“I think I should go home now,” I say, needing space.
“I’ll get your jacket.” He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. As I turn to walk away, he hauls me in his arms and holds me close. His heart strums steadily in his chest, the smell of his cologne dancing over my senses. When he pulls back, I know things won’t quite be the same between us. “You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
Mallory
THE LEMON SLICE DROPS INTO the tea, creating a ripple on the surface. I wonder how far down the undulation goes. If it goes as deep as what I feel from tonight.
“Come in,” I shout when I hear the knock at the door. I wait for Joy’s face to come around the corner, and when it does, I feel a little relief.
“I came with brownies,” she says. A white box from the grocery store is plopped on the coffee table. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks,” I sigh. “I’m fine.”
Her brows raise. “I don’t think that’s true.”
I give her a look of warning as I take a hesitant sip of my tea. I didn’t mean to alert her to my demise when she called as soon as I walked in the door. I guess it was somewhat obvious.
“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” she asks.
“No.”
“Mallory . . .”
I take a deep breath. “Graham and I had dinner tonight.”
She squeals, curling up in the secondhand chair next to the sofa. If she’s concerned about what the material might do to her name-brand shirt, she doesn’t mention it. For once.
“Then we ran back to his house to grab some files. We fucked. Then he basically told me, as carefully and sweetly as possible, that we would never be anything.”
“Okay then,” she gulps, slowly uncrossing her legs. “Um, that doesn’t sound sweet. ‘Thank you for fucking me. Now go home?’”
“No, not like that.” I recount more closely the events of the evening. “You know, I didn’t really think there would be anything between us. I mean, I didn’t set out for that to happen. He was just a walking check-off list of all the things I’d want in a man and he wanted me . . . on his desk, in his office, in front of his neighbor.”
She fans herself. “I’m so turned on by that.”
“Stop,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t even know why I’m so . . . saddened by his admission. I had no reason to think anything else.”
“But it’s natural that you hoped, Mal. Or at least entertained the idea. Wouldn’t anyone? He’s leading you on, screwing you—”
“He really didn’t lead me on,” I admit. “He never said anything other than an occasional direction to remove my clothes, which I so happily did.” I sigh, taking another sip.
She taps her pink, perfectly manicured finger against her lips. I hate the way she looks at me, like I’m some kind of project or a lesser woman because I’m struggling in every department of my life.
“You know what? Forget it,” I tell her. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Nope. Not that easy,” she says. “You have to decide what’s best for you.”
“Yeah. But I don’t know what’s best for me.”
She catches my gaze. “Yes, you do.”
My head falls back, my eyes shut. She’s right and I hate it. I do know what’s best for me. That’s the little niggle in my gut, the reminder to listen to logic and not my heart and certainly not my vagina.
“Put your two weeks in,” she suggests softly. “File it with Human Resources and not him so he can’t just . . .”
“Just do what he does and veto what he doesn’t like?” I offer.