risk jeopardizing them.
Maybe it’s just the kind of day I’m having, but I can’t find it in me to be so terribly disappointed that my prince doesn’t actually exist. Similar to how I felt when I was slurping down the last of Rory’s gelato, not caring if it was dripping from my chin, I’m actually relieved that I’ve gotten Rory in place of Alexander.
Okay I’m in,I text him that evening, after his school day would have ended so I don’t bother him while he’s teaching.So long as I get snack time.
His name pops up on my phone, and it has that buoying effect.Deal! Setting aside some Kit Kats for you.
My parents used to call me Kit Kat,I reply.
Can I call you that??
Then he double-texts a moment later.My bad, I know you’re not a fan of nicknames. Forget I said that!
I’d mentioned to him, one offhand comment during our conversation on Saturday, how I despise that Harold calls me Kitten. But Kit Kat is different. The name reminds me of family dinners crammed around that little kitchen table, fighting my brothers for seconds of our mom’s famous bean-anza casserole (sharing the bunk bed wasn’t exactly a treat those nights). Kit Kat makes me feel likemaybe I could be innocent and carefree again, even though right now I just feel used and crumpled.
I actually like being called Kit Kat,I reply to Rory, because he has a way of making my secrets feel safe, even the little ones like this.So long as it’s accompanied by the candy.
Brill! See you next week, Kit Kat.
His text doesn’t give me butterflies, and I again mourn the thrill of anticipation that comes from having a crush. But his words still make me feel a bit lighter. Not like I’m flying in an airborne chariot with my true love or anything romantic like that. Just like I’m ambling with an old friend through a dandelion-filled meadow, both of us barefoot in jeans and old T-shirts, with the summertime sun strumming against our skin like an old banjo tune.
It’s way less exciting than love and gets me lamenting all the ways Rory is infinitely more boring than Alexander would have been. But when I’m not spiraling into my rom-com comparisons, there’s something unexpectedly comforting about having him around. Especially right now, when I feel so far from home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Work carries on like usual, and the normalcy puts me on edge. It makes me doubt whether any kind of investigation is happening. Harold struts through the office as brashly as ever. He could just be posturing, but I don’t think he’d have that much self-restraint to keep from fuming and gaslighting me if HR had actually questioned him about the incident.
Impatient for an update, I ping Helena at the end of the week. Days later, she gets back with a very helpful reply:As mentioned, will circle back when I have an update. Please do respect our process.
It leaves me feeling powerless, waiting on the system to judge whether I’m credible or crazy. I consider going straight to Oliver, but something stops me. Maybe pride or maybe shame. Probably both.
On the Friday of Career Day at Rory’s school, I work from the office in the morning so I can be there for an org structure meeting (read: “a layoffs meeting”). Then at lunchtime—or moreaccurately, that hour of the day thatshouldbe lunchtime but is actually just shovel-down-cafeteria-food-at-your-desk-with-an-air-of-self-important-stress hour—I pack up to head over to Rory’s school.
I haven’t taken any time off since starting this case, so the prospect of escaping work for even a few hours is highly exciting. As I’m swapping out my pumps for trainers, Harold comes by and lingers at my desk, one hand resting on the back of the chair.
“Sneaking out for a cheeky long weekend?” he asks.
“Not sneaking,” I say coolly. “I’m taking annual leave this afternoon to help a friend with something.” Over here, annual leave is what they call paid time off.
I go to the lifts, Harold on my tail. “We’re overdue for another Annabel’s night,” he says, as if he expects me to leap at the suggestion.
The grainy vibration of his voice gives me the feeling that I’m naked in a crowded room. I pull my blazer more tightly around me as I wait for the elevator, but the sensation doesn’t go away.
“I’ll put something in the diary for next week,” Harold goes on, seeming to take my nauseated silence as a yes.
His mouth is curled upward into a satisfied smile, and he’s eyeing me more audaciously than he ever has, like the challenge of landing me feels in reach now. He seems to think my rebuff is just an act that I’m putting on in the office, and that all the walls and clothes will fall away after he gets another few drinks in me.
Nothing I can say or do right now can set him straight, and it leaves me dizzy.
The elevator doors open. Harold doesn’t follow me in, just watches the doors close and gives a salacious wink, as if we’re in on some private joke.
It makes me more confident in my decision to report him. If calling him out on his misogynistic behavior costs me the promotion, then it’s not a promotion I want.
Part of me still wavers and wonders if it I’ve shot myself in the foot, but I try not to give credence to those indecent doubts.
Heading out of the office, I make my way to the underground. Standing on the grubby platform, minding the gap as I wait for the train, I look over the talking points I’ve written for what I’m going to say to the kids. I don’t trust myself to wing it. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I winged anything. My corporate training has taught me that anything spontaneous reflects poorly as a lack of preparation. Unless you’re a white man who went to some fancy prep school, in which case winging it is rewarded as endearingly off the cuff.
