Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
K athleen closed her apartment door and stood for a moment in the silence. She could still smell the faint scent of garlic and red wine on her clothes.
She let her coat slide to the floor, moved to the kitchen and switched on the light.
She’d stepped back into her life, but it didn’t seem to quite fit now.
The dinner tonight had been wonderful. Veronica had been charming—there was a quiet ease to her, a way of holding eye contact that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
Not seen, but understood. Even when Kathleen dodged questions about her work, Veronica hadn’t looked away.
But when they'd stood at her front door, and that soft voice asked to come in, she’d said no. Not that she didn’t want her to— God, she wanted to—but her nerve failed her.
She felt...inadequate. Not pretty enough. Not experienced enough. Not anything enough.
Veronica was poised, stylish, probably used to candlelit lounges and penthouses with walk-in wine cellars. Kathleen had half a bottle of white in her fridge and mismatched towels in her bathroom. She couldn’t compete.
She filled the kettle, turned it on, and didn’t bother making tea.
Her mind had already drifted to the invitation tucked into her inbox.
A gallery exhibition opening. Natalie Carson, her old friend from Harvard, was the artist. They hadn’t spoken in a while, but Kathleen had been meaning to go to support her.
At the time she’d thought she would cancel.
Now, she’d ring the Langford agency in the morning.
A t work the next day, she waited until nine then reached for the phone. She opened her contacts, found the agency number, and hit call.
A moment later, a woman’s voice answered. “Good morning, Langford Services. This is Elise.”
“Hello,” Kathleen said, trying to sound offbeat. “This is Kathleen Knowles. I’d like to make another appointment.”
There was a pause then Elise replied as if there was nothing odd about her ringing after the dinner date. “Certainly, Kathleen. What day and time?”
“Friday night, around seven. It’s a gallery exhibition. A friend of mine from university is showing her work. I’d like… company.”
“Of course. Any preferences for your companion that evening?”
Kathleen cleared her throat. “Yes. Veronica please.”
There was another pause, then Elise was brief and professional. “I’ll check Veronica’s availability and confirm with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” She lowered her voice. “Please tell her… I’d really like to see her again.”
“Noted,” Elise said, with a smile audible in her voice. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
The call ended.
Kathleen stared at the phone, then set it down carefully on the counter. She knew what she wanted from the night and she hoped Veronica would be agreeable.
T he moment she stepped out of the cab, she spotted Veronica waiting near the entrance. The woman looked effortless in black, her posture relaxed, the line of her dress clean and graceful without drawing attention to itself. She was like someone who always knew what to do with her hands.
Kathleen’s stomach fluttered.
Veronica smiled. “You look beautiful.”
Kathleen blushed, unsure what to do with the compliment except file it away and pretend it hadn’t unbalanced her. “Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure.” Veronica offered her arm, and Kathleen hesitated for a second before taking it.
Inside, the gallery was already half full. Modern art hung on white walls—abstract angles, explosive colours. Some pieces hurt her eyes while others confused her.
An older woman in a cloud of perfume swept up to her. “Kathleen!” There were air kisses and then an assessing look at Veronica. “And who is this?”
Veronica extended her hand with grace. “Veronica.”
“Friend from work?” the woman asked.
“Um… yes,” Kathleen said, because anything else was too hard to explain.
“Lovely. Have a good time, dear.”
As the woman drifted away, Veronica raised an eyebrow.
“She’s a friend of my mother’s,” Kathleen muttered.
Veronica didn’t comment, instead turned her attention to a large painting. “What do you think it is?”
Kathleen studied it. “It looks like clothes in a washing machine.”
Veronica tilted her head. “You reckon?”
Kathleen giggled. It wasn’t something she did often, but it surprised them both.
The night went slowly. The jazz trio played in the background and Natalie Carson floated from group to group wearing a silk dress and confidence.
Kathleen kept trying to hold herself together. She knew her expression had flattened. Knew her shoulders were too high. But each time someone asked about her work, she felt her edges fray.
Veronica noticed every time.
When someone pushed too hard, she stepped in. When a drunk man started rambling about government grants, Veronica inserted herself between them and spoke in a tone so firm the man backed off mid-sentence.
Kathleen could breathe again.
Later, she murmured, “I hate these functions.”
“You’re doing fine,” Veronica said. “You don’t have to be the most interesting person in the room.”
“I don’t want to be,” she said honestly. “I want to survive the next hour.”
“Stick with me. We’ll do it together.”
They made it through the rest of the evening without incident. Kathleen gradually relaxed. She found herself laughing, listening to Veronica instead of bracing for what might come next.
