Page 74 of Glitched Play

"No promises."

I point at him.

He grins.

Chase walks me toward the elevators, but pauses before he says, "Text me tomorrow?"

"I will."

"And Maci?"

"Yeah?"

He nods toward the ballroom, toward the foundation displays, toward the company I still can't believe I work for. "You fit here."

He doesn’t say I’m beautiful or impressive, or even lucky. Just you fit here.

For most people, maybe that wouldn't matter. For me, after a lifetime of sitting in bleachers with a handheld game console while everyone else belonged to fields and teams and scoreboards, it matters more than I know how to explain.

"I hope so," I say.

"You do."

Then he's gone.

I stand there for a moment, watching Chase and Tyler disappear into the crowd near the elevator bank, and try to hold on to the feeling those words gave me.

I want to believe him. I really do. But fitting at Synatrix and fitting inside Witt's penthouse are not the same thing.

By the time I make it back upstairs, the emerald dress feels heavier than it did an hour ago. The private elevator opens into the penthouse, and silence greets me so completely that I pause before stepping inside.

No laughter.

No music.

No Noelle.

No children building blanket forts.

No Witt waiting in the kitchen with a black mug and unreadable eyes.

Only quiet.

I peek around the corner of the living room, and no Witt. I take my heels off and carry them in my hand as I pad down the hallway. Witt’s hallway. It’s dark except for a lamp glowing at the end of the hallway, casting soft gold light across the marble floor. His office door is closed, but there is a thin line of light beneath it.

He's here.

The question remains, is he hiding, avoiding or analyzing?

My pulse gives an embarrassing little stumble because some foolish part of me expected him to be waiting. Not with flowers or apologies or some grand confession. That would be insane. This is Witt. I would've settled for him standing at the island, looking anywhere but my eyes, saying something like, The kiss requires discussion.

Instead, there's a closed door and maybe that is the discussion.

I stand in the middle of the penthouse in the most beautiful dress I've ever worn and feel like an intruder all over again.

He regrets it.

The thought arrives quietly, but once it's there, it spreads.