Chapter 12
ALICE
The familiar sounds of the gym wrap around me, turning into a comforting brown noise. I shift awkwardly on the bench, adjusting my crutches so they're propped against the wall within reach but not in anyone's way.
My damn ankle, still throbbing despite the compression bandage, has thrown a wrench into my entire routine. What I wouldn't give for a proper full-body workout to clear my head.
"Try these eight-pounders," Sydney says, handing me a pair of weights. "No leg day for you, but we can still demolish those arms."
I accept them gratefully. "Thank you – anything is better than nothing. I was going stir-crazy sitting at home."
She grabs her own weights and sits on the bench beside me. "It’s not good to miss days when you can just focus on other areas of your body. Besides, I wasn't about to miss this. Not when there's so much gossip to catch up on."
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. "Is that why you're here? For the drama?"
"Partly." Sydney grins, starting her bicep curls. "So… how was the board meeting yesterday? Did they approve the San Diego facility?"
The meeting.
Taking a break from my reps, I set the weights down as memories flood back — the boardroom tension, feeling like I was the only person on my side… then Oscar's unexpected support.
"They did," I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral. "But it wasn't without drama."
She raises an eyebrow. "Drama? When Oscar and you are involved? Oh, you don’t say.”
I laugh at her sarcasm. “I know, right?”
“So what happened?”
"The whole board is just like Oscar is… was,” I correct myself. “All about pushing the envelope to make money.”
"And let me guess, Oscar sided with them?" Sydney's tone is sympathetic.
"That's the thing," I say, shaking my head. "He didn't. He backed me up completely."
Sydney pauses mid-curl, surprise evident on her face. "Seriously? Mr. Bottom Line backed you instead of his cost-cutters?"
"I was as shocked as you are." I pick up my weights again, wincing slightly as I shift my position and accidentally bump my injured ankle. "He talked them into the San Diego facility, even. It passed because of him."
"Wow." Sydney whistles low. "That's… unexpected."
"I know." I focus on my breathing as I continue the exercise, trying to stop myself from reading too much into it. "And afterward, when everyone was leaving? He was staring at me."
"Staring?" Sydney perks up immediately. "What kind of staring? Like annoyed staring or…"
"No," I admit reluctantly. "Not annoyed. More… intense? I don't know how to describe it. But I caught him watching me multiple times. And when our eyes met, he didn't look away. It was like he was trying to communicate something."
Sydney's face breaks into a knowing grin.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “And it’s not gonna happen. I already thought once that he might have changed, but he hasn’t. He’s probably just trying to get on my good side.”
We move to the cable machine, and Sydney helps me position myself on the seat, placing my crutches within reach. I'm grateful that the upper-body equipment doesn't require much movement from my legs.
"Yeah, but maybe he’s learned some things since that night at the party,” Sydney points out.
“It was just the other day,” I grumble. “I doubt it.”
I start pulling the cables, focusing on the burn in my shoulders rather than the flutter in my stomach. "Even if that were true — and I'm not saying it is — it wouldn't matter."
"Why not?"
"Because I know better now." The cables clank as I release them slowly. "Oscar is all about the money. Always has been. That's why he left our startup — left me — all those years ago. For a bigger paycheck."
Sydney gives me a skeptical look. "If he's all about the money, why did he back your plan instead of the cost-cutting one?"
It's a fair question, one I've been asking myself since yesterday. "I don't know," I admit. "Maybe he's playing some long game. Building my trust before pulling the rug out from under me."
"Or maybe," Sydney suggests, taking her turn at the machine, "he's trying to make amends. Show you he's not the same guy who walked away twelve years ago."
I watch her complete her set, trying to ignore the tiny spark of hope her words ignite. A part of me still remembers how it felt to be the focus of his attention, to share dreams and plans and inside jokes. Still wonders what might have been if I hadn't rejected him, if he hadn't left.
"It doesn't matter," I say finally, more to myself than to Sydney. "I can't go there again."
"Why not?" she presses as we move to the next station. She helps me navigate around a pair of weightlifters, steadying me when my crutches wobble on the gym's rubber flooring.
"Because I know I still have feelings for him," I admit quietly once we're settled at the bench press. It's the first time I've said it out loud, and the admission makes my chest tight. "And that terrifies me."
“Hmm…” She twists her lips. “I get it. This meeting, though…”
The weights clank as I rack the bar, my arms trembling slightly from exertion. I sit up slowly, reaching for my water bottle. "It was one meeting, Syd. One decision."
"Sometimes one decision can reveal a lot about a person's character," she says sagely.
We continue through our modified workout, Sydney helping me navigate between stations. Despite my protestations, her words stick with me. Could Oscar really have changed? Or am I setting myself up for heartbreak?
