He blinks. “Success doesn’tneedto be a title. A corneroffice in a big high-rise that’s a decade away. That can be part of it, sure, but success isn’t intrinsically tied towork. It’s tied tolife.” I open my mouth to argue, but he barrels on. “Making good friends. Waking up excited to start the week. Smiling three times per day. Reducing stress. Swimming every day for a month straight. These are milestones, too. Just like making strides at a lower-stakes company that doesn’t drain you dry. Or starting your own business, where you’re in control and don’t have to suffer under a shitty manager.”
None of his statements are objectively offensive, but each one prods at all the wrong places. Places that have always reassured me that what I’m doing is worth it, even when I’m stressed out of my mind or dreading a week. Ones that comforted me when I skipped school dances to study, or when my parents prohibited sleepovers because they’d ruin my swim performance.
Struggling to keep my tone calm, I say, “I’ve been working toward my goals foryears, Grayson. There might be many ways to define success, but there’s nothing wrong withmydefinition.”
“But is it actually yours?” he asks gently. “Or is it what you’ve been told—by your parents, schools, society?”
“It’s mine,” I state, jamming my fork into my chicken, my ire bubbling far past its legal bounds. It’s like he’stryingto plant doubts I shouldn’t be having, make me question everythingI’ve been doing. I snap, “You know that having a little bit of a beard doesn’t make you wise.”
His mouth twitches. “Never claimed I was.”
The calm, easy way he says it—Ihateit. Hate that he doesn’t match my irritation, or give credence to my mean-spirited words, because it makes regret sweep right in.
“I’m sorry. That was mean.”
“I’m insulted that you’re apologizing.” His eyes meet mine. “I can handle you.”
I exhale heavily, grateful he’s brushing right past it. “It’s late. You’ve had a long day. Figured you might be a little sensitive.”
“Sensitive? Nowthatdeserves an apolog—” A mighty yawn cuts him off. It’s almost comical, the timing, but it’s a sobering reminder of his exhaustion.
Standing, I begin gathering the dishes. His chair scrapes on tile as he starts to help me.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him.
Of course, he ignores me.
I plop the plates down and stop him with a hand around his thick wrist. This gets his attention.
It also gives me a healthy whiff and, yeah, this doesn’t smell like the Grayson who laid me down on that beach and enlightened my vagina. This smells like a Grayson who sweat in the sun for ten hours.
“I’ve got it,” I repeat. “You’re tired. Go take a shower. Get some rest.”
His mouth compresses, but after a stubborn beat, he murmurs, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I release him, and he trudges from the table.
I’m by the sink when I hear, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I spin to see him paused before the hallway. He must read the question in my eyes from all the way over there, because he explains, “You staying here—it isn’t an exchange. That was really fucking good, but I’m not expecting you to cook and clean and do stuff like that.”
Never once did I think hewasexpectingsome kind of payment.
Many others would. When I’d stayed with Kyle for a week between leases, he’d joked about letting me pamper him for seven days straight. Only it wasn’t a joke. And I did it, because I was still half in love with him and pathetically wanted to ensure he felt the same about me.
Facing this man in the hallway, I can’t for the life of me remember what I ever saw in Kyle.
“I feel indebted to you. Anyone would,” I say honestly. “But that’s not why I cooked you dinner.”
Yes, it was partthank you. But Iwantedto do it. Treat him. Make him feel good.
Take care of him—this man who’s always taking care of everyone and everything else.
Which is why, after he goes to bed, I don’t stop myself from packing him leftovers, or leaving a note by his keys telling him he better take it for lunch. Then I sit down with my laptop to review the list of interview prep questions Suzanne sent to me.
It turns out the hiring manager from last week didn’tactually hate me. In fact, she liked me enough to invite me to an interview in Boston next Monday. Better yet, I’m one of onlytwocandidates they moved forward with. The odds are incredible.
It’sgreatnews. A big, sparkling opportunity. The chance to get back on track.
