Chapter 11
Seeing Things in a New Light
JOHANNA
Nothing like a good bout of tears and a nighttime confession to leave one unsure how to face the world—much less Corin.
Thankfully, he makes it easy. I wake, snug under his covers, in his bed, in his room, but he’s not there. Fresh-brewed coffee scents the air, suggesting he’s already downstairs, getting breakfast ready.
Leaving the bed tidy, I get to my room without seeing him or Anamaria, then dress in full armor for my first full day back in the office—in other words, business attire.
Well, semi-casual business attire, since our company works out of a rehabbed warehouse complex, with offices alongside labs.
Still, dark blue pumps, a matching pantsuit with pale pink trim, and tinkly pink bellflower jewelry give me an appearance of calm, order, and control, even if roiling nerves underneath utterly bely the outfit.
Corin’s alone in the kitchen when I arrive, though the clop of heels against the stairs indicates Anamaria will join us soon.
He doesn’t say anything about last night, just nods at the half-full coffee pot and steps back to let me get breakfast.
There’s an odd gleam in his eyes, but he keeps to the usual pleasantries about my plans for the day and how many meetings and whether we can share the usual car service back to the house after, and on and on.
He watches me, too, every single time I look his way—which is often enough that someone could blindfold me and I’d still be able to describe him head to toe.
Starting with the cowlick on the left side of his head that makes my fingers itch to run through those graying black locks and settle it, then down to the way his light-yellow long-sleeve polo shirt stretches over broad shoulders and the slight pouch of his belly, the fit of his tan slacks, his bare feet sticking out below because he left his socks and shoes by the door.
As always, the sweet-and-savory mix of his scent infuses every corner of the house.
All is as it was before, nothing has changed except Max not being here, and yet everything is changing. My body feels strange, heat rushing to my cheeks and fingers twitching.
Corin focuses on business on the drive to work, too.
Just as well; since with the two of us distracted for the last months, business decisions have piled up.
Our staff can do a lot. We hire good people, give them a shared ownership stake, and pay them well, including solid benefits—all as part of a sound strategy to keep them, rather than the saintliness the girls attribute it to—but some things still require signatures from the CEO and COO.
The only hint that he remembers my nightmare confession comes after we walk through the long hallway to the executive suite. He insists on taking my coat and scarf to hang in the closet.
“It’ll be colder tonight than last night,” he whispers as he slides the coat from my shoulders. “Stay with me again?”
Then, he turns away to start the business of the day without allowing me time to think, much less answer.
If he intended to distract me from being here all day without Max for the first time, he succeeds.
It helps that Max and I shared the car service to and from work with Corin, and Max popped into my office unpredictably, but never more than a couple times a week.
We spent more time together at the house.
Two months in, I’ve stopped counting the hours and days since his death and begun to adjust to the signs of his absence.
No more sleeping through the occasional alarm, only to wake at his grumbling that it happened all the time when it didn’t.
No aimless humming and thuds up and down the stairs as Max walked—climbed—while working out his latest brilliant idea.
No walking into the bathroom and stumbling on a pile of damp cloth because the same man who was meticulous about doing his laundry and hanging his clothes never remembered to hang up towels.
Instead, I spend the day losing my train of thought and jerking at the regular but unpredictable tumult of Corin’s voice.
Our offices share a wall, and though I can’t distinguish words, there’s no missing when he’s on the phone or in a meeting.
The expensive air purification system provides a low hum of white noise, but it’s not enough.
The rumble through the wall distracts me, even when I’m not alone and should be listening to other, closer voices.
Three times during the meeting with Helen, our Head of Client and Compliance Research, I hear Corin saying something through the wall and lose my train of thought.
She attributes it to losing Max, of course.
An omega, Helen’s fairly open about struggling with different aspects of her designation than Max did.
Generally anything but touchy-feely, she shocks me by giving me a hug at the end.
She’s consoling me, where I should be doing the same for her. She shared much with Max besides their common designation, and she’s one of the main reasons the company fared as well as it has these last months. I can easily see her stepping into my role or Corin’s role one not-too-distant day.
Despite that realization and her pleasure when I share it, what I absorb from our meeting is the unsettling awareness that I’m actively listening for Corin’s rumble.
After Helen leaves, I sink back into my chair. There’s silence on the other side of the wall, but it’s only a brief respite.
Corin walks through the open door, kicking it closed behind him. Two sack lunches dangle from his hands. “Veggies and hummus or chicken salad?”
I’d barely realized it was lunchtime. Lately, I don’t tend to notice hunger until food is in front of me, but the words trigger my stomach to grumble. “Veggies.”
He’s already holding out the right bag. I’ve been a vegetarian as long as he’s known me, and that’s not changing anytime. He just likes to tease, and I don’t object—as long as I end up with no meat, fish, or flesh whatsoever, though I’ll eat eggs and dairy products.
Plopping into the same chair Helen recently vacated, Corin makes inroads into his chicken salad before squinting and frowning at me.
“What’s up?”
“Max is irreplaceable—except he isn’t.” My teeth clash as I bite hard into the unoffensive sandwich.
“How so?”
