Page 102 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
"Thanks. How was New York?"
"Productive. Mind if I come in for a minute?"
I gestured to the chair across from my desk. He sat down, but there was something in his posture that felt formal, careful.
He gave a small smile when he said, "I hope your time off was restorative. You seemed pretty stressed before you left."
I kept my expression neutral. "It was... eventful. But good to get some much-needed time away."
"Good. I'm glad." He shifted in his chair awkwardly, seeming to gather himself. “Have you cracked open the book? I was thinking about it, and you, while you were away." He cleared his throat and continued, "you were missed, you know."
Here it was. The conversation I'd been dreading.
"Actually, I was hoping we could discuss that too." I opened my desk drawer and pulled outThe Handmaid’s Tale. "This is amazing, Ethan, and I want you to know that I'm grateful for the thought behind it. I know I said it when you gave it to me, but I should have been firmer—I really can't keep it."
He looked at the box but didn't reach for it. "Oh," he said quietly before pausing and then asking, "may I ask why?"
"Honestly? Because it feels like more than something a colleague would give another colleague. I also feel awkward accepting it—I'm married, and I can honestly say that, if a coworker gave my husband something like this, I wouldn't be happy. I'd like to avoid any confusion for everyone involved here, so I think it's best I not accept it."
Ethan was quiet for a long moment, his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up, his expression was rueful but not surprised.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said simply, but I could see his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them in his lap. “It was more than a colleague gift.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest tighten. "Oh. Ethan—"
"No, let me finish." He held up a hand. "I've been telling myself for a while that we were just friends, just work colleagues who got along well. But the truth is, I've had feelings for you that went beyond that. And I think part of me was hoping..." He shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter what I was hoping."
He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “This is mortifying. I feel like I’m fifteen again, getting shot down at a school dance.”
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I really hope I didn't give you the wrong impression."
"You didn't. That's the thing—you never said anything or led me on. You definitely never did anything inappropriate. This was all on me." He gestured toward the pen box. "But you should keep it."
"I can't."
“Actually, it isn’t really returnable.” His laugh was shaky, self-deprecating. “Turns out rare books aren’t like department store purchases. I asked when I was buying it. The dealer looked at me like I was insane.”
I stared at the box. "Ethan..."
"Look, I get it. I understand why you can't keep it as a gift from me. But it’s yours now, practically speaking. So maybe you know someone you could give it away to."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. "Really expensive office supplies?"
"The most expensive pens in the building, probably." He stood up. "Maybe you could give it away—give it to a friend or something. Whatever works and entirely up to you."
He turned to walk away, paused, and turned back toward me. "For what it's worth, Felicity, your husband is a lucky man. I hope he knows that."
"Thank you Ethan. He does."
"Good." Ethan moved toward the door, then paused. "I should tell you that I'm already planning to transfer to the Chicagooffice. I wasn't completely sure until this conversation, but I think it's for the best."
"You don't have to—"
"Felicity—I really mean it. This was already in the works. After my trip to New York, they offered me a senior director position to lead the mid-west out of the Chicago office. It's actually a great opportunity."
I felt a mix of relief and sadness. Ethan was a good colleague and, despite the complications, a good person.
"I'm happy for you. I'll miss working with you, but this sounds like an awesome opportunity and is much deserved." I said honestly.
