One Night Hand Stand

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Sarah

“I thought I could just bide my time, you know?”

Dori speaks as I’m taking a bite of my pistachio-fennel muffin.

“Mmm?”

“Prakash was hardly there. If I avoided him the handful of days he was in the office, I could last for another three semesters. Get the company tuition benefit. Finish my degree. You know.”

I swallow and drink some of my coffee, aptly called La Vida Breve, nodding with sympathy as the barista takes a pause between songs, still reeling from what Dori’s told me about Prakash and Chakroga123.

It turns out Dori contacted me because she heard about how I helped John through his low blood sugar crisis in yoga class the other day when Case was teaching. One of her friends, Barbi in Accounting, has already talked to me. Sources beget sources, I learned in journalism courses. Once you get one person to trust you, you can often get more, because people don’t like keeping slimy secrets.

Most people, at least. The ones who love keeping secrets are typically the ones doing the most damage.

Her eyes fill with tears. “But I couldn’t. He – he – it’s like he watched me. Knew when I’d be in a supply closet. Found corners where the hallway cameras didn’t reach -- ”

For the fourth or fifth time, she starts crying. I’m close to joining her. Her story is horrible.

And it has to be told .

What I thought was an investigative piece into Prakash Shanti cooking the books, or charging unfair fees to consumers, has now turned into a huge sexual harassment scandal.

I am feeling incredibly under-qualified to handle this story.

And increasingly pissed at Case Willingham.

Dori hasn’t said a word about him yet. Her text this morning mentioned him by name, but I came into this coffee meeting with an open mind and very eager ears. Letting a source talk without too much guidance is how you learn the good stuff. Stay open-ended. People become too focused when you ask specific questions.

And it’s clear Dori needs to ramble. Emotions are huge in her, and she hasn’t had a safe place to vent them.

Which makes her a great source.

“Barbi said you’re just collecting information, but you want to write a big article in a magazine and expose that prick. Prick-ash is what we started calling him, you know?”

“You talked about it with Barbi?”

Dori snorts, nostrils flaring, nose ring moving slightly. “We realized he was after us both one day when he called her Dori in the middle of grabbing her ass. She came to me during a lunch break. First time I realized it wasn’t just me.”

“I’m so sorry. You said earlier he’s doing this to more than one person?”

She nods. “At least four that we know of. Me, Barbi, and two other people who don’t want their names known.”

“I don’t have to use real names,” I assure her.

“I want you to use that asshole’s real name! Prakash needs to be skewered for this. He’s like the Harvey Weinstein of yoga!”

“ His name will be public. Not yours,” I say firmly, mind racing. The professional in me is taking this all in, mind racing to plot out all the possible ways I can organize this information for maximum communication and public revelation.

My heart is wondering what Case’s role is in all of this.

Mind over heart. Brain over Slot B.

Thoughts before slots.

“He made kissy faces at me all the time, when no one was looking. I’d be in the office, filing some documents and he’d enter the room. Look at me. Make a little kiss motion and it just shot off all the adrenaline in me. I’m just an accounting assistant. I live at home with my parents and my son. I’m no one, and the guy started acting like he wanted me. I could blow off the weird kissing gestures, but the ass pats were the worst.” She takes a big sip of her iced coffee and gives me a fierce look. “I was never, ever attracted to him. Never gave off a single signal!”

“Of course you didn’t,” I assure her. “I believe you.”

“It was worse for Barbi. She’s definitely his type. I think I was just, you know – a play toy. Someone he made passes at because he could. Guys like that do stuff because they can. It’s like they collect points or something. No one stops them. No one calls them out. I need this job. Really, really need it. But my doctor says my blood pressure’s so high it’s going to put me in the hospital again.”

“What do you mean, again?”

“The first time he cornered me in the supply closet and kissed me, I came back to my desk. I was dizzy.” Her sharp look is filled with pain. “And I don’t mean in a good way. I was so sick. The lights started flickering. I now know that wasn’t the lights. It was my blood pressure pounding against my eyes. I started going home, told Barbi I was sick. This was before we ever talked to each other about The Prick. Got home and the dizziness wouldn’t go away. My mama made me go to urgent care.” She sips again. “I’ve had high blood pressure for a while, before he – before that asshole. But I take meds for it. Urgent Care sent me to the hospital. Took an entire day to make it all okay.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah. The next day, I started looking for another job. It’s so hard, though. You know? I only have an associate’s degree. Three more semesters to that bachelor’s, and then I’ll be set. Prakash, though, man…”

“He’s not all-powerful,” I begin, floundering to find the right words.

