Chapter 37
Monica
I finished my lunch in the breakroom alone, as usual. I wondered if anyone ever ate in here besides me, or if everyone went out to lunch. God knew they could afford it. I could too, but I found the solitude of the breakroom weirdly comforting. Plus, I hadn’t really made any friends with the others who worked here. My job as Troy’s assistant left little time for me to spend with anyone else, and a small part of me preferred it that way.
Others probably had their assumptions about me anyway, based on Troy’s reputation, which proved to be true as I stupidly fell for him, just as all the others had. It was a funny feeling being lumped into a category of his previous employees and trying to pretend I was different in some way. I had so badly wanted to mean something different to him, and felt foolish for it.
I felt even more foolish for allowing him to talk me into staying after I was so set on leaving. The resignation letter had been right there on his desk, and I meekly took it back simply because he asked me to. I realized I would probably do anything he asked if it came down to it. No matter how tough I acted, I was weak for him.
I sighed as I closed up my lunchbox and left the breakroom, my only reprieve from seeing Troy and having my feelings float around me like a fleet of butterflies. Now, it was back to pretending I didn’t care about him when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I hoped if I kept up the act, that eventually it would become the truth and my feelings for him would fade.
After seeing him today and hearing him plead with me, I knew those feelings were more vibrant than ever. But my fear was stronger. I was too scared to let him in again.
The rest of the week, my attempt at resigning never came up again. It was as if I had never stayed up until 4 a.m. typing it out, determined to leave. We worked alongside each other just as we had been for the past few weeks, but I noticed there was something different about Troy. Something softer.
It was in the way he looked at me. Not in the way he used to where his eyes were predatory and hungry to devour me any place he could. I used to feel completely naked sometimes, his stare stirring up sensations I tried to put out before I combusted. Now, he looked at me like I was made of glass, carefully taking in my face as if he might break me. I almost couldn’t bear it because he looked so sad sometimes.
At times, I had the urge to reach over and take his face in my hands and ask him what he was thinking. Ask him what he was feeling. I wanted to make things better for him, whatever internal battle he was facing, whether it was me or his father or his incessant ex-wife. But then I reminded myself how badly he had hurt me. Not once. Not twice. But three times.
By the end of the week, my feelings were all mixed up like someone had thrown them in a blender and pressed high speed. Every look from him, every word spoken, was breaking me down.
Friday afternoon, as we sat in his office, I listened to him practice his speech for a conference that afternoon. He was practicing a few new words I had thrown in his arsenal, trying them out on his tongue. I knew he wanted to impress his father who would be at the conference, so I offered to help him write his speech. Now, the day was here, and I could feel his nerves.
“You’re going to do just fine,” I said reassuringly.
“I feel like a baby deer trying to walk,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Well, no one would know.”
“What would I do without you?” he asked, shaking his head.
I swallowed the lump in my throat before gathering my things.
“We should probably go,” I said distractedly, even though his words were resounding in my head.
I wondered the same thing. What would I ever do without him ?
He nodded and grabbed his speech from his desk.
“Leave it,” I said. “You’ll look stronger without it. You already know it by heart.”
He hesitated, as if doubting himself, before putting the paper back down. With anyone else, he was so confident, like he was on top of the world. When his father was involved, he seemed like a child again, desperate for the approval of the man who raised him. It made me sad that he didn’t think he was good enough.
We took a cab to Tribeca to where the conference was being held at a rooftop event that was encased by snow-capped windows and overlooked the icy Hudson River. The podium was set at the very end of the room, with rows of chairs lined to the back of the room.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“And you wondered why I was nervous,” he whispered back.
“Troy,” a booming voice sounded.
I saw Troy’s father striding toward us, and noticed Troy immediately stand up straighter. More rigid. It was as if his father’s power was radiating around him because everyone’s eyes followed him with admiration and an ounce of fear.
“Father,” said Troy, nodding his head. “You remember my assistant, Monica.”
His father looked at me in shock.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he said with a chuckle. “They usually don’t last long.”
“Oh?” I asked with feigned surprise. “It’s a great job. I’ve really enjoyed it.”
I noticed the twinkle in his eye falter slightly, but his smile remained.
“Are you ready for your speech?” his father asked, turning to Troy, already bored of me.
“Yep,” Troy answered with a confidence I was proud of.
