Chapter 16 #2
I let out a short laugh. The crack in the tension loosened something in my chest that had no useful name.
“Noted.”
Sasha pressed her lips together to hold back a smirk.
“If we end up on opposite coasts, let’s at least promise not to turn a Monday catch-up call into a status report.”
“I can't honestly make that promise.”
“That’s why you worry me.”
As Sasha walked off, Priya appeared at my elbow carrying a brown paper bakery bag and an expression that signaled either refined sugar or an intervention.
“I brought cinnamon rolls,” she announced. “Not to celebrate you surviving the panel. Because if I leave them at my desk, I will inhale four of them and have to apologize to my wardrobe.”
We ducked into the far corner of the break room, beside the glass jars of specialty tea nobody ever brewed. Priya tore a warm roll in half and handed me the piece with slightly less cream cheese frosting.
“Diane walked out of a meeting with that exact look she gets when she’s decided something but intends to let you sweat for forty-eight hours first. How’d it go?”
I took a bite. The cinnamon left a warm, dry coat on my tongue.
“They want me in the final round for New York.”
“I already knew that. They want to send you off to build a health-tech empire with more square footage and worse pizza. What actually happened in there?”
I looked down at the paper bag, grease spotting through the brown edges.
“Nine months on-site. Possibly fourteen. Not the bi-weekly IPO trips. Living there.”
Priya went still for a second. She wiped a dab of icing from her thumb with a paper napkin.
“That’s massive, Kate.”
“It’s just an interview panel. It’s not an offer yet.”
“Kate.”
The way she said my name wasn't an accusation; it was a steady hand at the nape of my neck. I pressed my chipped thumb nail into the crease of the paper bag.
“It’s a possibility. I’m not going to build a conversation with Cole around something that could vanish by Friday afternoon.”
“Does Cole know the variable even exists?”
“He knows I’m leading expansion work. He knows I fly to New York twice a month.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I folded my napkin once. Folded it again into a precise square.
“No.”
Priya rested her forearms on the laminate counter.
“I’m not going to lecture you, mostly because you look ready to throw a pastry at my head. But you need to decide whether you’re keeping quiet because it’s not real data yet, or because you don't want to see his face when it becomes real.”
“What a lovely way to ruin baked goods.”
“I have many talents.”
The notification arrived at six-twelve, when most of the floor had cleared out and the lights in the empty offices turned the hallways into aquariums. The committee was moving me to the final selection round.
Attached was a draft of the terms: New York as my base for nine months, a team of my own to hire, and a review at the nine-month mark that could extend the assignment by five more.
I had until Monday to confirm whether I wanted to receive the full offer.
I read the PDF standing beside the copy machine. I’d been waiting for concrete parameters I could measure. Specific dates. A city. An extension clause. The kind of hard data that converted an abstract professional ambition into a box you actually had to pack.
*Cole needs to know this,* I thought.
The thought settled with a clarity I couldn't argue with.
Then I checked the time. He was still in treatment ahead of Saturday’s match.
I didn't know if his shoulder hurt when he lifted his arm, whether Rick had called again, or if tonight was the right night to put New York between us.
I could text him: *We need to talk.* I could type something less ominous.
Or I could wait until an actual offer was on the table rather than forcing both of us to imagine a future we might never have to decide.
I slipped my phone into my pocket.
That was a choice, too. I knew it the second my hand hit the office light switch.
* * *
My downstairs neighbor was grinding through trumpet scales when Cole reached the third floor of my walkup. The brass notes echoed up the stairwell with stubborn persistence. I opened the door before he could knock a second time.
“If you tell me you appreciate jazz, I’m locking you out on the landing,” I said.
Cole lifted a brown paper grocery bag.
“I brought noodles. I’m prepared to compromise on all my other musical opinions.”
His hair was damp from the rain, and fatigue shadowed his eyes.
The athletic tape was hidden beneath his gray T-shirt, but when he hung his jacket on the wall hook, he used his left arm carefully.
I noticed and held my tongue. We’d arrived at an unfamiliar rhythm where caring for someone didn't require opening an investigation.
“Situational awareness,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
In the kitchen, the basil plant, repotted in Gene’s soil, occupied the windowsill like a patient in recovery. Two new shoots were poking up beside the older leaves. Cole leaned in to inspect it while I pulled two skillets from the lower cabinet.
“Is it alive?” he asked.
“Don't ask questions that might hurt its feelings.”
“Looks sturdier than I feel.”
The line would have sounded like casual self-deprecation if his delivery hadn't been so flat. I set a pot of water on the front burner and watched for the first ripples of heat.
“How was the doctor’s evaluation?” I asked.
“Nothing torn. No contact drills until Saturday. Team physician has a complicated relationship with recreation.”
“What a tyrant.”
“Inhuman.”