BONUS When Cassie Left
My vision is cloudy when I wake up the next morning. It feels like a dream at first. My dream girl was in my apartment, and now she’s gone. Was she even here?
Her smell clings to the pillow, a soft floral scent, so I know it happened. Flopping onto my back, I scrub my face.
Cassandra Gallagher. Cassie. She was here. I didn’t dream it.
Why did she escape? Did I say something that turned her off? Was it too much to share I fell asleep to her videos every night as a consolation prize to talking to her when I had the chance?
I still remember the day she started working for me. The night before, I had stayed up late researching case law for a client, since my last legal secretary quit to go to law school. Her desk had sat empty for months and I had been dragging my feet on hiring a replacement. The thought of training a new person, letting them into my space, learning to trust them—it felt like an insurmountable challenge. One I didn’t have the brain capacity for. My marriage was dying a slow death, and it was killing me in the process.
Daniela, my wife at the time, acted like she was asleep when I slipped in, but she wasn’t. Her eyes flashed open and mine did too. She poked and poked, saying, you work too many hours, you don’t care about me, you can’t ignore me until the sun came up. Before she drifted off, I heard “I should just leave you. I don’t know why I stay” under her breath.
So Cassie’s first morning, I walked in, half asleep, a large coffee with two additional shots in my hand to find a blonde sitting in that empty desk. She smiled when I passed her without a good morning and she stood up anyway, following me into my office.
“Hi! You must be Smith. My name is Cassie, pleasure to meet you.” She outstretched her hand and my breath hitched. Her eyes lit up brightly; her smile vibrated into me. It threw me off balance. Instead of looking her in the eye, my eyes fell to my organized desk, and I didn’t touch her. If just her smile could affect me, what would a brush of hands do?
“Who hired you?” I grumbled. I watched her face fall and I felt like a complete dick.
“Mr. Jones.” Her voice is small.
My best friend Quentin has great taste, so I dismiss her with a hand wave.
I knew if I shared one ounce of myself with her, I would regret it. Be a bigger asshole than I already was.
For five years, I ignored her. I held my breath when she walked by me because her scent tempted me. My wife’s ring still sat on my finger, although she had moved to the other bedroom.
Then, one day, I arrived home to find no trace of my wife. She had filed for divorce that very day.
When Cassie quit, I saw the hurt in her eyes. I shouldn’t have yelled at her. It wasn’t her fault my life was falling apart. There were some days seeing her at my desk kept me going. It was something I looked forward to. Then, she was gone, and I spent way too many moments, when I should be working, thinking about her.
Then, Quentin married Cassie’s best friend and I saw my chance to make things right.
I couldn’t have anticipated how spectacular it went.
The elevator. That kiss. Our time in the bathroom on the cruise. Taking her back to my place and sinking into her felt sinful, because I never expected I’d get a chance to. The girl I didn’t let myself think about was mine.
For a night anyway. Maybe that’s all I deserve.
I search my apartment for a note. Anything. I still don’t have her new phone number, so I set my hands on my hips. My laptop sits on my counter, and I swipe it, opening to YouTube and finding Cassie’s ASMR channel, Cassie Whispers.
Clicking on the first video, I wasn’t prepared for her to pop up. Smiling, her voice low and husky in its whisper, brushing the screen with her fingers. Tingles roll down my arms as I watch and I get lost for a moment, just letting the response hit me, over and over again as I watch the most beautiful girl in the world.
Her blonde hair is half up, her cheeks rosy. Her top is on the lower cut side, so my eyes roam over her collarbone, the curve of her neck, the light freckles across her chest. My lips touched that last night; I had her breasts in my hands, her nipple in my mouth.
I contemplate walking away, letting her disappearance be my answer.
However, if there’s one thing that my failed marriage and my time as a lawyer has taught me—don’t give up, not even a little bit.
I scroll to the comment section. My Youtube account has a gray avatar, so I pick a headshot of mine and update it. I change my username to Smith C. Kennedy, so there’s no doubt it’s me.
