13. Lena
LENA
The words stared back at me from the page in their bureaucratic blandness: “Access improvements for future corridor expansion.”
Eight words buried in paragraph seventeen that could change everything about Cedar Hills. If I let them.
I had been staring at them for hours, as if the scrutiny might somehow make them read differently. But they didn’t change. They just sat there, patient and damning, waiting for me to decide what kind of professional I was.
To decide what kind of person I was.
Who was I kidding?
I had already hidden this from Ethan for days, even after I had slept with him.
Whatever I chose, someone lost.
I didn’t know how I had convinced myself that ignoring it would make anything better. All I had done was tighten the timeline I had to decide what I was going to do about it.
I pushed away from the desk, rubbing at the tension that had gathered between my shoulders. The small conference room Carol had arranged for me at the town offices felt suddenly airless.
I gathered the papers with methodical precision, sliding them into folders as if organizing them might somehow organize my thoughts as well.
My fingers lingered on the page with those eight words, tracing them one more time before tucking it away again.
Outside the window, Cedar Hills continued its afternoon rhythm. A postal worker nodded to someone crossing the street. Two older men sat on the bench outside the hardware store, passing the time like they had been doing it for decades. None of them knew what I knew.
I checked my watch: 4:30. I had been at it for nearly six hours without a real break. The headache that had been threatening since morning fully settled in, a tight band around my temples that pulsed when I moved too quickly.
When Carol poked her head in, I already had my professional face back on.
“You’re still at it,” she said, not quite a question.
“Just finishing up.” I tapped the folder in front of me. “Revised safety recommendations.”
She studied me with that knowing look that made me wonder if she could see through the careful walls I had constructed.
“You look like you could use some air,” she said. “Or coffee. Or both.”
“I’m fine,” I said. I smiled, practiced and easy. It probably didn’t reach my eyes, but most people didn’t notice that kind of detail.
Carol wasn’t most people. “Hmm,” was all she said, but there was a weight to it.
After she left, I packed up and headed out. The walk back to my apartment gave me time to think, but not enough to resolve anything.
The facts kept cycling through my mind: The development plans had always been there, hidden in plain sight.
If I signed off on that project as initially scoped, I’d be greenlighting more than just a safer road.
I’d be opening the door to turning Cedar Hills into a throughway for the kind of commercial traffic that would fundamentally alter its character.
I’d be doing exactly what everyone in that town had been worried about since I had arrived.
My phone buzzed in my pocket just as I reached my building. Ethan’s name flashed on the screen. I considered ignoring the call.
“Hey,” I answered, working to keep my voice neutral.
“Hey,” he said, and just that one word carried warmth I wasn’t sure I deserved. “You free tonight? I thought maybe dinner. My place this time.”
His voice was tentative. He was probably wondering if I was going to run after everything that had happened between us.
I hated the hesitation in his voice, almost as much as I hated the fact that there was good reason for it.
“I can’t. I’m swamped, I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re always swamped. You don’t have to do anything but show up, bring work with you. We’ll tag team it,” he said.
“No, really, I shouldn’t,” I said.
The line went silent for a moment before he spoke up again, and there was an edge to his voice this time.
“Shouldn’t, or don’t want to?” he asked.
“Does it really make a difference?” I said.
“Lena, you can’t just run away from what happened,” he said.
“I’m not running, but I said I can’t. And I meant it,” I said.
“I’m not trying to–” he started.
“Look,” I cut him off. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.”
My hands shook a little as I ended the call, and suddenly my chest felt like it was in a vice.
I knew I shouldn’t have been taking things out on him, knew that he deserved better than to be dismissed like that.
I just didn’t know how I was supposed to look at him right then, knowing that there was a good possibility that I was going to sign off on plans that would change his home forever.
He would never understand.
I stood outside the building a moment longer after hanging up. The invitation sat like another weight on my already overtaxed shoulders, guilt gnawing at me.
I couldn’t just ignore him after everything that had happened between us.
He deserved, at the very least, an explanation for why this couldn’t continue.