“Well, good luck up there. You’ll need it. You have a tough act to follow.” His father pointed his thumbs at himself before walking away.
“He’s…pleasant,” I said.
Troy let out a laugh as we found our seats. The next hour passed slowly as traders from all around the East Coast shared their tips on maximizing returns and reducing risks in today’s market. Except for Troy’s father, whose speech was more about his own accolades rather than helping anyone else. But everyone was so caught up in his success and who he was that they gave him a standing ovation.
When it was Troy’s turn, he took the podium confidently, his hands gripped around the wooden base lightly as he took in the crowd. He spent the next two minutes delivering his speech flawlessly, and I couldn’t decide where to look. At him speaking eloquently and looking sexy in a suit, or at his father, who seemed to be scrutinizing every word and trying to find a fault that didn’t exist. At the end of Troy’s speech, I, along with everyone else, gave him a standing ovation and may have been louder than his father’s, much to my satisfaction.
Afterward, he made his way through the crowd, accepting pats on the back, until he found me. He looked excited, like a little kid, and for a moment I thought he might hug me. But instead, he held out his hand and shook mine lightly, sending electricity through my whole body. It was the first time we had really touched in weeks.
“Thank you,” he said.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“I better get home,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was just past 5 o’clock. “If that’s okay.”
“Uh, sure. Yeah, that’s fine,” he said, deflated.
“Great job up there.” I turned and started for the door, feeling like I could float right out of the windows and down to the chilly river in the distance. I didn’t know if it was my pride in Troy making me feel this way, or the way his fingers found mine just now. I just knew I had to get out of there.
As I made my way to the door, past all the men in suits talking about money and successful trades and their latest affairs with women half their age, I was reminded of how out of place I was in this world. A world of wealth and scandal and people who would never accept me. Troy’s world. I was reminded of the gala and the distant whisper of his words.
She’s just my personal assistant.
That’s all I would ever be. Remember that , I thought, before I let myself get carried away by him again.
I took a cab back to my apartment in Queens, where I was sure none of those men in that conference room had ever stepped foot near. Besides Troy.
I wouldn’t see him for the next two days, and I suddenly missed him more than I had allowed myself to since I ended things between us. My apartment suddenly felt colder. Lonelier. I sighed as I changed out of my black pantsuit and into a pair of sweats and an oversized hoodie. My usual weekend uniform, when I wasn’t opting for pajamas. I pulled the menus from my drawer in the kitchen and debated which takeout to order. I decided to go with Fu Yings. Again. But ordered delivery. I didn’t want any more run-ins with Dean.
As I waited for my food to arrive, I decided to get started on a sample piece for Erica’s newspaper. I had agreed to at least apply and see where it went, and the last thing I needed to do was write this piece for them to preview a sample of my work. I could have pulled from one of my novels, but decided to challenge myself and write something new.
The cursor blinked slowly on the blank page, taunting me. I began to type, not knowing where it was going yet, but hoping it would find its way. After a few short minutes, the story began to take shape and my fingers were moving faster across the keys. I finished it in record time and could have kept going, but my allotted word count stopped me. It was a short story, not a novel, I reminded myself.
I read over it and felt a familiar sense of pride. I had done it. I also realized how much the story had been drawn from my own life, as if my relationship with Troy had been played out in pretty words before me. I read them over, seeing him in the text. Seeing us. I had given us a happy ending and it made my eyes burn.
All of my novels I had written in the past were never really based on me or my relationships because there were few to be had. I guessed I was writing what I wanted, trying to fill the void in my life with made-up characters and feelings I yearned to exist.
Then that void was unexpectedly filled by Troy, and all those feelings I had written into fictional existence were real. The yearning. The passion. The drama. It had all been there, and now it was typed out in a neat little story that glared at me from my screen. I hit the save button and attached the document to an email to Erica before I could go over it again with a more scrutinizing eye.
I closed my laptop and looked out at the inky sky sprinkled with white flakes of snow. I wondered what Troy was doing now, and if he ever had imagined a happy ending for us. If only I fit into his world, maybe it could happen for us, but I knew I never would. I knew it from the way his father looked at me. The way Veronica sneered. The way those people had laughed at my expense. We would have to find our own happy endings. And as much as it hurt, I wanted that for him.