23. Cory
Chapter twenty-three
Cory
I sneak a look at my phone under my desk for the tenth time in the last hour. No new messages.
I want to believe that this radio silence is a good thing. That maybe Denise and Maya are having a much needed heart to heart, and when I come through Denise's door tonight, she'll be waiting for me in nothing but her favorite pair of kicks and a smile. She'll tell me she's finally ready to take our relationship public, that she'll be my date for Thanksgiving dinner in a couple of weeks, and that she's willing to stay on her knees all night to apologize for making me wait so long when I'm clearly crazy about her.
That's wishful thinking, of course. My mind is always quick to supply a fantasy when it comes to Denise, but my heart is unnerved by the silence. A thousand terrifying questions race through my head.
What happened after I left? Should I have stayed to help her face Maya? If Maya gave her an ultimatum—give up their friendship or give up me —which would Denise choose? Would Denise fight to keep what we have?
Though fragile, it is marvelous, like that Chihuly chandelier down in the lobby. Let's just hope we don't wind up shattered on the ground.
"Park!" Silva barks with a sneer. "Are you looking at porn or something? You've had your nose in that phone all day."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Then you'd finally have someone to go with you to those Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings."
Silva glares poison darts at me, and I notice Andrew lean forward to better eavesdrop on our conversation.
"That's just a rumor, asshole!" Silva almost shouts, his face turning red with either rage or embarrassment; I can't tell which. I roll my eyes.
"It's hardly just a rumor when you've been caught three different times with someone in the elevators after hours. Haven't you figured out yet that they have cameras? The footage is probably on Pornhub by now."
Silva's face is almost purple, but it barely registers. I could give two shits about whether Silva has a sex addiction. Or why Bergman, two desks down, is suddenly twitchy and sweaty all the time. Or even whether that sniveling weasel, Andrew, has stopped bothering with coffee completely and is now drinking straight grain alcohol at work.
It's all bullshit. Toxic, meaningless bullshit that's starting to make me wonder whether the six-figure salary is worth the trouble. I shouldn't be numb to this. Jason in Compliance had a nervous breakdown just last week, and no one batted an eye. An Ivy league degree, Wharton for b-school, and now I spend sixty hours a week selling my soul one PowerPoint at a time. I'm better than this.
No wonder I gravitated toward Denise. She's the opposite of bullshit. She's vibrant and fierce; a force to be reckoned with. From day one, she held a mirror up to the ugliness in my life and dared me to do something about it. With her, I think I actually could.
My palms are clammy, and I keep fidgeting with the dial of my watch. She never called. Never texted.
All day, I was in a cold sweat, awaiting my fate, with no clue of what happened or whether—fingers crossed—I was worried for nothing. Now, trudging up the stairs to her apartment, I feel like a prisoner on his way to the guillotine.
Why didn't she text me?
"Hey," she mutters as she closes the door behind me.
"Hi, babe. How was your day?" I do my best to inject some cheer into my voice despite the somber expression on Denise's face.
She flutters around me to rinse a glass, or pet Clawdette, or straighten the sketches on her drafting desk. Anything but meet my eyes. I'm almost dizzy watching her.
"It was OK," she says, pulling the large throw against her body to fold it. I move slowly, careful not to startle her, and gently take the fabric from her hands. She doesn't fight me.
"We need to talk," she says before sinking onto the couch. The slump of her shoulders and the robotic tone of her voice tell me everything I need to know: I will not enjoy this talk.
I sit down next to her and pull her hands into my lap. After a moment, she pulls them free, wrapping her arms around herself instead.
"Baby, what's wrong? You're scaring me."
And she is. The look on her face is so resigned, so final. Like this discussion is a mere formality when she's already made up her mind. She sighs heavily.
"I might as well come right out and say it: I don't think we should see each other anymore."
I clench my fist so hard, I'm glad I'm not still holding her hand. What the hell happened this morning?
"Why not?" I ask, my voice low and dangerous. "Did Maya say something?"
She laughs bitterly. The sound grates on my ears.
"Yes, and no. She definitely wasn't happy to see us together. Said I'd been lying to her. That she couldn't believe I'd go out with a fatphobic asshole like you." She shrugs. "You know. Just what you'd expect."