And it couldn’t.
Not that he would have wanted it to once he found out what I was keeping from him, and what I had to do if I wanted to keep my job. Because as terrible as it was, my job was my life.
When I reached his door at seven, I had changed my outfit three times, not out of vanity but indecision. I settled on something simple: jeans and a soft sweater, comfort over statement. My knuckles hovered over the wood for a second before I forced myself to knock.
The door swung open, and there he was. His hair was slightly damp as if he had showered after work, and he was wearing a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Something caught in my chest at the sight of him.
And then the guilt crept in again.
“Hi,” he said, stepping back to let me in. “I didn’t think that you were coming.”
“Hi,” I echoed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than it felt. “I wasn’t.”
His apartment was directly above the shop, similar in layout to mine but undeniably his.
The furniture was older but well cared for, nothing matching but everything fitting together anyway.
Books stacked on end tables alongside mechanical manuals.
A worn quilt draped over the back of the sofa looked handmade.
The space was lived-in without being messy, the kind of place that had been slowly accumulated rather than decorated all at once.
“I guess it’s a good thing I decided to make dinner anyhow,” he said, moving toward the kitchen. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess.”
“Don’t be,” I said, following him. “I honestly don’t plan on staying long anyway. We just need to talk.”
I perched on a stool at the counter that separated his kitchen from the living area, watching as he moved. There was a pot on the stove that smelled rich and savory, a loaf of bread resting on a cutting board.
“Marianne again?” I asked, nodding toward the bread.
“No, this one’s mine.” He flashed a brief, almost shy smile that made my heart hurt. “Dad’s recipe.”
“Should I be afraid?” I asked.
“Nah. I can cook, kind of, I just know I pale in comparison to Marianne,” he said.
I wanted to smile back, but knowing what I came here to say to him, knowing what I was keeping from him, I couldn’t manage it.
Instead, I felt myself holding back, my mind drifting to the papers in my apartment, to the decision waiting for me, to the night with him in the garage, and all of the lies I had let sit between us since then.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“How are you?” he asked, placing a bowl in front of me. The stew steamed, hearty and inviting.
“Tired,” I said. “Long day.”
“Seems like you’re having a lot of those lately,” he said.
I took a bite instead of answering. The stew was good, simple but flavorful, the kind of food that felt like someone cared about making it.
“This is delicious,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. He sat across from me, his own bowl in front of him. “You want to talk about it?”
“About the stew?” I asked.
His eyes held mine. “Can you just level with me here? It’s not like I don’t already know where this conversation is headed.”
He was upset, and I deserved it. Though it didn’t stop my hackles from raising. “Alright then. What happened between us was a mistake, and it can’t happen again.”
He set his utensils down on the table, nodding in sync with my words. “I’m such an idiot.”
I shook my head. “No, you aren’t. Really, this is my fault. It was entirely unprofessional of me.”
“Stop. Just stop, Lena. That’s not what I mean.”
The bitter edge to his voice had my mouth snapping shut for a moment.
“Okay, well. What did you mean then?” I asked.
“I’m an idiot for thinking that there was a glimmer of hope that you’d treat me with any more humanity than you have anything else. For thinking that you wouldn’t run from this like you have from anything that isn’t a fact or a figure.”
“That is not fair, Ethan. Things are just complicated,” I said.
“And I’ve seen the way you handle complicated.
That’s the problem. You don’t have any desire to handle this at all.
You want to tuck me, and any feelings what we did together might have brought up in the bottom of a desk drawer somewhere.
You want to end this before it’s even started?
That’s fine. But don’t sit there and spout that garbage about it being unprofessional of you to be human for once.
Don’t redline me like I’m some mistake in your plans that you accidentally overlooked. ”
“I’m not–, you aren’t,” I began.
I knew I should open up, but I couldn’t find the words. More than that, I didn’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.
I didn’t want him to hate me.
And he would, if I told him that this was about so much more than just that night in the garage with him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I knew the words weren’t enough, that they fell flat, but it was all I could muster at the moment.
“Damnit, Lena. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to talk to me.”