She makes a derisive sound. “I know that, but my body doesn’t know, you know? My body just explodes with fear. That’s how my therapist explains it.”

“That makes sense.”

This is the part of being an investigative reporter that no one warned me about. The source’s feelings . I’m no therapist. Not even close. How do I help her process these big emotions and at the same time, stay neutral enough to gather information that could help reveal Prakash Shanti for the slime he really is?

And what about Case? Slot B asks.

“I need this job. Need the good reference. But more than that, I need that motherfucker not to get away with it.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes narrow. “What do you need to make this all happen?”

“Happen?”

“If you’re going to write this story and expose him, I want it to be big. Not some bullshit he said/she said article. I know how those go. You need proof, right?”

I lean in. “You have proof?”

“Do dick pics count?”

I was not expecting that as an answer.

Viewing said pictures is also now officially part of my job.

Eww.

“Um, yes?”

She slides a phone across the table. “This is my company phone. Barbi’s got one, too. Chakroga123 gives you a company phone so you don’t have to use your personal one. Someone higher than me instituted the policy a few years ago. Prakash texts us all the time, expecting us to do all kinds of work from home, but he’s so stupid. Does it all on the company phone.” She snorts. “All that wellness work-life balance bullshit is just bullshit .” Unexpectedly, she smiles. “Unless you work at one of the franchises.”

“Franchises?” I squeak, knowing this is where Case will come in.

Her whole demeanor shifts, suddenly more relaxed. “Yeah. Case Willingham. You know him, right? You’re pretending to take yoga classes at one of his studios?”

How in the hell does she know that? Some undercover operator I am.

“Uh -- ”

“Rory figured you out, you know? It’s part of why I asked to see you. Anyone that dedicated is going to reveal the truth about Prakash, I figured. I need someone committed. I need someone who is thirsty.” She eyes me up, suddenly uncertain. “You don’t strike me as the cutthroat type.”

I have no idea what to say.

My silence seems to unnerve her. “I don’t – don’t take that the wrong way. I just want a bulldog in this. Someone who’s out for blood. I can’t go halfway on this and have it fail.”

“I may be quiet, but I am fierce,” I say, a play on words from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream . “I am going to do everything in my power to blow this story sky-high.”

“The pics have his face in them,” she hisses. “His O face.”

“Ugh.” I can’t help myself as my little grunt of disgust comes out.

It makes her mouth twist, the expression sick with contempt.

“It’s like they all have a playbook they read from, isn’t it? I know that’s – what’s the word – cliché? But it’s true. When I was fifteen I lied about my age and got a job at a pizza joint nearby. The owner used to slide up against us nice and tight on the line. Nothing like what Prakash is doing, but still gross. At least I learned how to avoid him and he didn’t do more.” She shudders. “My body remembers that. You can’t erase it. It’s in you forever and they put it in your muscles and bones and they know they’re doing it. Like a dog pissing on his territory to claim it.”

“Oh, Dori,” is all I can say, a flash of my own close encounters with the slimy kind going through my head. The eighth grade math teacher whose eyes caught my boobs instead of my face. The volleyball coach who had us all over for a swim party at his house and “rated” us, one by one, for bikini beach volleyball.

“I’m not territory , Sarah!” she says in a voice closer to a growl than a whisper. “Neither is Barbi.”

My mouth goes dry, heart racing hard. What do I say? How do I probe deeper without hurting her? How do I show her I’m an ally?

What will it take for me to be effective? I can’t guarantee Marsha will run this article. The original topic of financial corruption has suddenly taken a sharp detour.

“No. You’re not territory,” I finally sputter. “Absolutely not. What about the franchises? You were talking about those earlier. Could you get a job with one of them?”

She huffs. “I tried. No openings. Everyone wants to work for Case.” Her wink makes me instantly self-conscious. “You’ve met him. You know why.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s hot, you know? And nice. Really nice, even though he’s a strong businessman. Rory’s working for him now and loves it.”

“He’s – he’s not like Prakash?”

