Chapter 13 #3
Miranda felt the shape of their relationship more clearly than she had in the lobby.
Willa knew how to move around Garrett’s defenses because she had helped build them.
She praised him when Miranda accused him, worried about him when Miranda needed something, and made fairness look like protection whenever his loyalty threatened to become uncomfortable.
Garrett glanced toward Miranda. “We should talk at home.”
“You should stay,” she said. “Dennis asked you to come in early.”
“I can leave.”
“And make this another thing the office watches us do together?”
His face changed. He looked around then, finally noticing the attention disguised as work.
Willa stepped closer to him. “You do not need to go. I’ll make sure Miranda gets downstairs.”
Miranda looked at her hand.
It had settled lightly against Garrett’s forearm, not gripping him or seeking comfort, only claiming familiarity so ordinary that Willa apparently expected no one to notice.
Garrett did notice. He lowered his arm, and her hand fell away.
The movement was small, but Willa’s face sharpened before she recovered.
“I know where the elevator is,” Miranda said.
She walked past them without waiting for permission.
The route to the lobby carried her between desks she once navigated without thought, but now every step revealed something she had missed from home.
A framed photograph near the design team showed employees at a summer rooftop party.
Garrett stood beside Willa at the center, both wearing paper crowns while Dennis held a cake knife behind them.
Another photograph had been pinned to Lauren’s corkboard. Garrett and Willa sat across from each other at a restaurant table, raising matching coffee cups toward the camera. Someone had written Work Marriage Counseling beneath it in blue marker.
Miranda stopped.
Lauren saw where she was looking and rose from her chair. “That was from the retreat last spring.”
“I was postpartum.”
“I know.”
Miranda vaguely remembered hearing about the retreat in a haze of newborn sleep-deprivation. Garrett had promised to be home after company dinner and returned after midnight, cheerful and smelling faintly of beer, with a story about Dennis losing the hotel key cards.
He had never mentioned the photograph.
“Who wrote that?” Miranda asked.
Lauren glanced at Willa, who had followed them into the lobby with Garrett several steps behind. “I don’t remember.”
“I do,” Willa said.
Her voice carried a new edge, slight enough that anyone not listening for it might miss it.
“Garrett wrote it,” she continued. “Everyone had been teasing us all weekend because we handled the retreat schedule together. It was a joke.”
Garrett’s face went still.
Miranda looked at him. “You wrote it.”
He glanced at the photograph, then at Lauren. “I don’t remember writing that.”
“You were drinking,” Willa said lightly. “You probably forgot.”
The rescue sounded affectionate, but Miranda saw what sat beneath it. Willa had produced the detail because she wanted Miranda to know Garrett participated, then protected him immediately so he would not blame her for revealing it.
Garrett looked toward Willa. “Why would you bring that up?”
She blinked. “Miranda asked.”
“You could have said you didn’t remember.”
“I’m trying to be honest.” Willa’s hurt appeared on cue, but something colder remained in her eyes. “Apparently leaving things out is part of the problem.”
The remark was aimed at him, not Miranda. It carried the confidence of someone who knew where his guilt lived and did not mind pressing it when he disappointed her.
Garrett heard it. His jaw tightened, and for the first time that morning, the fairness he extended Willa did not arrive automatically.
Miranda looked from one to the other. The office-wife joke was not merely something colleagues had imposed on them.
Garrett and Willa had fed it, protected it, and enjoyed the version of themselves it created.
Now Willa was using the shared history like a cord she could pull whenever Garrett stepped too far away.
Miranda picked up her bag from beside Lauren’s desk. “I’m leaving.”
Garrett moved toward her. “I’ll walk you down.”
“No.”
“Miranda.”
She looked at him, and whatever he saw stopped him from continuing.
Willa adjusted the binders again. “I hope tomorrow feels less raw.”
Miranda turned toward her. “You hope I accept the role.”
Willa’s face remained composed, but her fingers tightened around the binder edges. “I hope you choose something that works for your family.” Willa smiled without warmth. “You do have a family now. The rest of us cannot pretend that changes nothing.”
The mask slipped for no more than a second. Beneath the concern sat triumph, not large enough to display openly but sharp enough for Miranda to recognize.
Garrett stared at Willa.
She seemed to realize what she had allowed into her voice and softened at once. “I only mean priorities change. Mine would too.”
“No,” Miranda said. “Yours already did.”
The elevator doors opened behind her. She stepped inside and pressed the lobby button before Garrett could decide whether to follow.
Through the narrowing gap, she saw Willa turn toward him. Her expression was wounded now, seeking reassurance after being misunderstood.
Garrett did not give it immediately.
The doors closed before Miranda saw whether he would.