“Damien.”
“This is childish.”
“Is it?” She says. “Coming from a man who got caught in a restaurant. Tell me, was it just a hand job under the table, or did you go the full effort and fuck her in the restroom?”
His voice hardens. “Open the fucking door.”
“No.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“That’s fine. The sidewalk is very accepting of men who can’t take a hint. Just don’t stand too close to the trash cans when you’re out there. The collection truck comes by today, and honestly, the driver’s not going to look twice before he picks up.”
She lets go of the buzzer button.
The intercom goes silent as she turns around and walks back down the hall toward the bathroom. Moments later, I hear the bathroom door close, then the sound of the shower.
I put another spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew.
The second time he comes, Cassie tells him through the buzzer that I have joined a witness protection program for women with taste.
The third time, Cassie doesn’t bother answering. She just goes back to painting her nails, muttering, “Men really do hear silence and think, “Better add more personality to my disorder.””
I ignore his calls.
All of them.
His messages, too.
The first few are apologies. Then come explanations. Then frustration dressed up as confusion, which is its own particular kind of manipulation, the repackaging of anger as hurt so that you feel responsible for both.
Damien:Skylar, just talk to me.
Damien:You’re overreacting.
Damien:It was business.
Damien:You know how these dinners are.
Damien:Do not let Cassie get in your head.
That last one almost makes me reply.
Not because he’s right, but because I want to tell him that Cassie has been in my head since we were ten years old and has never once treated me the way he did.
When I don’t reply, he comes to my workplace.
Patricia’s assistant calls me from reception to say that Damien is waiting for me.
I walk out with a file tucked against my chest because having something in my hands is the only armor I have right now.
He stands near the front desk, coat on, eyes moving over the walls—the framed donor photographs, and the flyers about transitional housing and aging-out support programs—scanning the space the way he always scans spaces that are not his, assessing rather than seeing.
When he sees my face, his expression softens.
“Sky.”
“You cannot come here,” I say.
