Shortly before it抯 time to leave Thursday night, I go into the bathroom at work and change into the dress before attempting day-to-night makeup, which I read about unnecessarily often as a teen, given how little I抳e needed to do it.
My eyeshadow is a bit smokier, and my lips go red. I抦 not sure I needed an article to figure that much out.
I don the dress, slip into a pair of glittery Jimmy Choos, and I抦 ready to go. 揟his isn抰 weird,?I tell myself in the mirror as I slick one coat of gloss over my newly red lips. It抯 not weird at all that you抮e going with him. It抯 just like any other event you抎 attend with a colleague, as long as you抎 allowed that colleague to fuck you on his desk first.
At least it won抰 be weird for him. I抦 sure it抯 not the first time he抯 been in this situation.
I ignore the quick pace of my heart as I walk toward the elevator, where he waits in a tux. I think of that wedding photo on Drew Bailey抯 Instagram, and the tender way he looked at her. I could almost believe there抯 something similar in the way he抯 gazing at me now, but that would be a really dangerous line of thought, under the circumstances. Refusing to forgive him feels like the only thing keeping me safe.
A muscle flickers in his temple. 揧ou look nice.?
揟hank you,?I reply coolly.
If he抯 waiting for me to say it back to him, he抣l be waiting a very long time.
I push the button to call the elevator since he apparently doesn抰 plan to do so, then walk in ahead of him. I draw in a calming breath but get the smell of his soap and aftershave, which is the opposite of calming. Before I can stop myself, my brain flashes back to that night on his desk, his mouth buried in my neck as he came. His smell, his sweat, how tightly he held onto me for a moment before he pulled away.
揕ook,?he says, shoving his hands in his pockets as we walk off the elevator, 揷an we just call a truce for tonight? There are going to be enough people there trying to stab us in the back without stabbing each other too.?
Every childish bone in my body wants to refuse, but he抯 right, and admitting I抦 still hurt by what he did would give him a power I don抰 care to hand over anyway. I抦 going to put this behind me and act like the soon-to-be-partner I am. I haven抰 come this far to fuck it all by sleeping with colleagues, and I抦 not going to fuck it up by playing games afterward either. It抯 done.
揙f course,?I reply, my smile forced, but civil. I take a deep breath and drive the night in his office out of my head. From now on, I抦 only focusing on work when he抯 around.
We climb into the car. I fold my hands in my lap and force myself to meet his eye. If we were colleagues, only colleagues, I抎 probably discuss the case we have in common, so that抯 exactly what I抦 going to do. 揥e just got the results of the financial inquiry of Fiducia,?I tell him. 揟hey spent a significant amount of money on corporate retreats.?
揝o we need to find out what they did and if any female managers were invited.?
No shit, I抦 about to say, and then I stop myself. The sex has to stop, obviously, but the bickering that leads to sex needs to stop too. 揑抳e got someone checking,?I say instead.
The driver weaves through LA, and I stare out the window. We pass Kyle抯 old apartment and then the Tiffany抯 where we chose a ring. It was princess cut, and we compromised on two carats though he wanted me to go bigger. 揥hen we get married,?he抎 said, 揑 want everyone to know you抮e taken.?
For a single moment I can remember the girl I was back then. I wasn抰 the child jumping in puddles that my mother discusses, but I wasn抰 nearly so removed from her as I am now.
揅ould we try something??Ben asks, pulling me from my memories. 揅ould we just talk? Not about work.?
I turn my head toward him. It seems like a bad idea梑oundaries are clearly not my strong suit when it comes to Ben, and maintaining a strictly professional relationship is easiest when our interaction remains work-related. 揑抦 not sure what else we抎 talk about.?
揧ou could tell me what the deal is with your parents,?he suggests. 揥hy抎 you get so upset that night I brought it up??
I laugh. 揥ow, Ben, you抮e so good at small talk. Why don抰 we talk about the worst thing you抳e ever been through instead??
He runs a finger inside his collar. 揗y father抯 death. What would you like to know??
My head whips toward him. Slowly, my body follows, twisting his way. 揑 thought you made that up to make me feel bad.?
揧ou thought I抎 lie about something like that??he asks. 揈specially when the odds of you experiencing guilt about anything seem shockingly low? Yes, he抯 really dead. He was in a car accident when I was ten.?
I wince. 揑抦 sorry.?Perhaps I抦 capable of guilt after all, because I抦 feeling something like it right now. 揑 spend a lot of time wishing my dad would die, so I guess I was a little insensitive.?