Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
LEO
Thanksgiving break. The most wonderful time of the semester.
But not for one Leopold Christopher Euler III.
Oh, you thought Leo was short for Leonardo? Leonard? Leocifer? That last one isn’t technically a name, but one of my nannies disliked me enough to call me that when I was six. My mother thought it was charming. I did not.
As I was saying—Thanksgiving break is my favorite break of the year.
Two whole days of undisturbed office work, where I can actually accomplish things instead of being ambushed by hallway questions or committee meetings.
Then Wednesday with George and Linda. Thursday with Dexter—this year we’ll add Alis, Sunny, Skye, Tori, and the whole Gilmore contingent for dinner.
And Friday through Sunday? That’s reserved for leftovers, alcohol, too many sports channels, and sleep.
In years past, Dexter and George were the constants of that long weekend.
This year, my weekend plans feel less certain.
Still, I’m determined to enjoy the silence while it lasts. I stroll into the office at 8:36 a.m., twirling my keys around a finger and whistling Fly Me to the Moon. Thirty-six minutes late, but when you’re the only human in the building, who’s keeping score?
Except… I’m not the only human in the building.
The pod lights are already on. Odd. I keep walking toward my office, mentally scrolling through my three-page to-do list, when I see them: Tori’s handbag, her phone, a purple knit sweater draped over the back of her chair, and her laptop open and glowing faintly on her desk.
Strange. She said just last week that she and Skye were driving to spend the first part of the break with their parents before heading back Wednesday night for Thanksgiving dinner. So why are her things here?
I glance around the pod. Empty. No sign of her.
I shrug and retreat to my office. But twenty minutes later, with no sound from the open space, curiosity edges into worry. If her phone wasn’t sitting on her desk, I’d text her. Instead, it resides between her bag and laptop like a witness to something I don’t yet understand.
I push back from my desk and head into the hall. The women’s bathroom is the logical guess. Maybe she’s not feeling well. I knock, call her name. Nothing. Empty stalls, humming light, no Tori.
Next, outside. Her car is parked right in front, gleaming in the thin November sun. No Tori inside it. The benches out front are empty, too. The weather is mild, late autumn sunshine catching on the last stubborn leaves, but she’s nowhere in sight.
I head back inside, check the other offices. All locked. All dark. The pod is still empty except for her things, sitting exactly where I saw them before.
There’s only one place left. The copy room.
I knock softly and push the door open.
I expected to find Tori, earbuds in, humming over a stack of papers with the steady whir of machinery filling the room. What I find is the opposite: Tori on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, face buried in her arms.
“Hey,” I say, stepping inside. “Tote?”
She huffs, raises her head just enough to glare. She looks… wrecked. Not crying-today wrecked, but the slow-burn kind of wrecked. Exhausted. Mad. The kind of mad that simmers behind your eyes when you’ve had no sleep and too much to think about. Two seconds away from murder.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just go away.” She drops her head back into her arms.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Fuck off, Leo.”
“See, that’s interesting. Those words communicate the exact opposite of fine.”
Her head snaps up again, eyes blazing. “Why are you even here? It’s Thanksgiving break, everyone’s gone.
I came here today so I wouldn’t have to be around anyone.
But of course, you’re here. Because you’re always here.
Showing up to witness every fucking moment of misery and embarrassment life decides to toss my way. Like I can’t catch a fucking break.”
That… stings. I thought we were friends now. Flirty friends? Maybe, one day, more than friends? Her tone, though, makes me sound like a nuisance. An issue.
No, that can’t be right. She’s upset.
“You can talk to me, you know,” I say carefully. “Or scream at me. Curse me out. Tell me why you hate the world. I told you, GBF. Full service. At your service.”
Her brows rise, a thin slash of disbelief. “Full service, huh?”
“Anything your heart desires, milady.” I throw in a wink, just to be insufferable.
“Can you drive to Moraine, knock some sense into my soon-to-be ex-husband, and get him to sign the separation agreement and affidavit agreeing to entry of divorce so I can finally move on with my goddamn life?” Her voice cracks with fury. “Because that—that—would be great.”
I blink. That is… not what I was expecting.
“He’s refusing?”
“Oh, he’s more than refusing. He called me screaming, losing his shit, said he couldn’t believe I hired an attorney without talking to him first. Which, sure, whatever. Expected.”
Hm. Expected outcomes do not result in copy room hideouts.