“Max is the reason we’re here. He’s the brainstorm behind all the ideas, the improvements, the ways we help make things more accessible and affordable. He is the company.” I bang on my desk for emphasis, harder than I intended. A hiss escapes me as I shake my hand and rub at the stinging heel.
“Easy, now.” Corin wags the crust of his sandwich at me. “He wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Then he should have taken care of himself.”
My twisted logic earns a low chuckle from Corin. “Even now, I half-expected him to walk through my door a time or three, drop a brilliant idea in my lap, and then shrug and tell me implementing it was my problem. Irritating as it was, I miss that.”
“That’s mostly what he did these days, so the company will survive without him which it wouldn’t have early on.” Which, sadly, both irritates and satisfies me.
“He wanted that,” Corin has the ill-grace to remind me.
We’d talked about ways to make the company sustainable as we hit different benchmarks: ten employees, twenty, fifty.
Corin, me, and Max, with Max full of ideas as always.
He became the chief inspiration officer in all but title, flitting from one area to another, contributing a refinement of processing here, and a new way to identify potential clients there.
“True, but that kind of thing’s easier to plan for than to live through.” I scarf down the grapes and bits of orange and apple, then drink the sweet juice at the bottom of the fruit cup that came with my sandwich. Better that, than gnashing my teeth.
“I get that.” Corin nods. “He was younger than me, so theoretically, he should have outlived me. If I can be honest with you …”
Something in his tone prompts me to set aside the empty cup and sit back, staring at him.
“Much as I miss him, I’m glad I’m alive.”
“Of course, he wouldn’t—”
“Not just alive, but seeing things in a new light. Making changes to ensure I stay healthy. Dreaming new dreams. Considering new possibilities that I probably would never have imagined if he were still here.”
He braces his hands against the far side of my desk, knuckles white. A hint of cider vinegar sours the air. “And for that, I feel guilty. That it took his death to jolt me out of my comfortable routine.”
I squelch my instinctive response, a desire to comfort and reassure, wanting to give him time and space to be heard, to feel heard. To appreciate that I listen, in short everything I’d want him to give to me if I confessed something similar, which I probably could.
Two months mostly away from the office, and I’ve fallen back into old patterns. If Corin hadn’t come in to share lunch, I likely would’ve worked through as I used to do.
“Max was a gift. His life was a gift. His death, early and painful, wasn’t. Nothing could make losing him good,”—I swallow hard—“but he would’ve liked to know good came from it.”
“I still feel guilty.” Corin cracks his knuckles, then massages his hands.
“So do I, for not nagging him about skipping physicals and doctors’ appointments.”
“That’s not your fault. He made his own choices.” Corin runs a hand through his hair. It’s still entirely too orderly, though, and I resist a sudden urge to ruffle it up.
“Which leaves us both guilty and alive.”
“Yup.” He pauses, then turns to go.
“At least you know what you want now. I envy that.” The words slip out before I can call them back.
He rounds the desk instead of going to the door and squats next to me. One knee crackles as he does, and his nose twitches. The sight makes me laugh, until I meet his gaze and find it unusually mysterious.
“I know some of what I want. Doesn’t mean I’ll get it.” Warm fingers cup my chin. “May I?”
I don’t know what he wants, though a dozen different possibilities flip through my head. Am I being deliberately obtuse? Maybe it’s safer not to know, to continue as I have been. Perhaps that’s why I’m still empty without Max, because to desire something new is to open myself to failure, to hurt.
Sweet, soft wafts of cedar infuse the air.
He’s brave, asking for something new.
I nod, a tiny movement, but clear enough.
His lips brush mine. Once, twice—each so brief I could almost imagine they hadn’t happened—then a third longer, warm, soft. A promise or a possibility.
And then he leaves without saying another word; it’s just as well, for his darkly satisfied—dare I say, smug—smile conveys enough.
I retreat to the executive suite restroom. Lock the door. Splash water on my heated face and stare at my bemused reflection in the mirror.
Then, trace the tears slipping from my eyes.
No aspect of my previous life fits as well as it did before.
I’ve read somewhere that it’s best not to make changes too quickly after losing a loved one, but how does one wait?
How, when death means tiptoeing around not just one absence, but many?
I worked, lived, slept with Max day in and day out. That’s three holes to fill.
Without realizing it, I’ve already started to change my sleep patterns, not wanting to be alone at night and, thus, finding comfort and warmth with Corin. New possibilities, never before conceived of outside fleeting moments that added to nothing, now form before me.
Guilt akin to Corin’s blossoms bitter in my heart. With Max gone, my relationship with Corin has to change. It could be so easy to grow closer. Could this have happened without losing Max? Maybe, but only if we stepped outside our usual patterns, and I’m not sure we would have.
I’m still empty. My future continues to gape open before me. Nevertheless, surety vibrates in my bones that this is but the start of a slippery slope. One change big enough and I’ll topple over and start rolling toward a different life, a different me.
My own words echo in my head, both curse and blessing: nothing about Max’s death was good, and nothing can make it good, but he’d want good things for me and Corin after.
Even if it includes something growing between us.