Chapter 4 #2
“And when I said I understood it was a real job, his expression changed.”
“Changed how?”
“Like he had to… reset.”
Jules went very still, then leaned in. “Oh.”
“Maybe I imagined it.”
“You did not.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I don’t need to be at the scene to smell the smoke.”
“There wasn’t smoke.”
“Then why are we calling the fire department with our faces?”
I laughed again, helplessly. The waitress came by to refill Jules’s water and glanced between us with mild concern. Jules smiled up at her like an angel who had never once discussed a man’s visible internal conflict over brunch.
When the waitress left, Jules lowered her voice. “Did you look?”
“At what?”
“At the situation.”
“I am leaving.”
“You are not leaving. You have not eaten your croissant.”
“I did not look.”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t look directly.”
Jules shut her eyes, overcome. “There it is.”
“I noticed his posture.”
“His posture.”
“He stayed behind the desk.”
“Men stay behind desks for many reasons. Power. Ergonomics. Concealment.”
“Stop.”
“Was there concealment, Avery?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know enough.”
I pressed my chilled hands against my flaming cheeks. “I hate this.”
“No, you don’t. You hate that you don’t hate it.”
That was far too accurate, so I was rude and took the last piece of croissant before she could.
For a little while, we stopped making the conversation behave and let it run wherever it wanted.
Jules asked whether the office had a couch.
I said yes, but it was on the far side of the room and looked too expensive to sit on unless one had recently completed a merger.
She asked whether Callum wore a watch. I said yes, dark leather strap, silver face, understated, which was the exact moment she screamed, “You cataloged the watch,” so loudly a man with headphones at the counter turned around.
I asked whether she wanted me to die in public.
She said she wanted me to live authentically, which somehow seemed worse.
Then, because we were adults with no impulse control and a pending moral crisis, we looked him up.
Not in a stalker way. In a public-information way.
In a his-company-literally-has-a-media-page way.
In a two-women-at-a-corner-table-sharing-one-phone-over-iced-coffee way that history would likely judge but not fully understand.
Jules typed his name with theatrical slowness.
“Callum Rowe,” she said, reading as she searched. “Founder and CEO of Rowe Structural Group. Visionary. Builder. Widower?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Divorced. I think. Years ago.”
“You think?”
“I know he was married when I was younger. Her name was Claudia. She was very elegant and once told me my bangs had courage, which I understood, even at thirteen, was not a compliment. They divorced before my parents died.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Fewer Christmas complications.”
“Jules.”
“What? I’m building the spreadsheet.”
“There is no spreadsheet.”
“There is always a spreadsheet.”
The first image that loaded was the construction-site photograph I had found the night before.
Hard hat, wind, dark jacket pulled tight across his chest, one hand resting on a rolled plan, the building behind him half-built and gray.
I should have looked away. Instead, I leaned closer and Jules made a low sound.
“Do not make animal noises in this café.”
“I’m not an animal. I’m an appreciator of infrastructure.”
“He looks normal.”
“He looks like he lets concrete know when it has disappointed him.”
“He probably does.”
“He looks like he could say ‘we need to discuss your performance’ and half the room would ask if they should bare their bottom for their spanking.”
I laughed so hard I had to put the phone down, but Jules picked it up again, swiping through more images.
Callum at a gala in a tuxedo, unsmiling beside a woman from the city council.
Callum at a ribbon cutting, sleeves rolled up, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
Callum on a magazine cover from three years ago, photographed in black and white.
He was not pretty. Pretty had softness, symmetry, a kind of invitation.
Callum was handsome in a way that felt earned and possibly dangerous.
His face was a little weathered and a little severe.
He had the sort of face that became more compelling the longer you looked.
Jules sighed. “I’m sorry. We have to allow fantasy. It would be irresponsible not to.”
“We do not have to allow anything.”
“We do. Repression causes illness.”
“Does it?”
“I saw a documentary. Or a TikTok. Same category.”
“I start working for him tomorrow.”
“Yes. Which is why tonight, before you become a pillar of corporate restraint, we are permitted one controlled fantasy hour.”
“I don’t think fantasy comes in controlled hours.”
“Mine do. I use timers.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I could.”