My fingers freeze over the keypad. What do I say? It must have an impact. She has so many admirers, there’s a lot of creeps. She may still skirt past my comment or may not see it at all.
I have to try.
In the end, I decide on the simple. Please talk to me.
A variation of this comment goes on several videos: I’m concentrating on the new ones. It’s spammy, but I don’t care. If I said anything last night that made her think I didn’t want her there, that I wasn’t ready to see where this goes, I need to make it as clear as ice.
I want her. So badly.
Six days pass, and nothing. I sink myself in work, pulling twelve-hour days so my mind doesn’t drift. My ringer has been on for the first time in seven years, but every time it dings, my hopes lift just to come crashing to the ground. My comments on her videos have slowed since it’s clear she doesn’t see them or she’s ignoring them.
I go for long runs, passing by the Octavo, hoping she’d be pulled there like me.
My secretary knows to interrupt me immediately if she gets a call from Cassie Gallagher.
Still nothing.
I have one last resort.
Her best friend, Vincent, was a great source before, finding out from her friend she’d be on the booze cruise, the one I crashed, and we did what we did in the bathroom. And then, I had the best night of my life just to wake up to a cold bedside.
I send the text before I can talk myself out of it.
Me:Vincent, how are you man?
The bubble with the dots happen immediately.
Vincent:Hey, how are you? Did you find Cassie?
A smile crosses my lips thinking about our night almost a week ago.
Me:I did.
The dots appear and then disappear. I don’t know what to say.
Vincent:And?
How do I say this? It’s not gentlemanly to kiss and tell.
Me:It went well.
Vincent: I’m glad to hear it.
Me: Thank you for your help.
Immediately, Vincent texts me back.
Vincent: Why are you texting me then?
My heart thumps in my chest.
Me: She rushed out of here.
Vincent:What?
Vincent:Oooooohhhhh
Me: Have you heard from her?
Vincent’s face fills my phone as it rings, an atrocious synthesized song that hurts my ears. I need to change it.
“Hello?”
“Bro, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I didn’t want her to leave.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. But she’s my best friend, Smith, and I don’t care how strong you are or how still scared I am of you from working at the firm. If you hurt her, I swear to God…”
“I didn’t! We had a lovely time and I thought she would stay, and she didn’t. I don’t have her phone number.”
Vincent breathes in and out. “She does this. Leave it to me. If she hears from you, it’s because she wants to. I have no control over this, Smith. She’s ran away from you twice. I’m only doing this because you got us the KitchenAid mixer.”
A deep whoosh of breath leaves my lips. “Thank you, man.”
“You’re welcome. But I do recommend giving up if you don’t hear from her. It might not be meant to be.”
I’m not crazy; I know what happened. It was the best sex of my life, and I can’t make up that kind of connection. It was special and rare. Right?
“Please, just talk to her.”
“I’ll text her right now. But, Smith, please…”
“I’ll give up if I don’t hear from her. Just don’t tell her we talked more than the text.”
“Okay,” Vincent says.
“Vincent, Cassie is…everything. I care about her. A lot.”
“I know.” The line goes dead.
When the phone rings the next day, I’m writing notes from a case file, and I answer. I’ve been working every day on the off chance she’ll call the office line. It’s usually a client who didn’t expect to get me, so I give a “hello?” as I continue to write.
“Hi, um, it’s Cassie,” she says.
It’s her. It’s really her. I drop my pencil and grip the phone so hard next to my face, it hurts.
“Where are you?”
“Funny enough, I’m in front of the Octavo actually.”
I do a quick estimation—the hotel is about a mile and a quarter from my office. I’m in dress clothes but I don’t care. “Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
“Okay,” she says.
The elevator is taking too long so I take the stairs. I tear out, in the direction of the hotel. I dodge tourists and homeless camps and when I get to the Octavo, I search the crowd.
Please still be here.
Then, the crowds part and there she is.
She looks like an angel.
There’s dampness under my arms as I approach her. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this afraid, but this is worth it.
She is worth it.
I hope she can’t hear the large lump I just swallowed as I wait for her to speak.