Chapter 7 #2
I envy that about her. The way she finds beauty in things most people would write off as worthless.
I’ve never had that quality. Maybe because from a young age, my father took me to meetings exactly like this one.
Early on, I learned a simple truth. That nine times out of ten, old buildings are more trouble than they’re worth.
Which is why it’s easier to strip something down to its foundation and start over.
As I back out of the parking space, Marley keeps her eyes fixed on the building, her expression bleak. She stares through the windshield like she’s memorizing it, like this might be the last time she sees it. And it probably is.
For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to see things the way she does.
And then I realize, maybe that’s why she doesn’t seem to mind my company—because she’s the kind of person who can find something good, even in the people who deserve it the least.
After a financial projection meeting, the office clears out for the weekend.
I stay behind, eyes skimming the numbers on my screen, trying to decide which task to tackle next.
That’s when my phone rings unexpectedly. Marley usually fields my calls and filters the rest into tidy memos, so it’s rare for anything to come directly to me.
The screen flashes a name I haven’t seen in a while.
Noah—Marley’s cousin.
We ended up stuck at the same table during a company holiday party a few years back.
Everyone else bailed early, but he stayed.
We talked for longer than I usually talk to anyone.
Now, we grab the occasional beer on the weekends.
Low-key, no pressure to make conversation, since he does most of the talking.
Out of the blue this last year, he invited me to his wedding.
I went out of 94 percent obligation, and 6 percent politeness that I regretted the second I walked in.
Still, it felt good to be included, even if I spent most of the night on edge, drowning in small talk and surrounded by too many people.
I answer. “Hey, Noah.”
“Theo, what’s up, man? Thanks for answering,” he replies, aware that I rarely pick up the phone. “How bad’s the grump level today? Full Scrooge or just mildly irritated?”
I should be insulted, but I know him well enough to know the guy wouldn’t hurt a fly. My sour attitude is a bit of a joke between us at this point. He’s one of the few who can get away with intentionally insulting me.
“I don’t know. But something tells me they’re about to get a whole lot worse.”
“Yeah, probably.” He chuckles. “I’m actually calling to invite you to a poker night next week.
Should be a fun time, with a few of my friends and a couple guys from work.
There’ll be beer and nachos too. I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do, but figured I’d extend the courtesy anyway. It’d be cool to see you there.”
He’s right. There’s no way in hell I’m going.
“Thanks for the invite, but you figured correctly. Not my kind of scene.”
“I get it. The invite is always open though. I’m trying to make it a monthly thing if you are ever interested in the future.”
I’d rather saw off my left pinky finger.
“And, Theo?” he adds. “About my cousin, Marley. She’s tough. First to crack a joke, always acting like nothing gets to her. She’s had a rough go of it, but she’s one of the good ones. So, look out for her, yeah?”
He doesn’t even have to ask.
Somehow, the instinct is already there.
The weekend passes like all the others. I work straight through it.
My only breaks are a run along the park trail across from my building, and a book when the screen starts to blur.
By Monday morning, I’m restless.
Desperate for human interaction. One human in particular.
The office is quieter than usual, except for the anxious rhythmic click of my pen against the desk. I should be finishing this report, but all I can focus on is the empty space right outside my door.
Normally, by now, Marley would’ve breezed in, saying something unnecessary the moment she sees my door open.
But today? Nothing.
It’s not even about her being late. It’s the quiet, gnawing worry that something’s wrong.
I tell myself I don’t care. It’s easier that way, safer to pretend.
Still, I check my watch. Glance toward the door. Wait.
Five more minutes. Silence.
I push back from my desk and step into the hallway, where I find her desk still empty, chair pushed back like she left in a hurry.
I scan the corridor, then head down the hall, where I find her in the supply room. With her back to the door, she’s on her tiptoes, putting a stack of folders on the shelf above her head.
I should leave. Go back to my office and pretend I never came out here in the first place.
But before I get the chance, the folders tumble all around her.
“Motherfucker,” she whispers, annoyed at the mess strewn across the floor.
Without thinking twice, I jump in to help. When she sees me, she doesn’t even act surprised, as if she knew I was standing there, watching her the entire time.
