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She not only stands there, she fucking walks in and closes the door behind her. Smiling, she says, “Hey, you’re here late.”
I watch her walk further into the room, approaching my desk.
Approaching that chair.
I watch her steps growing closer and her arm reaching out, to touch it maybe. To pull it out and sit in that chair herself and I snap, “Don’t.”
She snatches her hand back before it could make contact. “What?”
When I know, when I’ve made sure that her hand is back where it belongs, by her side, and she’s not going to try to touch it again, I look up. “Have I asked you to sit?”
Her brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
“And neither do I recall asking you to come in.”
She studies my face; I probably look how I feel: completely and utterly angry.
At myself.
“What is going on with you?” she asks, frowning lightly. “Is everything okay? What’s happening?”
Taking a deep breath to control my temper, I tell her, “I’m going to save you the trouble and tell you — yet again — that it’s not happening.”
“What?”
Jesus Christ.
I don’t have time for this.
I don’t have time to deal with her drama, her constant and fake attempts to get my attention. To start things between us. I pinch the bridge of my nose before saying, “Look, I have very little patience left, all right? Very little. And this is really not a good time. So I want you to leave my office and never come back.”
Anger makes her purse her lips, shake her head as she says, “Are you serious? Are you really fucking serious, Con? After what happened Saturday night.”
Saturday night.
Right.
That night is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
“What do you think happened on Saturday night?” I clip, trying to dismiss all my thoughts and ready to get this whole thing over with.
It pisses her off more that I’d ask her that.
But it’s important.
She needs to understand what the fuck it is we’re doing here. Or not doing.
Her charade has gone on long enough, but she crossed a line on Saturday and I’m fucking done.
“Okay.” She smiles tightly. “Since you’ve forgotten so easily, let me remind you: on Saturday, I told you that I might be leaving my husband, my marriage. Something that no one ever does where I come from. Divorces are frowned upon. It’s going to break my parents’ hearts, their reputations. But I’m thinking about it because my husband might be cheating on me. My husband might be sleeping with another woman. I cried on your shoulders, Con. I was hurting. I needed a friend. I need a friend today and you’re acting like a jerk. I need someone to get through this tough time in my life and despite what’s happened between us in the past and last year, I thought you were that friend. I thought I could count on you to have my back. If I shared with anyone else from my circle, they’d all say that I was overreacting. That everyone cheats where I come from —”
“Like you were going to, yeah?” I remind her.
She hates that reminder even more. “I can’t believe you’re throwing that in my face right now.”
I chuckle sharply.
Even though this isn’t the time to laugh. This isn’t the time to show restraint either.
Which is what I’ve done.
I straighten up in my chair. In fact I stand up. I leave the chair I’ve been sitting in for hours now, put my hands on the desk and lean toward her. “Let me make something very clear to you: I don’t care if your husband is cheating on you. I don’t care if he’s sleeping with another woman. Because I know that it’s another one of your ploys.”
“What?”
I breathe in sharply and just let go. “I know it’s another one of your excuses to get me to care. To get me to sleep with you. Which is what you’ve been trying to do ever since you came back into town two years ago. First, it was your endless texts and your phone calls and your invitations to meet you somewhere private. When those didn’t work, you started to concoct plans, get-togethers with teachers, work-related parties and happy hours so you’d get a chance to be close to me. And when those didn’t work either, you came up with this whole charade to get my sympathy. This whole drama about your broken marriage. Which if I’m being honest here, I’d say that even if it were true, I wouldn’t care. But it’s not. Because if it was, if you were really so broken fucking hearted, you wouldn’t have tried to maul my mouth when I told you that I was leaving. So, Helen, I know. I am fucking aware, all right?”
When I went with Helen Saturday night, leaving Bronwyn in the bathroom, my only intention was to clear the coast.
