Chapter 2

"Sir, could you pull over here, please?"

The Uber driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions.

The car stopped. I pushed the door open, crouched by the roadside flowerbed, and dry-heaved.

Nothing came out. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and lunch was left on that conference room table.

My phone buzzed for the nineteenth time.

Leo’s name kept lighting up the screen like a broken bulb that wouldn’t go out.

I declined the call, stood up, and told the driver to keep going.

When I got home and opened the door, the scent of the oxtail soup I had simmered last night hit me.

Inside the fridge, seven meal-prep containers were stacked neatly, labeled Monday through Sunday with the dish names and microwave times.

I took them out, one by one, popped the lids, and dumped them into the trash.

The soup splashed onto the back of my hand, burning hot. I didn't even wipe it off.

My phone rang again. A FaceTime call this time.

I turned it off.

On the entryway console table lay Leo’s spare key. I picked it up, clenching it in my fist until the cold metal dug painfully into my palm.

Then I sat on the couch, staring at the living room ceiling, from four in the afternoon until the sky turned pitch black.

The sound of the lock turning. Leo was home.

"Liz?" he called out as he kicked off his shoes at the entrance.

I didn’t answer.

He walked into the living room, saw me sitting in the dark, and flipped the light switch.

"Why are you sitting in the dark? Is your phone dead? I called you over twenty times."

"Yeah."

He sat down across from me. He was still wearing his light blue dress shirt, the top button undone.

I smelled it. It wasn't mint.

It was jasmine. Faint, lingering on his right cuff. It must have rubbed off when that girl got too close to him.

"Liz, let me explain."

His tone was identical to the one he used in the conference room this afternoon. Even the pauses were the same.

"Her name is Sammy. She just graduated this year, and her family situation is a mess. Her parents are getting a divorce."

"She doesn’t have any friends here. As her department head, I—"

"When did you start caring so much about her?"

He paused.

"Since she started last month."

"Last month," I repeated. "And your overtime started getting worse last month, too."

"That was because of the end-of-quarter rush—"

"Leo Osman."

When I used his full name, he shut his mouth.

"The way you hand over a tissue. You pinch the edge with your thumb and index finger, then gently slide it over."

"When you were pursuing me, the first time I cried in the movie theater, you did that exact same thing."

The calm expression on his face cracked.

"You told me that was a gesture reserved only for me."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

I stood up and placed his spare key on the coffee table.

"I locked the bedroom door. You’re sleeping in the guest room tonight."

"Liz—"

"Goodnight."

I walked into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I slid down against the door, sitting on the cold floor.

It was quiet outside for a long time. Then his voice came through the door, muffled and heavy.

"You're overreacting."

I didn’t reply.

He spoke again. "We are strictly colleagues. If you're going to make a scene out of nothing, we can't even talk."

I looked up at the ceiling.

Then I spoke, my voice barely a whisper.

"The way you handed her that tissue was exactly how you used to do it for me."

"Goodnight, Leo."