A door opens in the next cabin, followed by the sound of footsteps outside.
I swallow hard.‘I should probably go.’
Luke lifts his head to look at me.‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know.’I force a smile.‘That’s why I probably should.’
He searches my face, trying to read between the lines of something I haven’t said out loud.And maybe I haven’t.See, the thing about rules is they only matter if someone’s around long enough to remember them.
And I don’t do long enough.
I press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, slide out from under him and start collecting my clothes.
Behind me, I hear him ask, ‘So this is it?’
I turn enough to glance back at him.‘Yep.That’s the whole show.Hope I lived up to the ticket price.’
He props himself up on one elbow, hair a mess, lopsided grin in place.‘I’ve had worse.’
I shake my head, shimmying into my dress.‘You’ll forget about me by next week.’
He laughs.‘I hope so.’
‘Shut up and go to sleep, cowboy.’
I turn, hand on the doorknob.I don’t look back.Not really.But I catch it anyway – that small wrinkle between his brows, his grin fading.It’s the look of someone realising they’ve accidentally caught feelings.
And the worst part?
I feel guilty.
THIRTEEN
It’s always awkward when an office romance ends.The thinly veiled passive aggression in the margins of shared documents.The mysteriously revoked calendar invites.The resignation letter written in size-11 Papyrus font like it’s not already the loudest cry for help.
Not me, obviously.God, no.
But I’m the senior copywriter at a boutique ad agency, managing a team of five, which means I get front-row seats to the heartbreak circus.Today’s act: Jasmine, junior copywriter, currently sobbing over Google Meet.
‘I just – I can’t do this anymore,’ she wails.
I nod, professionally sympathetic, which is the only acceptable response when someone is having a full-blown emotional breakdown on a work-monitored device.
‘I completely understand,’ I say, trying not to sound like I’ve already drafted her farewell email.‘You’ve been such an asset to the team.We’ll miss you.’
Jasmine sniffs.‘Thank you.’
I wish her well, promise her a glowing reference, and end the call.My laptop makes a satisfying click as I shut it and flop back onto my unmade bed with a sigh.I should be at my desk wedgedinto the corner of my room.Instead, I’ve been working from bed all day, unshowered, in yesterday’s t-shirt – which, apparently, is also today’s problem.
I get up and wander to the bathroom, mostly to pee, partly to escape the crushing responsibility of being the emotional sponge of my department.When I pull my underwear down, I frown.Nothing.Still.
My period’s a full week late.Not that unusual – endo is nothing if not dramatic – but still.A week is long, even by my standards.
I reach into the bathroom cabinet, which is home to four types of painkillers, hundreds of skincare samples from Abbey and a box of pregnancy tests that every vaguely unhinged woman owns.I unwrap one like it’s a granola bar, sit on the toilet, and do the thing.Just in case.
I pee.I wait.I regret everything.
Finally, I set the stick on the vanity counter, wash my hands and head to the fridge in search of moral support in snack form – which turns out to be one cucumber.I take a bite and call Abbey.