“WHAT? God, no! Nothing like him. Men like Case are super rare.”

“Then why did you say in your text to me that you wanted to tell me something about him?”

A warm breeze strikes us both from the back, the barista starting a new song, the first few lines haunting and glorious, but I can’t place the song. Dori turns to look through the window and her jaw drops.

“Oh, shit! Speak of the devil. I can’t have him know I’m talking to you!” Gathering her purse quickly, she stands, halfway across the patio before she waves. “Talk to you later!”

I look back at the coffee shop, completely confused, but then I realize what’s just happened.

Case is standing in line, staring out the window at us, eyes tracking Dori as she leaves.

Then with a snap, he makes eye contact.

And all the blood in me turns to fireworks.

Not the good kind.

Caught.

I’m caught in this crazy web of lies that just got worse.

Just then, a new employee breaks out into a song I recognize from The Marriage of Figaro . I briefly dated a guy who sang opera at Columbia, and like every guy I’ve dated, I picked up a quirk: an appreciation for the storytelling in these classics.

A chill runs through me as I realize the song. It’s the Count’s aria.

The one where the Count, in love with Susanna, realizes he’s deceiving her.

The fact that Case is wearing a perfectly tailored suit and looks so sophisticated doesn’t help, either. Turns out I’m a sucker for the competent business type. Knowing he was naked and sweaty with me all night, that I know what’s under the wrapper and it is pure pleasure in my mouth, doesn’t help matters.

Slot B starts whimpering again.

And every emotion in me decides to fire off every neuron in my brain, every hormone receptor, every memory switch, with my conscience becoming sentient and standing next to me with a look of disapproval that reminds me waaaay too much of my eleventh grade English teacher, the one who always sucked a lemon and who told me I didn’t have the “discipline” to be a professional writer.

We don’t get to pick our internalized bullies, do we?

Coffee in hand, Case approaches me, the singer’s voice in the background perfectly coiffed, every note a curl designed to shape vibration, every breath a prayer.

“How do you know Dori?” he asks as I reach for him in a hug. His words hit me mid-embrace, his body tense, arms barely folding around me.

I feel like a piece of fish being wrapped in newspaper.

“Dori?” Panic blooms through my blood, extremities tingling as he pulls away and frowns at me.

“Yeah, Dori. She works in finance for Chakroga123. At HQ. Why would you be meeting with her?”

“Oh! Um, we met at a yoga class.”

His flat look scares the hell out of me.

“Did you, now? Which studio?”

“Yours, of course. I’m a student at yours.”

“Dori’s never set foot in my studio, Sarah.”

The way he says my name feels like a nail in my coffin.

“Really? Then I guess – ”

“Cut the crap. I know what you’re up to.”

Relief, of all things, rushes through my blood, chasing the panic. At least Case has chosen for me.

Chosen outright hostility.

Neurons reorganize inside me, pruning the signals to Slot B, cutting off all supplies. She can hibernate for a while.

From the look of his face, a long while.

I go on the attack. Dori says I’m not cutthroat enough?

Let’s see.

“Define ‘up to,’ Case.”

His hand goes out in a sweeping, courtly gesture. “Let’s sit for this conversation.”

I do, back straight, gut hurting.

Case sets his to-go cup on the table, then pulls up slightly on his suit pants before sitting. When he’s in repose, I can see his thighs, powerful and straining against the fine fabric.

Thighs I am starting to suspect I won’t see naked again. Once he knows I’ve been lying all this time, he’ll dump me on the spot.

These are the minutes before the best person I’ve ever been involved with will hurt me.

No.

No, Sarah.

These are the minutes before the best person I’ve ever been involved with dumps me because I lied to him.

It’s all one hundred percent on me.

“You’re investigating me,” he says bluntly, the short, staccato nature of his words cutting me deep.

“I -”

“Rory googled you. Said a number of teachers talked about the new student asking too many questions. Now you’re meeting with people from HQ? What’s the deal here, Sarah? Are you sleeping with me to bag a story ?”

“NO! Of course not! I would never do that!”

His eyes go cold.

“Look, Case, I wanted to be open with you. Really,” I start babbling, my body betraying me in every way. Skin crawling, eyes tingling, I’m going to cry or pass out from sheer overwhelm if I don’t figure out a way to make this right. “I met you that night in the bar and had no idea who you were.”