“But, he’s not why you’re hiding in the copy room, is he?”
She’s quiet for a second, her face re-buried in her arms, head shaking ‘no.’
Then, she returns her emotionally spent and broken gaze to mine. “My father.”
I still. She’s never said much about her parents, except the throwaway mention of her plan to visit them this week.
“What about your father?”
She blows out a humorless laugh. “Not three minutes after I got off the phone with Chase, he called. Out of the blue. Haven’t heard from him in months.
And he didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t care.
He called to tell me it’s time to stop my ‘little tantrum,’ repent—yes, repent—and return home to the ‘safety of my marriage.’”
“Safety?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Because apparently a man who punches holes in walls is safe.” She scrubs a hand over her face, fury sparking hotter.
“And when I tried to explain, he cut me off. Kept talking over me like nothing I could possibly say mattered. Told me Chase had already confessed his heartbreak and his failures, that he’s in counseling now, that I’m the one destroying a covenant.
Dad’s solution? Go home. Cook dinner. Pray more. Pretend my life is fine.”
Well, this explains why she decided not to visit her parents this week.
“That’s…” I shake my head. “That’s messed up.”
“Believe me, I know. He spits out Bible verses, cherry-picks them to justify being cold and distant, and calls it leadership. Like he knows better or best or whatever because he’s a man with a swinging dick between his legs, so us women better listen!
We better obey! He’s been doing it to my mom for forty years.
” Her laugh is sharp, her voice rising with each word.
“And now he thinks I should thank him for teaching me the same lesson.”
She slaps the floor on either side of her—no longer speaking, now she’s shouting. “No! No, I will not listen and I will not obey and… JUST. NO!”
She’s unraveling in front of me: tears forming, hands flailing.
Her knees uncurl from her chest and she drops them into a crossed-pretzel position on the floor, gesturing wildly as she continues the rant, cataloguing every grotesque detail of the conversation with her father.
Anger pours off her like steam, filling the room, saturating the air.
I let her go until I realize she’s spiraling into the kind of rage that leaves you worse than when you started.
She pauses to take a breath, and that’s my cue— “Do you want to get out of here?” I cut in.
She freezes, mid-rant, hands suspended in the air. “What?”
“Do you. Want to. Get out. Of here.”
“Like… the copy room?”
“Well, yes. But also the building. The campus. Go do something exponentially more fun than folding yourself into misery on the floor.”
“We can’t just leave.”
I make a big show of glancing around. “You’re right. We’d get in so much trouble leaving the office when literally no one else is on campus. Absolutely criminal.”
Her eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of a smirk slipping through her anger.
“So, you coming or not?” I hold out my hand.
She stares at it for a beat, then sighs, slaps her palm into mine, and lets me pull her up. “Fine.”
“Good. Because you need a serious dose of Vitamin D.”
Her mouth drops open and she slaps my shoulder, hard. “Ugh. Pervert.” (At least she didn’t slap my face this time.)
“I meant sunshine.” I deadpan. “But honestly, you could use a solid dicking.”
The glare she aims my way is lethal.
“What? It’s medical advice. Builds bone density.”
She glares, but her lip betrays her, twitching like it might smirk. “Kick rocks, Leo.”
Now that’s an idea. I clap once. “Perfect. Let’s go hiking.”
The look of terror on her at the word ‘hiking’ is priceless.
“Relax,” I tell her, turning and strolling out of the copy room. “I’m not marching you up Everest. Just a short trail, trees, air, sunshine. It’s more of a walk. It’ll be fun. I promise.”
Tori follows, begrudgingly, muttering something about preferring a lobotomy while she packs up her laptop and gathers the rest of her belongings. But when I step out of my office, jacket on and truck keys in hand, she follows without argument.
Small victories.
By the time we swing into her apartment complex and I watch her step out of her car, I can see the fight has gone out of her shoulders.
She still looks tired, but not curled-up-on-the-floor tired.
She disappears inside while I wait in the parking lot, tapping my steering wheel in rhythm to nothing.
When she comes back, she’s traded her slacks for jeans and swapped her flats for sturdy shoes.
The purple knit sweater stays, sleeves shoved to her elbows.
“You sure that’s warm enough?” I ask when she climbs into the passenger seat of my truck.
“It’s practically tropical compared to Moraine,” she says, tugging at the hem. “Besides, this isn’t a hike, it’s a walk. Your words.”