Page 56 of For the Plot
The room tilts slightly. Not in a dizzying way, but in that slow, inevitable shift that happens right before a kiss you know you shouldn’t allow. I take another step, then pause. “This is a bad idea.”
“It is,” he says. Still not moving. Still watching me like I’m the thing threatening to unravel everything he’s built.
“Less than sixteen weeks,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
He nods once, like he’s reminding himself of the same thing. “And after that?”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to touch me. Not because he moves, but because everything in his body language screamsrestraint. Like he’s holding himself together by a thread and I’m standing here with scissors.
But then suddenly, he steps back. “Go home, Skye.” His voice is low, steady, final. And it cuts clean.
I could make a snarky remark or even a defiant one. Tell him no or to make me and see what happens but I don’t. I’m a little too embarrassed.
I don’t say anything as I grab my shoes and jacket and move past him. I walk to the elevator without looking back. The air is cool against my skin, the floor too loud under bare feet, but I don’t rush. I don’t cry. I don’t breathe until the elevator doors close behind me. Only then do I let my shoulders fall.
Instead of crying though, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Maya.
Me:Fuck men.
He didn’t touch me. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave a mark.
By the time I get home, my feet are sore, my blouse is wrinkled, and my thoughts are a complete disaster. I toss my shoes somewhere near the door, shed my work clothes in a trail of fabric through the apartment, and collapse onto the couch wearing only a bra and underwear that have definitely seen better days.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
It’s Maya, of course.
I swipe to answer and flop my arm over my eyes like I’m preparing for death by emotional exposure. “If you’re calling to check in, I’m fine.”
“You’re lying,” she says without preamble. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. “That’s the problem.”
“Define ‘nothing.’”
“I stayed late. He stayed late. We talked.”
A pause. “Define ‘talked.’”
“Like normal people. With words. From appropriate distances.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” I say, sitting up and grabbing the half-empty water bottle from the floor. “No touching. No crossing lines. Just mutual avoidance of deeply inappropriate choices.”
“Did you at least say something?” she asks. “About the gallery? About the way he looked like he wanted to rip that dress off with his teeth?”
I press the cool plastic to my cheek. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“I told him I didn’t know if I was reading into things. If maybe he was just… naturally intense.”
“And what did he say?”
I hesitate. “That I wasn’t imagining it.”
