“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“I ate on the plane. Have you?”
“No, didn’t want to cook.”
“I’ll come with you if you want to go out somewhere.”
“Yeah?” He smiles as he puts his arm around me.
I put my head on his shoulder.
“Do you feel like going to a Thai restaurant to watch me eat?” he asks.
I smile. “Sure, I do.”
Monday morning, I walk into the elevator like a rock star and I push the button to my floor with conviction.
I’ve got this; whatever happens, happens.
Elliot didn’t call me to say goodnight last night. I don’t know why I thought he would. Ed didn’t message me online either and it really doesn’t matter. I hardly noticed at all.
I’m fine, fine, totally fine.
I had the best holiday ever . . . let’s leave it at that.
I’m faking it till I make it here, but whatever. It’s making me feel better.
At least I now know that my heart still beats.
I’m still in there somewhere, albeit a little damaged and broken, but I didn’t die with my parents after all, and there is happiness in my future, I just know there is.
I smile as I step into the office; it was fun while it lasted.
I’m hoping for more, but for the first time in a long time, I know I’ll be okay if there isn’t.
It is what it is.
Eleven a.m.
Knock, knock, sounds at my office door. “Kathryn,” the familiar voice says.
I glance up, it’s Elliot. A smile overtakes my face. “Hi.” I beam. I missed him last night.
“Do you have that report on search engine usage that I asked for?” he snaps.
I frown, taken aback by his greeting, or should I say, lack of it. “No, I can generate it now if you like.”
“Thank you. Make it fast please, I need it in an hour.”
He’s cold and detached—the Elliot Miles that I remember.
My eyes search his.
“For God’s sake don’t look at me like that, I’m not in the fucking mood,” he snaps before walking out.
I stare after him . . . Huh?
I sit in the cafeteria and the world is a blur.
How was I looking at him?
Was I all doe-in-the-headlights? Was my heart beating through my chest—could he see it?
Probably . . . God.
Back to reality with a thud.
“Did you see Elliot Miles this morning?” one of the girls at the table says.
“Fuck yes, with a suntan he’s even more lethal.”
The hackles on my back rise as I eavesdrop.
“He probably spent the break on a yacht in Ibiza with a supermodel or some shit. Who knows, he probably got married,” another girl replies.
“He wouldn’t marry a supermodel,” an older woman comments. “Elliot Miles wouldn’t settle for that.”
My eyes flick up. “What do you mean?”
“Elliot will marry an artist, or an author or something philanthropic.”