I erase every response I type out. I’m not sure which emotion to use to inspire the follow-up. When hers pops up, I let out a sigh of relief.
Dani: I’m good. Thank you for checking.
Me: Out of all the words you’ve ever said to me, and you’ve said some things that have been borderline offensive, those are the ones I hate most.
Dani: Which?
Me: Thank you.
Dani: How is that?
Me: Because it implies I’m doing you a favor. Or going out of my way when I ask if you’re okay or checking on you.
Dani: Ok. I appreciate you doing those things.
Me: That’s better. Sort of.
Dani: How does your shoulder feel tonight?
Me : :(
Dani: Ice it.
Me: I don’t want to talk about my shoulder.
Dani: I know. I was just thinking about it. The wine is starting to make me sleepy. I need to get out of here and get to bed.
Me: I’m here if you need me. You know that.
Dani: I do. Goodnight, Landry.
Me: Night, Ryan.
Strike one.
Danielle
“YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT.”
“Gee, thanks, Gretchen,” I sigh, heading to the doorway.
She surveys me before following me down the hallway. “I take that back. You look worse than shit.”
“Do you have something productive to say to me or are you just here to insult me?” I laugh.
I’m more than aware I don’t look my best today. Hell, I don’t even look mediocre today. My eyes have dark circles, my face crinkled with lines from sadness and wine and lying on the side of my face while I cried last night.
I woke up not sure what decision was right. Letting myself get involved with Lincoln, even when I felt like I was getting in too deep? Or pulling away because I’m scared? Which is worse—being extra risky or overly cautious?
All I know is that I thought of him as I fell asleep and when I woke up. I miss his voice and his stupid texts and wonder how his shoulder feels. There’s a part of me that feels dead not knowing when I’ll see him again . . . if ever. This is impossible.
Gretchen sighs, pulling me back to the present. “The budget is ripped apart.”
“No,” I gasp, my eyes going wide.
“Unfortunately. The official papers will come through next week, so enjoy the holiday. You might want to make plans for another job though, Danielle. I can’t promise you anything right now.”
My face falls as I try to keep this in a little box in my brain. If not, I’m going to be completely overwhelmed.
“I have a meeting and then I’m heading home to nurse this migraine. Take the day off tomorrow—paid. Extend your holiday weekend before the chaos of next week hits.”
“Gretchen?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Aren’t we all?” With a sad smile, she turns down the adjacent hallway and disappears.
Maybe this isn’t the worst thing to happen. Everything seems so bleak here. I could use this as an opportunity to move. Maybe somewhere warm. Or maybe Boston. I should call Macie.
The elevator dings and I glance over my shoulder and stutter-step before stopping. His eyes light up in the way I love, his body looking strong in a fitted black workout shirt and shorts. Lincoln makes no effort to move, to wave, to insinuate in any way that he is happy to see me besides the flicker in his eyes. As the doors close, we exchange a small, almost-smile, and then, before I’m ready, they swing shut.
A whimper slides through my lips, my eyes wetting immediately.
“Stop this,” I hiss to myself and dart to the bathroom. It’s empty. “This was your decision and it was a good one.” I straighten out my rumpled yellow dress. I’d hoped the color would brighten my spirits, but no luck.
I head back to my office, my heels clicking against the tile. “Take the job with Macie. Get out of here and make a fresh start,” I whisper to myself as I watch my feet step in the center of each tile.
I flick the door behind me to my office and nearly yelp. “Lincoln!”
He’s sitting across from my desk, the twinkle in his eye replaced with a look of . . . fear? He forces a swallow as I grab the corner of my desk for support.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I needed to see you.”
“Why?”
“A number of reasons,” he says, a smile ghosting his lips.
“I thought you went down on the elevator,” I whisper, still not sure I’m really seeing him here.
His face lights up as a full-blown smirk drags across it. “I did. Then I came back up.”
My cheeks ache from the smile I’m giving him and I tell myself to stop it before I give him a false idea, but I can’t erase it. There’s no way to turn off the light he ignites in me.
He holds a tube up in the air. “I brought a signed poster for Rocky. Think I could take it to him?”
Some of my hope wavers. “Rocky was released two days ago. His cancer is undetectable.”
The joy on Lincoln’s face hits my heart. This is part of what I love about him. His genuineness. His sweetness. His thoughtfulness.
“I can take it and mail it to him though,” I offer.
“Please.”
I take the tube and our fingers touch. I jerk mine away.
“I have a favor to ask,” he says tentatively.
“The last time you asked a favor, it was a trick.” I sit across from him, grateful for the support.
“It might be a trick this time too,” he laughs. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m leaving in the morning for Savannah for Thanksgiving.”
“So?”
“Go with me.”
“What?” I squeak. “Landry, are you nuts?”
“Nuts about you.”
I collapse back in my chair with a huff, hoping I sound more irritated than I am. I have to power through, not succumb. Protect myself. “I can’t go with you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
I expect an argument, at least a little fight, but get none. He just shrugs his broad, thick shoulders. “Fine.”
My brows pull together, but I keep my features otherwise smooth. He’s watching me too carefully. He’s looking for an opening and I’m not about to give him one.
“Should I bring dinner to your house or should we cook it together at mine?”
“Excuse me?”
“Look,” he says, sliding his hands down the legs of his shorts, “if you don’t want to go to Savannah, I get it. My family can be a little overbearing. So we’ll stay here. We’ll—”
“I’m not having Thanksgiving with you.”
“You have plans I’m unaware of?”
“Maybe.”
“You better fit me in.”
My eyes wet again and he grips the armrests. He’s obviously fighting to keep himself from jumping the desk and grabbing me, but he doesn’t. I’m both thankful and a little disappointed he doesn’t.
“You need to see your family,” I counter. “It’s your thing. You’ve told me stories about football with your brothers and everything.”
“Yeah, they’ll be pissed if I don’t come. But I’m not leaving you.”
“Why do this? I’ve told you this won’t work out between us in the long term. We’re just setting ourselves up for a lot of heartache later.”