Page 3 of A Perfect Disaster

She takes a step toward me. The hallway isn’t big, but suddenly it seems much narrower. Her perfume reaches me before she does: a hint of something fresh and citrusy, perhaps with floral notes. It angers me to notice those details. And yes, it angers me even more to remember them so clearly.

“I think we can behave like adults,” she suggests.

I almost choke on my reply.

“What an innovative suggestion coming from you.”

“Helen…”

“No,” I cut her off and raise my hand so she doesn’t even think of adding anything else. “Don’t use that tone with me.”

“What tone?” she asks, though I know she understands what I mean.

“The ‘I’m going to act like a normal person now that it’s all over’ tone.”

Her jaw tenses visibly. For a second, I see something behind her eyes, something like weariness or regret. And I don’t want to see it, because it doesn’t suit me at all.

“It’s been a few years since then,” she reminds me.

“Yes. That’s the thing about time. It passes, even when you don’t receive the apology you deserved.”

The words come out before I can dress them up with more diplomacy. Maika looks away, and that small, almost imperceptible gesture confirms my suspicions.

“It wasn’t as simple as it seems,” she tries to explain.

“No, of course not. It wasn’t easy for me either to sit in front of management while they held me responsible for a decision I didn’t make.”

“Helen, I swear I tried to explain it at the time,” she justifies herself, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“When? After you vanished off the map?”

Her eyes return to mine, and now there’s no trace left of the smile she had before.

“I didn’t disappear. I had to take care of… some things.”

“Interesting,” I say, clicking my tongue. “I must have mistaken you for the huge void you left when I needed someone to speak up for me the most.”

A door opens to our right and a kitchen worker pokes his head out, looks at us, senses the tension in the air, and closes it again with a care that’s almost admirable. Maika notices it. So do I. Under different circumstances, it might even seem funny. In fact, it is a little.

“I don’t want any trouble with you.”

I look at her closely. I don’t want to notice how her voice has softened or think that there’s something vulnerable in that sentence. I don’t want to remember that before—long before the disaster—Maika used to melt my defenses exactly like that.

“Then don’t cause any,” I reply curtly.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Not yet,” I point out.

Her lips part, as if she’s about to reply with one of her quick-witted remarks, the kind that used to make me want to argue and kiss her in that exact order. But unlike other times, she holds back. “What a surprise.”

“I’m going to coordinate the entertainment department,” she reminds me. “And you’ll be in charge of security. I suppose our teams will have to work together on more than one occasion. That’s why I said it.”

“My people have no problem working with anyone who follows instructions to the letter.”

“And I don’t know how to follow them?” she asks, defiantly.

I look her up and down without being able to help myself. “Mmm, no. Wrong.” Because my gaze registers her neck, her collarbone, her hands, the curve of her pressed lips.