His eyebrows go up, slowly, so subtle I feel even worse than if he started screaming at me.

“I didn’t! Until we saw each other in the yoga class the next morning, I didn’t realize who you were.”

“You do know how ridiculous that sounds.”

“I do. But it’s the truth. Swear.”

“I’m supposed to believe you? You’ve had ample time in the - ” he pauses – “three days we’ve been together.”

“Parse that out, Case. Three days. Three days. I kept beginning to tell you, but then I didn’t want to ruin it. I like you. Really like you. And the longer it went on, the better you were, the better we were together, the more I felt like, like an asshole. Like I had gone beyond a tipping point.”

Something in his eyes shifts a little. Softens.

“If I hadn’t run into you here with Dori, when were you going to tell me?”

“Hold on.” My turn to frown. “Why are you here ?”

“Rory suggested it.”

“Rory is Prakash’s niece.”

“You really have done your homework.”

“Is this a set-up? Does Prakash know about what I’m doing?”

“What are you doing, Sarah?”

Laughter, unexpected and nervous, shoots out of me like a Roman candle. Case tilts his head, his expression turning harder by the second, but I can’t stop.

I can’t stop because I am frozen in a state of disbelief.

After a minute or so, my body lets off whatever steam it needs to, and I can finally say, “I was researching questionable financial practices Prakash Shanti has engaged in.”

“Was?”

“Yes. Was.”

“Does that mean you’ve stopped that research? Because of me?”

“No. But if we’re putting all the cards on the table, I have a ton of questions for you.”

Again, that uncertainty floats across his face, gone before I can pin it down.

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands.”

“Who said anything about demands? I’m trying to clear the air.”

“Was. You said was . Why would you use past tense? You are a wordsmith, Sarah. You don’t make accidents when you speak.”

Admiration flows through me, combined with pain. This is one of the many reasons I find this man so attractive. He gets me. Sees me.

Tracks me.

“I have a new direction for research with Chakroga123 now.”

“Because of Dori?”

“I’m not able to reveal anything specific.”

His nose flares, mouth going tight, jaw clenching. “Now you’re just fucking with me. You want cards on the table? You have to actually lay them down.”

“Prakash Shanti is a corrupt, manipulative, narcissistic prick.”

“That’s hardly a secret.”

“And he’s systematically sexually harassing employees at HQ.”

“Of course he is,” Case says with a sigh.

“You knew? You knew what he was doing all this time?”

“What? No! I've heard rumors about financial issues, but I didn't know anything about the sexual harassment!”

“Is this why you're selling your franchise? To get out from under a big mess you can see coming?”

“Of course!”

“So you admit it!”

“Extracting my investment and profit isn’t a moral failing, Sarah.”

“It is when you know people are suffering.”

“I had no idea until now. I was leaving because I was worried about his shady finances. And for other reasons.”

“Now you know about the widespread sexual harassment, buddy. What’re you going to do about it?”

Frozen like a Greek statue, he stares at me, the only sign of life the pulse next to his Adam’s apple.

Then he leans in, elbows on the tabletop, and thrusts his hands into his hair.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fucking Prakash.”

“Literally. He’s forcing himself on people.”

“Women are coming to you with these stories?”

“Two of them. There’s at least one more woman and a nonbinary staff member.”

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought the cooked books were bad enough,” he groans. “Now this.”

“Cooked books? You mean all the event cancellations?”

His head whips up, eyes wide. “How did you know about that?”

“Sources.”

“You’re good.”

“I try.”

“You’re also easy to underestimate.”

“Only if you don’t bother trying to see the real me.”

“You’re really going to write this article?”

“Of course I am. Now it’s even more important. This is a series. Not even two articles. This is front page news stuff. I don’t know if I could get in at The Globe , but - ”

“Sarah.”

“What?”

“Please. Please don’t do this. Not yet.”

“Case, this is my big break. My shot. Being on staff at The Beaconite would be a dream come true. It's a steppingstone to places like The Atlantic and The New Yorker . I can't give up my shot.”

“This isn't Hamilton ! There are real peoples' lives in the balance.”

“No kidding. Like Dori and Barbi and – ”

“My sale.”

“That's not my responsibility.”

