Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Marley
The entire car ride back to the office, Theo bristles.
I have never seen a real-life example of bristling until now, but it involves a whole lot of sitting in the driver’s seat with muscles so tense they seem like they could combust at a moment’s notice.
If I thought he was quiet before, he’s practically a stone now, his jaw tight and his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.
The tension in the car is suffocating, and every attempt I make to break the silence is met with a curt nod or a noncommittal hum.
He’s like a bottle of soda someone shook too hard, ready to blow the second the pressure peaks.
Something over the course of the last two hours has clearly struck a nerve.
Everything was fine, until Sean pulled me aside at the end.
Now that it’s all said and done, I can see that accepting an advance during a lunch meeting was not a great look.
Sean was attractive enough. While he’s not someone I would normally say yes to, I haven’t had a relationship for months.
I act like I’m a strong, independent woman who definitely does not need a man.
On the flip side, I am, in fact, very and utterly lonely.
And I definitely do need a man, at least sometimes.
Technically, I was supposed to be on my lunch break. Sean clearly has his shit together though. He’s not a direct employee of Prescott Investment. So, I thought, why the hell not? What did I have to lose?
My job.
That’s what my dumb ass forgot to consider.
I’m not used to big-girl jobs, with suits, and eating off crystal dishes over steak lunch meetings.
I’m used to bussing tables where the napkins are so thin, you could touch them and they’d shred.
Managers who were too busy napping in their back office, while the rest of us fought for our lives in the front.
So many relationships between employees that it could have been a new hit reality show.
Working in restaurants was akin to the Wild West, where everyone looked out for themselves, no rules or etiquette, versus this new world where there are so many rules you have to take training courses to verify that you, in fact, know these rules.
Theo and I sit in traffic, where I sit in the front seat, mentally kicking myself for not fully thinking this through.
A man like Sean is not a man that’s worth the risk of losing a job over.
No offense to him, but one look at his conceit and disproportionate veneer smile, and you know he would think he rocked your world, when actually, he’ll probably leave you more unsatisfied than you were when it all began.
Finally, I decide that I need to make this right. I refuse to lose my job over a reckless spur-of-the-moment decision.
I face Theo, looking frowny and gorgeous as always.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “I feel like I pissed you off earlier.”
His jaw ticks, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Was it the Sean thing? Because it definitely feels like it was the Sean thing. And I should have never said yes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t even—”
“Marley.” He stops me. “Everything is fine.”
Either I’m horrible at reading people (I’m not), or he’s a liar.
“Okay,” I say slowly, leaning back. “It just looks like you’re about to break a molar over there.”
The tension in the car is still thick as we pull into the company parking garage. He reverses smoothly into his designated spot, looking everywhere but at me.
He kills the engine and sits there, his focus locked on the steering wheel like it holds the answer to whatever war is waging inside him.
I hesitate, then reach out, letting my hand rest lightly on his arm. “Theo? Are you sure you’re okay?”
He turns his head and stares at me. Right into me. His blue eyes are more wild than I’ve ever seen them, like a storm churning right below the surface. My insides light up like a wildfire, burning hot and bright and sudden, under the force of his stare.
“I—” he begins to say. There’s something there, hovering on the tip of his tongue.
Something real, something unshielded. Then, as quickly as the vulnerability flickered to life, it’s gone.
He flips a switch, the familiar stone wall slamming back into place, shutting me out entirely.
“I’m fine,” he says, his tone clipped as he clears his throat.
He pushes the take-out container into my hands and reaches for the door.
“And take this. I’m not hungry anymore.”
I take the food from him, staring down at its lid as he climbs out of the car without another word. The abruptness of it all throws me. Why is he giving me this? Why does he seem extra pissed off? The man is like a Rubik’s Cube of complexity that I can barely even begin to understand.
Still, I don’t push. I step out of the car, holding the warm container to my chest. “Thank you,” I murmur softly, not sure if he even hears me.