“I can’t,” I tried to sound firm, professional. “It’s better to keep things compartmentalized.”
“Compartmentalized.” He repeated the word like he was testing its weight. “Like your personal life and your work are completely separate things?”
“They should be,” I said.
“Even when your work directly affects the people in your personal life?” he asked.
The question hit too close to home. I set my spoon down, my appetite gone. “That’s exactly why they need to stay separate. So I can remain objective.”
“Objective.” He said it like it was a foreign concept. “Is that what you think this town needs from you? Objectivity?”
“It’s what I was hired to provide,” I said.
He leaned back slightly, studying me. “And you don’t think your ‘objectivity’ has already been compromised? By being here, by getting to know people, by...” He hesitated. “By us?”
The question hung in the room, impossibly heavy.
“No,” I said too quickly. “I’m still capable of doing my job professionally.”
“Is that what you call sleeping with me, and then freezing me out after? Professional?” he asked.
I stood abruptly, needing space, air, distance from this conversation that had hit all the raw, uncertain places inside me. “I should go.”
He didn’t move to stop me, didn’t reach for me, just watched with eyes that saw too much. “Running away doesn’t make the problem disappear, Lena.”
“I’m not running away,” I said, even as I gathered my jacket. “I have work to finish.”
Ethan sighed. “You know where to find me,” he said as I pulled the door open. “When you’re ready to talk about whatever it is you’re not saying.”
The walk back to my apartment took less than two minutes, but it felt longer. When I reached my door, my hands were steadier than I expected them to be.
Inside, I moved with purpose. I spread the documents across the table again, this time with clear intent. Two stacks began to form, one for the standard recommendation that would accept the hidden development provision, one for an alternative that would place restrictions on future expansion.
The first would satisfy my employer. The second would protect Cedar Hills.
I worked methodically, my training taking over. Facts. Data. Cost projections. Safety metrics.
The numbers didn’t lie, but they could be interpreted in more than one way, presented to emphasize different outcomes. I knew how to do this. It was what made me good at my job, the ability to construct a compelling case based on the same set of facts.
But I had never constructed two opposing cases before. Never deliberately created a path that went against what my employer would expect. Never let my personal feelings influence my professional output.
And I’d be lying if I pretended that wasn’t exactly what was happening.
Hours passed. My neck ached from bending over the papers. The lamp cast harsh shadows across the table, turning white pages yellow at the edges.
Below my apartment, I heard the familiar sound of Ethan moving around in his workshop.
The rhythmic tapping of metal on metal, the occasional scrape of something heavy being moved.
Signs of life continuing, of work being done, of someone existing in the same space but separated by more than just a floor.
I paused, pen hovering over the page. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, trying desperately to maintain separation between personal and professional, while quite literally living above the man who was making that distinction impossible.
I could hear him working through whatever frustration our aborted dinner had left him with.
I pushed back from the table and moved to the window.
The town was quiet now, street lights casting pools of yellow on empty sidewalks.
Somewhere out there was the road that had brought me here, the overlook where everything had started to shift, the bench where I first let Ethan see past my carefully constructed professional exterior.
The compartmentalization I’d relied on my entire career was failing. It had been failing since the first time I sat in Ethan’s truck, since I started learning people’s names and routines, since I began to care about what happened to this place beyond the successful completion of my assignment.
I returned to the table and looked at the two stacks of paper.
In the quiet of the night, I could admit what I’d been avoiding all day: I knew what I wanted to do. I knew what side I wanted to choose.
The only question now was whether I had the courage to follow through on what that meant, for my career, for my future, for whatever was growing between Ethan and me.
Below, the workshop fell silent. I imagined him turning off lights, locking up, climbing the stairs to his empty apartment. I imagined him thinking about me, wondering what I wasn’t telling him.
I imagined the distance between us growing with every secret I kept.
I picked up my pen again and continued working, the scratch of it against paper the only sound in the room.
Tomorrow, I would have to face the consequences of whichever path I chose. Tonight, I just needed to finish what I’d started.