I hiss out a breath. I shouldn't be surprised Maya thinks so poorly of me. Since the moment we met, I've been at my worst. But I thought we were making progress.
"I'm not fatphobic," I object, feeling both defensive and a little frantic. "I told you what happened. It was—"
"Your boss," she interrupts. "I know. And I told her that."
"And?" I press, my voice desperate.
"She didn't believe me. Or you , I guess. She said, if you were really interested in me beyond a booty call, you would've claimed me publicly."
"And I want to! You're the one who wants to keep things quiet."
"No," she bristles. "I thought we agreed."
I shake my head.
"No, Denise. I've been clear that I want to be with you. I would've come with you to the Halloween party if you hadn't shut things down."
"We weren't even official then!" she shouts back.
I take a deep breath—in, then slowly out—trying to stop my panic. Making her defensive won't help my case.
"Did you tell her that, at least?" I ask calmly. "That you were the one putting the brakes on things?"
She nods.
"I did. She still couldn't understand why I hadn't come clean."
Denise stands and starts pacing back and forth in front of me. She rakes her hands through her braids, frustrated.
"I guess I should've admitted it when she and Tiff were teasing me about always working with you at the center. Or maybe when Maya almost caught us at the party. Shit! I felt cornered! She kept pushing and pushing and wouldn't even hear me out. After all the times I've been her shoulder to cry on!"
I try to take her hand in mine as she passes, but she yanks herself out of reach.
"We've been friends for over ten years, but I have one tiny secret and suddenly she just wants to throw me away."
"Did she say that?" I ask.
"Not in so many words. But nothing I said mattered. She saw us and she made up her mind. Just like that," she snaps. "Ten years of friendship, gone."
I can't keep sitting while she paces, and I stand to talk to her.
"Denise, are you sure? Maybe if you talk after you've both had time to—"
She whirls to face me.
"Now you won't even listen to me?"
"I am listening to you, Denise."
"No, you're not," she sniffles, and I'm horrified to see she's crying. "I'm telling you point blank what happened, and you're calling me a liar."
My jaw hardens.
"No, I'm—"
"Trying to put me into this perfect little girlfriend box, where I sing to the hilltops about how amazing you are to everyone who will listen?"
Her words hit me like a slap to the face.
"That's not what I—"
"It doesn't matter. I'm not your perfect girlfriend. I'm not Maya's perfect friend. And I'm not the perfect daughter. I never will be. I don't need anyone's rules or expectations about what I should do and who I should be when I'm just going to disappoint everyone. It's inevitable. We might as well cut ties before that happens. Before things get too messy."
She stops pacing so suddenly, a few braids come loose from her bun. I'm too shocked to say anything. Denise's eyes are sad and teary, but there's stubbornness there, too. I don't know if I have the words to get through to her, not when she's like this. I exhale a breath from the gaping crater in my chest.
"I don't know where all this is coming from," I choke out. "I don't have some perfect girlfriend model I need you to fit into. I just want you. I want us to figure things out together. We can't do that if you keep pushing me away."
Tears stream down her face. I turn away so she doesn't notice I have tears of my own.
"I'm not your parents, Denise. I'm not going to leave. My head might be made for numbers, but I think my heart was made for you. But this won't work if you won't let it. If you won't stop running."
She's looking at the floor again, and it pisses me off.
"Denise, look at me!" I demand. She keeps her gaze down. "You say you want to end things and you can't even look me in the eye?! You're a coward."
That gets her mad. She jerks her head up and pierces me with a steely look.
"There. I'm looking at you," she grinds out. "And I still think we should go our separate ways."
"No, you don't," I insist. "Not the way you were kissing me just this morning! Not after the shopping, the smoothie, the to-go cups. You want this."
"A lot can happen in twenty-four hours, Cory. Now all I want is for you to leave."
Her voice is cold, her expression shuttered. It's an act, but I buy it anyway. She strides to the door, pretending to be unbothered, and opens it wide.
"Goodbye, Cory."
I walk through the door, and I don't stop. Not even when it slams behind me, or when I hear her quiet sobs from the hallway. I can't stop. I can't be anywhere near her when I fall apart.