We’re crammed into the small nook, knees nearly brushing as we stack folders into semi-organized piles. I hand over the ones I’ve picked up, and my fingers graze hers.
The four walls suddenly feel smaller, like they’re closing in. My senses go on high alert. I can smell the floral scent of her hair, practically feel the rise and fall of her chest with every breath.
We’re too close. And I feel it.
That pull. That dangerous, undeniable gravity drawing me toward her.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my cool. “Did you have a good weekend?”
She blinks up at me, like the question catches her off guard. Like she wasn’t expecting me to acknowledge anything beyond work.
“It was fine,” she says, not moving away. “Had rehearsals all weekend, ran some errands, got sucked into a true crime documentary and scared myself into keeping the lights on all night.”
A corner of my mouth twitches. “Let me guess. The boyfriend did it.”
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Wow. Spoiler alert. What if I was still holding out hope for a shocking twist?”
I arch a brow. “Then you clearly haven’t watched enough true crime.”
She laughs, the sound light and easy and a complete contrast to the tension still tight between us. I should step back, hand her the last folder, and leave, but I don’t.
Instead, I ask, “And rehearsals? How were they?”
Her expression softens, as she eyes me with intrigue. Probably wondering what the hell is going on with me. Honestly, it makes two of us. Because who am I? Initiating small talk?
“Grueling.” She exhales, leaning back slightly against the cabinet. “We’re getting close to opening night, so we had to run through the entire performance multiple times. I swear my legs still feel like they’re on fire.”
“You like that, though?” I say, not entirely a question. Just an observation. “Dance seems like something you really love.”
She looks up at me, something unreadable passing over her face. Then she smiles, small but real. “Yeah. I do.”
The way she says it makes me grin. I’m her boss, but still oddly proud that she’s pushing herself to achieve a goal outside of work. I wonder what it feels like not to have your entire world revolve around these four walls.
At the same time, we both move to stand.
Her shoulder bumps into my chest, and I’m so focused on not stepping into her space that I nearly knock her over instead.
She stumbles, and I reach out, saving her with a hand between her shoulder blades. Stopping her from falling a second time in a week.
“Sorry,” I mumble, moving my hands off of her as quickly as I can. It’s critical to my well-being, because the more I touch her, the more I want to keep being close to her.
“I think this is becoming a habit,” she says. “You saving me.”
I don’t answer right away. I can’t.
There’s something about her—something that makes it harder to keep my distance than it should be.
Whatever this is, I need to shut it down.
Before it turns into something I can’t undo.
The next day, she arrives after me. I make a point to stay in my office, away from her. Away from her sunny personality and the wanting to get to know her more. When noon hits, and she hasn’t left for lunch yet, it becomes clear that avoiding her isn’t an option.
Pushing open my office door, I find her tucked behind her desk. The soft glow of her screen washes over her face, making the faint circles beneath her eyes more pronounced. She looks exhausted. I stride past the threshold, stopping beside her chair. “Aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”
Her fingers still on the keyboard before she tips her chin up to look at me. “I’m working through it.”
“You work through a lot of your lunches.” I observe.
One of her shoulders lifts in a small, nonchalant shrug. “I thought you’d find that commendable.”
She isn’t wrong. Normally, I would. But with her, I suddenly become aware of why it’s not ideal. Taking breaks matters, even if I do never follow that rule myself.
“Is that why you’re doing it?” I ask. “Because you think I expect you to?”
“Well, no,” she begins, for the first time looking a little apprehensive. “If you want the truth, I don’t have the money to eat out every day.”
I frown. “But we pay you well.”
“You do. Unfortunately, that well-paying paycheck won’t hit my bank account for another thirty days. Until then, I’m currently rich in theory and broke in practice.”
A red flag goes up in my mind. She says it like it’s no big deal. Like this is normal for her, living on the edge of just enough.
“Go take a break,” I say, quieter now. “Any kind of break.”
Her mouth pops open, surprised that I’m the one suggesting less work. “Somehow, I feel like this is a trap.”
“I don’t do traps. If I wanted you gone, I’d just fire you. Or at least try to convince Lisa to do so.”
“Oh, well, that’s very reassuring,” she teases. “But seriously, I’m fine.”