Page 78 of Ten Day Affair
My throat tightens. “Yeah, if we are both being straight with each other. That's what I'm saying. I don't think he is.”
“I hear you, but I guess I'm trying to understand what you want from him, Sam. He never promised you he'd be your ally on the board.”
“He’s supposed to leave Saturday. He planned to leave, then, from the start. And now that I know the vote isFriday, it’s obvious he always knew. All of it was already scheduled. Don't you think he at least owed it to me to be honest when I asked direct questions?”
We sit there for a moment, the opening scene of Barbie frozen on screen. Greta Gerwig’s pink-soaked world waits patiently in the background.
“Want my opinion? You’re not this upset because he hasn't been completely forthcoming. You’re upset because he is the symbol of why things are changing at the hospital, and you don't want that.”
I blink hard. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe. But life isn't fair.”
I stare at the wine bottle between us. “I just thought—God, I don’t know what I thought. That if there was one person on the board who got it, who gotme, that we could turn this around. I don't think he cares. And that hurts.”
Admitting that out loud is like a stab to my heart. I wanted him to care like I care. And he doesn't.
Arden doesn’t say anything and nudges her knee against mine.
My phone buzzes on the cushion between us. I don’t have to look to know who it is. But I do anyway.
Can I see you tonight?
I swallow hard and flip the phone over.
“It's Cole. I’m not answering that.”
Arden presses play.
“Good.”
And Barbie dances across the screen like everything isn’t quietly falling apart.
EIGHTEEN
Cole
The hospital's glass entrance stands forty yards from my car. People flow in and out like white blood cells through a vein.
I grip the door handle. It’s hot as hell, even with the AC blaring at full blast.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Bradley asking where the hell I am. The fourth this morning.
"Fuck."
I tap my thumbs on my knee, keeping time with my racing pulse. Sam hasn't answered my messages since yesterday. The concierge vote is tomorrow, and she knows. Someone told her, the timing of her ghosting isn't coincidental.
My reflection in the rearview mirror looks hollow. I have dark shadows under my eyes from a night spent staring at my ceiling. When did I last lose sleep over anything besides a deal?
I reach for my phone and dial Angela.
"Good morning," she answers.
"I need you to make some changes to my schedule."
"The McAllister Group is expecting you in twenty?—"
"Cancel it."
