She can be incredible. Warm. Sensual. Fun. Everything I’ve ever wanted wrapped in sunlight and confidence.
And then—without warning—it’s like a pin in a grenade gets pulled.
Something tiny sets her off. A tone. A look. A delay. And suddenly I’m standing in the blast radius, wondering how we got there so fast.
I think about the run-in with her ex-fiancé.
The one I didn’t tell her about.
The one that still sits wrong in my gut.
I push the thought away and focus on my screen.
Another vibration.
This time I pick it up—just long enough to read the preview.
Why aren’t you answering me?
Are you mad at me?
Please call me.
I close my eyes.
This is the part that scares me.
Not the passion.
Not the intensity.
The way my space feels… monitored.
I set the BlackBerry face-down and force myself back into work. Numbers. Slides. Calm. Control.
By noon, I’ve ignored six calls and three voicemails.
By one, my jaw hurts from clenching.
By two, Jim swings by my office again.
“We’re meeting again at five,” he says. “Bring options.”
“I will,” I say.
He leaves.
My phone vibrates again.
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t care.
Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to put the pieces back where they belong.
And sitting there, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, tie loosened, summer draining out of the day—I have the unsettling thought that the pressure I’m feeling isn’t coming from one place.
It’s coming from everywhere.
