"What about us? What about giving our relationship another chance?"
"Miles." I set down my fork.
"I have to do this. It's not about you. It's about my career."
"Everything is about careers with you," he mutters.
I stare at him. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He leans forward.
"You've always been so focused on work, on climbing the ladder, on the next big client. Maybe that's part of why I panicked. I felt like I was competing with your job for your attention."
The accusation stings because it's so absurd. I spent three years making myself smaller for him. Attending his work events. Supporting his journalism. Putting his needs first.
"I'm taking the assignment," I say firmly.
"I leave in a few days."
Miles is quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs, his shoulders sagging.
"Okay. I don't like it, but okay. Maybe... maybe I can visit you? We can talk on the phone regularly?"
"Maybe," I say,noncommittal.
The rest of dinner is strained. We make small talk about work, about mutual friends, about nothing that matters. When the check comes, Miles insists on paying.
Outside the restaurant, he tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land on my cheek.
"I'll call you," he says.
"Okay."
I watch him walk away, and all I feel is relief.
***
The next two days pass in a blur of activity. I tie up loose ends at work, brief colleagues on my ongoing projects, prepare handoff documents.
At home, I pack. Jane and Sarah come over to help, both of them armed with wine and takeout.
"New York," Sarah says, folding one of my dresses into tissue paper.
"I still can't believe you're actually doing this."
"Neither can I," I admit.
Jane catches my eye from across the room. She knows the full story—Dax, the hotel suite, the bathroom at the lounge. Sarah knows too now. Jane couldn't keep that kind of secret.
"How was dinner with Miles?" Jane asks carefully.
"Exactly what I expected. He wants me to stay. Wants another chance."
"And what do you want?"
I zip up a suitcase.
"I want to take this job and see what happens."