“Seriously, Sarah? Seriously? The woman I met in that bar three days ago wouldn't say that. You were so cautious and careful that a third glass of wine unraveled you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You don't get to wiggle out from being responsible for ruining my deal.”

“I wouldn't be responsible! Prakash would!”

“And if you can suppress publication for two and a half more weeks, we can both get what we want.”

“No, Case, we can't. My editor told me the story has to run ASAP.”

“WHAT?”

“Sorry.”

“Is that what the texting was about this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You lied again!”

“I – I didn’t lie. It was a work emergency.”

“You lied. You have done nothing but lie to me. And now you’re about to publish a story that will ruin me.”

“How would it ruin you? Unless you’re in on all this with Prakash.”

“FUCK NO! I’m nothing like him. I’ve trying to divorce myself of all entanglements with him! Can’t you see that?”

“I see you’re trying to sell as fast as you can, cash out, and leave a bunch of people hurting in the dust.”

“That’s how you see me? Like that?” His hand goes over his heart like I’ve wounded him. “You’ve lied to me, and now you can’t wait so the sale can clear and I can get out from this mess. Why does your editor have to run this story sooner?”

“I don't make the rules. But you're asking me to give up my dream!”

“And you're asking me to give up mine!”

“Then we're at an impasse.”

“And you have all the power, Sarah. All of it. Years of my work are about to be lost because of you.”

“Because of Prakash ! Because he’s corrupt! And a sick lech to boot!”

“Come on, Sarah! Don’t do this.”

“You’re manipulating me.”

“I am trying to have a dialogue with you.”

“With the end goal of convincing me not to run the piece.”

“Well… yes.”

“That’s called manipulation.”

“It’s a conversation. I’m trying to make sure you have all the information you need before making a decision that could destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”

“Asking me not to run the piece has the same effect on my career!”

Slot B decides it’s time to start whimpering. She knows where this is going.

And I am gutted.

“I’m not asking you never to publish. You’re right – it’s an important story. But you can't have your editor hold the story?”

“No. I wish I could, but I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because they're on a deadline for a monthly magazine with a website and a print run, and a major job for me is on the line. I told you.”

“And my entire life is on the line here. If that exposé breaks, my buyer will pull out. All those years wasted. All the fruits of my labor, my profit – gone.”

“I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't back off of my goal just because your goal is in conflict, Case. You're asking me to sacrifice everything.”

“And you're destroying everything if you proceed.”

“Why didn't you say anything when you knew what a sleazeball Prakash is?” I lash out, changing the topic because a pain fills my chest. He's right. I hold the power to destroy his financial plan in my hands now.

And it's killing me.

Would a guy back down, though? Is this a moral dilemma, or a power issue?

“What?”

“You knew. You knew he was corrupt. You knew he was sexually harassing women like Dori. Why didn't you say something?”

“Hold on. Hold on . I suspected the financial fraud, but didn't have proof. Just knew I had to sell and get out before something went wrong. I had no idea about the sexual harassment.”

“Oh, please. Enough people knew, Case.”

“Just because they knew didn't mean I knew.”

“You'd have to be willfully ignoring the obvious not to know. I thought you weren't that kind of guy.”

“What kind of guy is that, Sarah?”

“The kind who would cash out on the backs of women who were being mistreated.”

His sharp inhale tells me I've hit a nerve.

“You really don't know me at all.”

“Great. The 'you don't know me' defense. What's next, Case? Goodbye cruel world and a flounce?”

“This isn't an internet forum. This is real life, Sarah. And if you paid even one whit of attention, and had any true investigative reporter skills that didn't rely on deception, you'd know that until a year ago, when she died, most of my attention was consumed by my only sibling dying from Stage 4 breast cancer.”

All the air on the patio becomes a millstone pressing into my chest.

“I had no idea.”

“Right. You had no fucking idea. You didn’t know. Instead, you assume I'm an immoral dick who doesn't care about employees being harassed. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I was babysitting my sister's kids while my brother-in-law took her to chemo and radiation treatments. Shopping and cooking for them. Managing my parents' emotional state around her decline. Keeping the Chakroga123 business going, but barely. Rory handled way more than she should have, and I'm grateful she kept the lights on.”

His jaw clenches, eyes unfocused as he appears to go back in time, haunted by the memory of what sounds like a terrible, wrenching stretch.