“You once forgot pasta was boiling because you got invested in ranking Batman actors by emotional availability.”
“And I stand by my list.”
I looked at the phone again, at Callum’s profile in some article about urban resilience, his gaze fixed on something beyond the camera. “This is wrong.”
“Is it?”
“He’s my godfather.”
“Technically.”
“That is not a helpful technically.”
“It’s the only kind.” Jules put the phone face down between us and leaned in, serious now. “Avery, he’s not related to you. He’s not your boss yet—”
“He will be tomorrow.”
“He’s the CEO. You’ll report to Benjamin and this Dana chick.”
“That does not make it okay.”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t, but it does make it convoluted.”
I appreciated that she did not try to bleach the situation into something innocent. Jules was a menace, but she did not lie to make me comfortable. She would joke about anything right up until the second joking became inadequate, and then she would set the jokes down without ceremony.
“I don’t want to be stupid,” I said.
“You’re not stupid.”
“I emailed him for help. He gave me a job, and I keep thinking about his hands. That feels stupid.”
“Did he ask you to dinner?”
I looked up. “Not yet.”
“Yet?”
“He said in the office that he was glad I came. That was all.”
“But you think he might.”
“I don’t know what I think.” I pushed my coffee away, fearing I was weaponizing caffeine.
“Maybe he was only being kind. Maybe I’m turning kindness into allure because my brain is broken and unemployed.
Maybe he looks at me and sees my father’s child.
Maybe he looks at me and sees a mess he promised to manage. ”
Jules’s face softened. “Or maybe he looks at you and sees you.”
I made a face. “Disgusting.”
“Growth usually is.”
We stayed at the café until the lunch crowd made it impossible to keep our table without developing guilt, then moved down the street to a wine bar that was technically not open for dinner yet but served ‘afternoon pours,’ which sounded classy if you did not examine it too closely.
The rain had stopped, and the city had that rinsed, pretty silver look it got after weather passed through and left everyone mildly inconvenienced.
Jules linked her arm through mine as we walked, swinging our joined hands once like we were seventeen and cutting class instead of twenty-five and arguing about whether lusting after a future employer counted as self-sabotage.
At the wine bar, we took two seats by the window and ordered sparkling water first because Jules said we were ‘women of culture,’ then immediately ordered fries because culture had limits.
My phone sat on the table like a tiny bomb.
Every time it lit up, my stomach jumped, and every time it was not Callum, I felt both relief and insulted disappointment.
The first time my phone lit up, it was my aunt sending a picture of her neighbor’s dog wearing a raincoat.
Shortly after that, my dentist reminded me I was overdue for a cleaning, which felt personally aggressive.
Then, as I was sipping my first glass of wine, Benjamin Mercer emailed me the onboarding packet with the subject line: First Day Materials—Read Before Arrival, Not During.
Jules read that over my shoulder and whispered, “I want to study him in a lab.”
The packet was thirty-two pages.
“Thirty-two pages,” I whined.
“That’s foreplay to him.”
“Jules.”
“What? Some men send flowers. Benjamin sends policy compliance.”
I skimmed it while she ate fries. There were forms, confidentiality agreements, badge instructions, a first-week schedule, a floor map with my temporary workspace circled in red, and a note from Ben that said: Do not attempt to memorize everything.
I laughed despite myself.
“He’s growing on you,” Jules said.
“He is not.”
“He is. Like bespoke mold.”
With a sigh, I checked my email again. Nothing from Callum.
By late afternoon, I had convinced myself he would not text, because of course he would not.
Men like Callum Rowe did not leave interviews and then ask women like me to dinner.
They gave jobs, issued warnings, delegated onboarding, and returned to whatever men like him did in offices that existed above the clouds.
They did not sit around thinking about my damp hair or whether I had looked at their mouth when they told me to be serious.
That was my disease. My little private delusion.
My brain had taken one morning of kindness and authority, added cheekbones, seasoned it with unresolved grief, and served me a meal called ‘Ruin Your Life.’
After taking a sip of my second glass of wine, I said this to Jules.
She listened gravely, then said, “The cheekbones were already in the recipe.”
“I’m trying to have a crisis.”
“I am supporting you.”
“You are eating my fries.”
“I have many talents.”