By the time we finish our final set, I'm exhausted — both physically and emotionally. The constant need to be aware of my injury, combined with the mental gymnastics of analyzing Oscar's every move, has drained me completely.
"Want to grab a smoothie before heading out?" Sydney asks as we gather our things from the lockers.
I shake my head. "Raincheck? I should ice this ankle and catch up on some work emails."
"Workaholic," she teases, but gives me a quick hug. "Just promise you'll think about what I said. About giving him a chance."
"I'll think about thinking about it," I reply with a small smile. "That's the best I can offer."
Sydney rolls her eyes. "Fine, be stubborn. But remember, you’ve changed over the years. Other people can too."
With that parting shot, she heads toward her car on the south side of the parking lot, leaving me to maneuver carefully across the asphalt on my crutches. The afternoon sun beats down, making me regret my decision to park so far from the entrance.
I'm halfway to my car when my phone rings. Balancing precariously on one crutch, I fish it out of my bag and check the screen. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Is this Alice Mackie?" The voice is polished, professional.
"Yes, speaking."
"Ms. Mackie, this is Rebecca Ho, VP of Operations at Fresh Bites. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time?"
I freeze, my grip tightening on my crutch. Fresh Bites is one of our biggest competitors in the organic frozen foods market.
"Not at all," I say, trying to sound casual while awkwardly shifting my weight. "How can I help you?"
"I'll be direct," Rebecca says. "We've been following your career trajectory for some time, and we've heard about the recent acquisition of Rooted Pantry. We’re hoping you might be interested in exploring new opportunities."
I lean against a nearby car, giving my arms a brief rest from the crutches. "I'm listening."
"Our COO position will be opening up next month," she continues, "and your name is at the top of our list. We admire what you've built at Rooted Pantry and believe your vision aligns perfectly with our company values."
A few weeks ago, I would have jumped at this chance. A clean break from Oscar, a fresh start at a company where I could be valued for my expertise rather than fighting to preserve what I've built. The timing is almost too perfect, like the universe offering me an escape route.
"That's… quite flattering," I say carefully. "What would the position entail?"
Rebecca launches into details about the role, the company culture, the innovative projects they're developing. It sounds impressive — exciting, even. A part of me is already imagining my office there, the changes I could implement, the freedom I would have.
But as she speaks, I also find myself thinking about Rooted Pantry. My company. The one I built from nothing, the one I poured my heart and soul into. The one Oscar now controls.
Without me there, who would fight for its integrity? Who would ensure that Oscar doesn't flush away everything I've worked for? Despite his promises, despite him backing me in that meeting, can I really trust him to honor the company's mission once I'm gone?
And there's that other inconvenient truth. I still have feelings for him. Feelings I've tried to bury under layers of resentment and emotional detachment. Feelings that flared back to life the moment he walked back into my life.
"—competitive compensation package," Rebecca is saying.
I realize I've missed half of what she said, lost in my own thoughts. "I appreciate the offer, Rebecca. It sounds like an incredible opportunity."
"But?" she prompts, clearly sensing my hesitation.
"But I'm committed to seeing things through at Rooted Pantry right now," I find myself saying. "It's… important to me."
"I understand loyalty," Rebecca says smoothly. "But situations change. Companies change after acquisitions. People find themselves marginalized, their visions compromised."
Her words hit close to home — they echo my own fears. Yet somehow, hearing them from someone else makes me want to defend Oscar, defend the possibility that things could be different this time.
"Let me at least send you the formal offer," she continues. "Review it, think it over. We don't need an immediate answer."
"Alright," I agree, more to end the conversation than anything else. I give her my email address and we exchange pleasantries before hanging up.
For a long moment, I just stand in the parking lot, leaning against the car, my crutches propped beside me. Did I really just consider turning down a dream job offer because I think I need to babysit Oscar?
Shaking my head, I push off from the car, adjusting my crutches under my arms. I'm not going to let myself fall for him again. I can't. No matter how my heart races when he's near, no matter how much I want to believe he's changed, I know better than to put myself in a position to be hurt again.
Even if walking away means giving up on the company I love.
Even if staying means allowing myself to have hope for feelings I've spent twelve years trying to forget.
I unlock my car and carefully shift myself into the driver's seat, wincing as I accidentally bump my injured ankle. Physical pain, at least, is straightforward, unambiguous. Unlike the complicated ache in my chest whenever I think about Oscar.
As I start the engine, I make a promise to myself: I'll look at Fresh Bites' offer. I'll consider it seriously. Because that's what a smart, self-respecting businesswoman would do.
And if a small voice inside me hopes that Oscar will give me a reason to stay?
Well, I'll just have to ignore that voice. For my own protection.
For my own heart.