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I wish she would have chosen a different word.
Duty: a moral responsibility or obligation.
The word strips me of my ability to lose sight of who she is to me for even a second. Where she’s concerned, there will always be complications and consequences. I turn back toward her and acknowledge what a poor sight she makes hovering by the door: beautiful, always, but sodden and sad too. She’s soaking wet from her head to her toes. Her hair is midnight black with the rain dripping off it.
She’s waiting for me to leave, but instead, I meet her curious gaze. “I reviewed your HR file this afternoon.”
One of her brows arches in question.
I tuck my hands into my suit pockets. “I can only imagine what you’ve convinced yourself of when it comes to your position at Banks and Barclay. Though it might seem farfetched, I didn’t realize you were a new hire until the day I saw you sitting in the conference room.”
She swallows and stays quiet, weighing my words.
“I’ve seen you present your work before. Back at Dartmouth.”
She frowns, likely not sure what I could be alluding to, and right now, there’s no reason to give her the answer.
“And though that was convincing enough, your resume and recommendation letters further prove you deserve to be working at my firm. Just because you and I met years ago, it doesn’t mean anything. Do you understand?”
She nods weakly.
I sweep my gaze around her meager apartment, greedily stealing the privacy she’s cultivated for herself. I imagine briefly what could be. I want to see her lying back on that bed, propped up on her elbows, watching me with bated breath. I want to make her a simple meal and sit across from her at that card table and watch her eat every bite.
A baby’s cry from down the hall brings me back to the present, and I turn back to her, looking her dead in the eye as I speak.
“Whatever I do…whatever happens, I hope you don’t lose sight of the fact that your merits stand on their own.”
“What are you saying?”
Yes, Jonathan, what the fuck are you saying?
What the fuck are you doing standing in yourvery youngemployee’s apartment?
I shake my head and start to make my way past her, but her hand shoots out to stop me. There’s barely any weight behind it, but she presses her palm against my chest and holds me in place as she asks, “Have you thought about me since that night?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t look at her.
My gaze is on the door as she continues, “When you saw me again, did you feel it? The same tension? War?Desire?Whatever we should call it…”
She’s growing impatient. The tips of her fingers gently dig into my chest as if she’s trying to draw the answer out of me. For an excruciating moment, we stand there, and I almost give in to the urge to wreak havoc on us both.
Then I lift her hand off my chest, squeeze it tightly, and let it drop before I leave.