“And when Stacey died, it took everything to just breathe. So if I didn't notice the rumor mill swirling around my business because I was a wee bit preoccupied, then sue me, Sarah. Rumors weren't a priority. My family was. Is .”

“Case, I – ”

“You hit a raw nerve with a lightning bolt. You can believe whatever you want to believe about me as a businessman, but that one hurt. If I'd known Prakash was treating employees that way, I'd have done something. Because spoiler alert: when I know something's wrong, I do everything I can to lessen the pain, and to right it. I couldn't do that with my sister. All I could do was watch helplessly as she died.”

“Case.” I reach for his wrist, but he waves me off, the gesture making my stomach turn to ice.

Because I've gone too far.

“Case,” I try again, but he's turned away, something snapping between us, a clean break I am desperate to stop. “I had no idea about your sister. I am so sorry. That makes things look very different to me.”

“I'm so glad your opinion of me is better now that you know more details,” he says, dripping with sarcasm. “Too bad you couldn't have given me the benefit of the doubt and just asked .”

“I - ”

“And by the way, the deal isn't about me, or retiring at thirty-five as if that's some special badge I can shine. It's because I'm my parents' only living child now. And watching your younger sister fade away like that, without getting to see her kids graduate from high school, go to college, be at their weddings, celebrate all the wins and comfort them and just fucking be there took its toll on me. Made me realize I was climbing a work ladder that goes to empty air. So I dug in ten months ago and decided to sell out. The profit will pay off Stacey's enormous medical bills and provide college funds for my little niece and nephew.”

I gasp. The stakes just went up.

Massively up.

“And if I print this story now, that money is gone.”

“Poof.” He uses his fingertips to show an imaginary explosion. “Gone.”

“Oh, God.”

“I knew I should have stayed away when I saw you at the bar that night.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“That's a really low thing to say, and you know it. You approached me. You sweet-talked me. Don't take what was good about how we met and ruin it.”

Something in my words makes him flinch. Why? What did I say to make him look so... guilty?

“Sarah, it's not like that.”

“Not like what?”

“I don't regret one moment I've spent with you, other than these fighting parts.”

“Then what?”

“The night we met wasn't exactly what you think.”

“Huh?”

“I – ”

Suddenly, I get it. I don't want to get it, but I take a shot in the dark that I know, sickly, is about to hit the bull’s-eye.

“Hold on. HOLD ON. You... knew me? When we met at that bar?”

“I knew who you were.”

“You were stalking me?”

“No. Absolutely not. I was there with my friends. You walked in. When you introduced yourself, I put two and two together and realized who you were.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“Maisie. She asked me why one of her students was asking so many business questions. Let me know your name. I researched you.”

“I KNEW I should have used an alias, but I couldn't do that and pay for the class with a credit card. Damn it!”

“You used your real name.”

“I know! Amateur move. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You figured out who I was and conveniently turned up at the exact same bar my friends and I went to.”

“I didn’t stalk you. It really was a coincidence.”

“Fucking me was a coincidence. How convenient. Did you get what you wanted? Monitoring me? Keeping me under your thumb? Charming my panties off so you could keep tabs on me?”

“Sarah, that’s not -- ”

“We were both lying to each other! This whole time! I shamed myself so, so hard, Case, for not telling you the truth! Beat myself up. Questioned who I am.” A huge sob rises up in my throat, my rib cage too small to contain the grief filling it. The pain. The betrayal.

The loathing.

Self and other-directed.

“I meant to say something. Jared told me I should, and he was right. This was never about the business.”

“You are nothing but the business, apparently!” I snap back. “You slept with me to control the narrative, Case! What kind of man does that?”

I stand and just walk away, unable to think. Case is at my heels, his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off.

“Sarah, we need to talk. I’m sorry I -- ”

I stop. I look him dead in the eye.

“You’re sorry you got caught. You’re not sorry you hurt me.”

“I really care for you, Sarah. We can find a way to negotiate through all this.”

“Negotiate? I’m nothing but a contract to you?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m a wordsmith,” I say in a mocking voice. “It’s what I’m good at. Here are some more words to put in your mouth, Case: Fuck off.”

Then I run away, weaving through the crowds, slowly going numb as the reality of everything hits me.

We were never a thing.

I was just another business detail he needed to keep neat and tidy.

What a fool I’ve been.