Glancing back briefly, his expression is as unreadable as ever. “Don’t mention it.”
He strides forward, his shoulders stiff, as we walk back together.
The whole interaction feels strange, but I shake it off, chalking it up to the fact that I barely know him.
For all I know, this might just be how he is—cold, abrupt, emotions changing faster than I can keep up.
Still, there’s a nagging feeling I can’t ignore.
A suspicion I have that he pretends to feel nothing, but he’s secretly carrying it all.
My stomach is happily full of mushroom risotto, and it’s the first time I haven’t felt an ounce of hunger in days.
Any trace of mental fog caused by emptiness is immediately erased.
I feel like an entirely new person. The bonus is that I still have enough to bring home to my mom or feed myself dinner.
Theo has avoided me for the rest of the day. And while it’s nothing out of the ordinary, somehow this feels different. Intentional maybe, like I’m the reason for his bad mood.
When five o’clock hits, I sprint out of the building, ready to leave this day behind me. I ride the filthy subway a few stops down for my performance at The Cobalt.
Entering the building, the heavy wooden doors creak as I step into the musty lobby.
It’s a smaller theater, nearly falling apart, but full of history.
The kind of history any theater would envy, with performances ranging from small local dance recitals to renowned performers.
The faded posters line the walls, showcasing performances from decades ago, their edges curling with age.
The deep red carpet is worn thin in spots, evidence of the crowds and countless footsteps that have passed through.
I run my fingers along the polished banister of the staircase leading backstage.
The theater might be old and imperfect, but it holds a certain charm.
Someday I hope I see my own kids running around here.
Maybe up on stage in a theater play or dance recital.
Or perhaps sitting side by side in the red velvet seats, watching a show together as we quietly pass snacks back and forth.
The Cobalt is owned by one family and has been passed down for generations.
Their only stipulation as it’s been passed down is that it must always support the arts and keep the doors open to the smaller performance art companies.
It’s a legacy they’ve honored, even as the building has aged and the cost of maintaining it becomes more daunting.
On stage that night, once the music begins, everything else fades away. There’s only me, the choreography, and the rhythm of my heartbeat as I pour everything into our performance.
When the show ends and the curtains close, reality comes crashing back.
The overdraft warnings in my inbox.
The fragility of my mother’s sobriety.
My growing attraction to my brooding boss, who somehow gets more appealing the more I see past his walls.
Still, I smile. I keep the energy up. I play the light, easy version of myself that everyone expects. Because the second I let the mask slip, the second I admit things aren’t fine, is the moment it all starts to unravel.
And the world? It keeps moving, none the wiser.
If I ask for help, I’m weak. If I push through it, I’m drowning.
There’s no winning. No perfect way to carry the weight of it.
Some wear their battles openly, scarred and raw.
Others bury them deep, hoping silence is enough to keep them contained.
But I’m worried I can only hold it together for so much longer before the cracks start to spread and everything shatters.
After my performance, I sneak into my apartment. It’s pitch-black, with only the low murmur of the television and my mother’s snores filtering through the paper-thin drywall.
The fridge is empty.
A stack of mail waits on the counter, each envelope stamped past due like yelling it at me will magically make me pay it faster.
They say money can’t buy happiness, yet I can’t help thinking how much easier life would feel if I didn’t have to fight so hard simply to survive. Survival itself seems like the kind of thing that would make me extremely happy.
As if the universe has read my spiraling, anxious thoughts, midnight hits and a text message from my bank lights my phone up.
It’s a notification of a deposit into my bank account.
I stare at the screen in disbelief. Where I once saw single-digit numbers, I now see more.
Many, freaking more. Weeks earlier than they had originally told me I’d be paid.
A number like this has never graced my account before. Even after months of scrimping and saving, I’ve never managed more than a couple grand at best.
Within that single second of knowing I suddenly have a safety net, another thought rushes in. That this has to be some kind of mistake. Because Prescott Investment Corp is supposed to pay well, but not this well.