Natalie eventually found them, babbling about “light against resistance.” Kathleen introduced Veronica as a friend. That was the easiest.
“You’re a sly dog,” Natalie whispered, jabbing her in the ribs.
Kathleen turned scarlet. Then the gallery owner called Natalie away, and she looked regretfully at Kathleen and hurried off.
Outside, the air was cool. Kathleen took a long breath. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said.
Veronica smiled. “Do you want to get something to eat or drink?”
Kathleen turned to her. “Do you want to come back to my place for a drink?”
“I’d like that.”
Her apartment was how she liked it—quiet, ordered, clean. She could feel Veronica taking it in. Not judging, exactly, but reading. The colour-coded sticky notes, the pen tray, the tidy botanical sketches. Kathleen had tried living with clutter once and it made her tired.
In the kitchen, she said, “Do you drink coffee in the evening?”
“I can.”
“I don’t. It keeps me up for twelve hours. Literally twelve. I’ve timed it.”
“Tea, then?”
“Chamomile. One brand only. The others taste like dust.”
Veronica gave a half-laugh, but didn’t push back.
They sat with their mugs. Kathleen felt the pressure of expectation.
She knew why Veronica was here. Knew what most clients wanted at this point, but she wasn’t most clients.
If she let this go on without speaking up, she’d end up…
disappointing her. Then Veronica raised her hand, slowly, her fingers brushing against Kathleen’s jaw, barely there.
The contact made her flinch, but she didn’t pull back completely.
Veronica leaned in.
Their lips met, soft, cautious, not even a full kiss, simply the faintest brush of skin. Kathleen froze. It was like her body forgot how to breathe. Panic swept up her spine, tight and cold, and she jerked back instantly, one hand rising between them without thinking.
“Sorry,” she gasped, her voice brittle. “I…no…I can’t?—”
Veronica was already pulling away, hands up, her voice calm. “It’s okay. It’s alright.”
Kathleen turned her head, breath sharp in her chest. “I thought I could. I really thought I could.”
“You did fine,” Veronica said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I wanted to,” Kathleen said, voice barely a whisper. “I…my body doesn’t listen.”
“I know.”
Kathleen kept her face turned away, ashamed, humiliated by her own reaction, her own useless wiring.
Veronica didn’t move. She didn’t fill the space with reassurances or apologies. She just stayed. When Kathleen finally looked back, there was no judgment in her face, but patience. And something harder to name—something like respect.
“I’m sorry,” Kathleen said again, quieter this time.
“You don’t need to be,” Veronica replied.
Kathleen didn’t know what to say after that.
They sat in silence again, no longer shoulder to shoulder, but still close, breathing.
Veronica didn’t reach for her again.
She sat quietly beside her, letting the air between them settle.
Kathleen pressed her fingertips against her temple, trying to will the flush from her cheeks.
Her stomach churned, not with fear, but with a kind of hollow shame.
She hated the part of herself that responded like this, that couldn’t accept something as simple as a kiss without flinching like she was under attack.
Veronica’s voice came after a long moment. Soft and even. “Would it help if we talked about something else?”
Kathleen swallowed. “Like what?”
“Your work, maybe.” Veronica’s tone didn’t shift. “Sometimes, when people feel overwhelmed, going back to a space where they feel in control can help. You could tell me about your research.”
Kathleen’s stomach twisted tighter.
It wasn’t that the suggestion was wrong, it was kind and gentle. But it made her feel small, like she needed babysitting. Like she hadn’t ruined everything.
“No,” she said quickly, the word sharper than she meant. “No, that’s not?—”
She stood abruptly and moved toward the table, collecting the two cups even though they were still half full.
Veronica stayed seated.
“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Kathleen said, her voice flatter now, tighter. “It was a good evening. Thank you for coming.”
Veronica rose slowly. “Kathleen?—”
“I can see you out.”
Veronica didn’t argue, didn’t protest. She simply nodded, took her coat from the hook, and slipped it on without a word.
At the door, Kathleen hesitated. She wanted to say something that would make it right. She wanted to explain that it wasn’t about Veronica. That it was her own body, her own history, her own faulty wiring that kept short-circuiting when things felt close to real.
But the words wouldn’t come. “Goodnight,” she said instead.
Veronica gave her a look that was hard to read—steady, accepting, not unkind. “Goodnight, Kathleen.”
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Kathleen leaned her forehead against it and closed her eyes, the scent of Veronica’s perfume and wine still hanging in the air behind her like the last traces of something almost beautiful.
.