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Jonah
Callie isn’t at work on Monday. I’m used to her being here at 5:45 a.m. sharp, but I shift from foot to foot in the lobby for fifteen minutes, waiting for her. She’s not going to show up. I have a coffee for her in one hand and an apology ready on the tip of my tongue. An apology that would explain that last week was unprofessional, and I’m sorry for lashing out at her. A plea that we go back to whatever we had before.
My impatience turns to anger as I make my way through my workout. Every time the lights flicker, I think it’s Callie pushing open the door. Why do I care? I punch the bag harder, until I’m trembling with exhaustion. She’s probably avoiding me. This is probably the first day of many when I’ll be working out alone.
The dull ache near my heart is back. I hate it. I miss telling her what to do and her little eye rolls of impatience at my orders. I miss her sass and her excitement when she finally gets something right. Fuck. I slam my fist into the bag and finish the rest of my routine with ruthless efficiency.
I drop her coffee in the trash on the way out the door. She’s not coming back to the gym with me. Why bother? She’s not downstairs when I get there either. She didn’t even bother to tell me she wasn’t coming. I should fire her. The idea percolates as I seethe at my desk. She’s mad at me. She was the one who started our argument on Friday. She’s the one who wasn’t remotely affected by what we did, and she’s not even here to avoid looking me in the eye.
I should fire her. I check my watch. It’s nine a.m. Before I can think, I’m up and out the door, texting Lou to bring the car around and shouting at George to cancel my meetings. My rage has cooled to a simmer by the time we pull up to Callie’s apartment, but it’s still there. The righteous burn feels better than whatever I felt last night. That ache was there all night, like I’d done something wrong, when all I did was stop us before we went too far.
I text her as soon as I’m outside.
Jonah
I’m at your apartment.
A second later, her face appears in the window. She presses her nose to the glass, and then she disappears. I draw myself up, ready for her to kick me out. She yanks the door open.
“Where the hell—” I snap my mouth closed. “You look like shit.”
“Thank you, Jonah. So kind of you to say.” She leans against the door frame. Her hair is up, her face is flushed, and her eyes are red. She’s wearing a huge Columbia T-shirt and sweatpants. Shit. She looks like she’s been crying. That ache is back, even through my rapidly cooling irritation.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sick.” She does sound sick, and she looks worse. “Didn’t I send you an email?” She frowns and pulls out her phone. “I could have sworn I sent it. Ah, shit. I left it in draft.” She winces. “I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. I’ve just been so tired. I didn’t sleep last night from the body aches, and I really did mean to tell you. Please don’t fire me.”
Her eyes are pleading, and my jaw nearly drops. “You think I’d fire you for that?”
“Yes?” She doesn’t sound sure, and in that moment, she looks so incredibly fragile. My jaw ticks. I came to have it out with her, and now I can’t. I sigh.
“I’ll be back.”
Thirty minutes later, she’s opening the door again, suspiciously eyeing the bags under my arm. “What is that?”
“Supplies,” I say shortly. “Now let me up.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms over her chest. It pushes her nipples against her shirt, and I drag my eyes back to her face.
“Thompson,” I say slowly, leaning in to watch her lips part and her breathing hitch. “I can fire you. Now let me up so I can help you. I want to talk.”
“Fine.” She slumps. “But my dad is here. Just don’t be—just be nice, okay?”
I’m silent as I follow her up the stairs. The stairway is nothing special, lit with ancient chandeliers with fake candles and covered in worn carpet. She pushes open the door to their apartment on the second floor and I follow, not sure what to expect. The first thing I see is a couch, and a hairy orange beast who jumps down to twine around my ankles. I freeze.
“Not a cat person?” Callie asks. She’s moving slowly with her arms still tucked around her.
“I like cats just fine. I respect them and they respect me.” I eye the orange beast. “I don’t like cat hair.”
“I’m sorry for your pants, then.” She sits on the faded couch. “I’m not inviting you into my room, so we can talk out here. My dad’s in his office.”
I scan the apartment. I’ve seen it from the outside, but from the inside, it’s like a time capsule from the 1980s. There’s an honest-to-god record player, stacks of newspapers, an ancient TV, and a small kitchen with Formica countertops. It’s tiny. I don’t know how I pictured Callie Thompson’s life, but this isn’t it. Maybe I didn’t picture it at all. Do you just look for articles about you and scroll to the comments section? My chest burns. Callie doesn’t wake up fully formed and think about torturing me. She’s a woman. A real woman who lives with her father, and judging by the way she’s tucked herself into a ball, she’s embarrassed about it. Her apartment is smaller than my master bedroom, and I think back to our conversation about her budget with a rush of shame. I’m not paying her. Can she afford rent? She must be living here because she has nowhere else to go, right? No, she must like being here. That must be it. Because if not, it looks a hell of a lot like I’m taking advantage of her.
“What do you want? Sit and stop looming,” she says.
She looks irritated at my mere presence, and I want to smile. Instead of responding, I take the soup out and put it on the counter. The meds are next, then the fresh bread, then the green juice.
“What is that?”
