Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
DEREK
I don’t contact her.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I finally understand what wanting costs.
Tuesday arrives with the same efficiency as Monday—emails, meetings, numbers that behave the way they’re supposed to. I do the work. I speak when spoken to. I keep my door closed.
Jamie doesn’t look in.
That’s new.
By midmorning, I’ve answered everything that requires a response and avoided everything that doesn’t. My phone stays face-down on the desk. It hasn’t lit up with anything personal since Saturday, and that’s as it should be.
The silence isn’t empty anymore.
It’s instructional.
It’s nearly noon when I learn she isn’t here.
Not from her.
Not directly.
Jamie mentions it without preamble when she drops a folder on my desk, her tone precise, professional.
“Audra took a few days,” she says. “Personal time.”
I don’t look up right away. I keep my eyes on the document in front of me, the words blurring just slightly.
“Out of state,” she adds. Not unkind. Not probing. Just factual.
I nod once.
A spa, I realize—not because anyone says it, but because it’s the most Audra thing I can imagine. Somewhere quiet. Deliberate. Chosen. A place designed for rest instead of explanation.
She didn’t disappear.
She stepped away.
Jamie doesn’t linger. She doesn’t offer commentary. She doesn’t tell me what she thinks of the choice, or of me.
She just leaves.
The door closes softly behind her.
Something in my chest tightens—not panic, not jealousy. Understanding.
She didn’t need to stay and be strong in familiar places.
She didn’t need to prove she was fine by being visible.
She chose distance because it was hers to choose.
I open a document I don’t name.
The cursor blinks.
I don’t start with an apology. I know better than that now. Apologies that arrive before understanding are just another form of control.
Instead, I write what’s true.
I went out Sunday night because I was afraid of wanting you.
I told myself it didn’t matter because it didn’t mean anything to me.
I stop.
Delete the last sentence.
That still centers me.
I try again.
I let you believe you were stepping into something clean.
I didn’t correct that belief.
I benefited from your trust without earning it.
That stays.
I don’t soften the language. I don’t contextualize it with intention or confusion or fear. None of that belongs in the first telling.
I write until my hands stop shaking.
Not pages.
Just enough.
When I’m done, I don’t send it.
I read it once more, then save the file and close it without naming it. I don’t trust myself with easy access.
If I reach for her now, it will be to relieve myself of discomfort—not to give her anything she needs.
That’s the line.
I finally see it.
At lunch, Alex texts.
Alex:
You still alive?
I don’t answer right away.
When I do, it’s brief.
Me: Yes.
A minute later:
Alex: You okay?
I stare at the word.
No would be accurate.
Fine would be dishonest.
Me: I’m learning.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Alex: That might be the worst sentence you’ve ever sent.
I almost smile.
Almost.
The rest of the day passes without incident. No sightings. No collisions. No moments that beg to be misread as fate.
That matters too.
At five-thirty, I shut down my computer and sit there longer than necessary, hands folded, office dimming around me as the floor empties.
This is what consequence looks like, I think.
Not punishment.
Not exile.
Restraint.
I leave through the garage instead of the lobby. Old habit. Still useful.
At home, the place feels unchanged. Clean. Ordered. Quiet.
Too quiet, once.
Now it just feels accurate.
I don’t go out. I don’t drink. I don’t distract myself with noise or bodies or motion. I make something simple to eat and don’t finish it.
Later, I open the document again.
I don’t add to it.
I read it and ask myself one question:
If she never reads this, am I still willing to live by it?
The answer comes quickly.
Yes.
That’s new too.
Somewhere out of state, she’s resting.
Unreachable by design.
Safe from my explanations.
The thought doesn’t hurt.
It steadies me.
I close the file and turn off the light.
Tomorrow will come whether I deserve it or not.
If I ever earn the right to speak to her again, it won’t be because I reached first.
It will be because I learned how not to.