Page 9 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
I stopped. "You said it after I told you to. And even then, you looked like you were swallowing glass. And honestly, sorry just doesn’t cut it."
He stood up and made to move closer, approaching carefully and tentatively—like I was a wild animal. Damn straight I’m a wild animal—and he should definitely be approaching with extreme caution.
"I didn’t mean for any of it to go that way," he finally said as he stopped walking. Good. I think he could tell I was two seconds from losing it on him.
"No, Caden. That’s the problem. You didn’t mean for anything. You didn’t plan. You didn’t think. You just reacted like you always do." I opened the door. "I’ve got to go."
"Felicity—"
"Nope…I’m not doing this now."
I stepped out into the warm air, my hand sitting on the doorknob. For a second, I pictured myself slamming it—the satisfying crash, the way the frame would shudder. Instead, I eased it shut with a soft click that felt both like restraint and surrender. Even now, I couldn't decide if I was being reasonable, avoidant, or whatever.
The elevator doors slid open with a whoosh, and I stepped out onto the twenty-second floor of BAC Banking International. Everyone knows that Mondays have a certain feel to them, and today felt like every ounce of Monday it possibly could. The hum of gossip, the clacking of keyboards, the smell of burned coffee already told me I was behind. I knew stopping for a venti latte would make me late—but honestly, I didn’t care.
I forced a smile that felt like a bandage over a bruise and headed toward my office. My lips twitched at the corners, threatening to collapse. Part of me wanted to scream about it to anyone who would listen—make them understand the magnitude of his betrayal. Another part whispered that I was overreacting to a luxury accessory, that there were marriages surviving far worse. Both voices drowned in the relentless loop playing in my head: He gave my birthday gift to Macy... My customized, stupidly-expensive, ridiculously extravagant bag—to his eleven-year-old daughter who probably wouldn't even appreciate it.
"Morning, Felicity." Callie, our newly hired project manager and analyst, said as she handed me a stack of briefs. I haven’t had much time to get to know her, but she seemed nice—if not a bit annoying. "Ethan asked if you’d swing by his office when you have a sec."
Of course, he did. I don’t know if I have the energy to deal with nice people today.
I thanked her and headed for my office, dropping my tote beside the credenza. The Boston skyline was visible through my floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight gleaming off towers and rooftops. The foot traffic below buzzed with movement, people going somewhere, doing something. I loved this city. I loved this office. Just standing inside it reminded me of how hard I’d worked to get here.
I blew out a breath and started to unpack my bag. Laptop. Files. An unnecessary quantity of baked goods to accompany my latte. I laughed softly when I pulled out the selection of granola bars. What the hell was I supposed to do with all these? They weren’t Reese’s, so the reality was they only had so much value. Reese’s, I’d gladly go up a size for today. I tossed everything into my desk drawer where my stash of sweets usually landed for snacking, and connected my laptop to the docking station. All three monitors blinked to life.
Finally—something I could control.
A soft knock at my open door pulled me from my inbox—three rapid taps, hesitant but deliberate, the sound of knuckles against wood cutting through the artificial quiet of my sanctuary. I sighed, the exhale carrying the weight of more than a hundred unread emails and the impatience to go along with it.
"Knock-knock."
Ethan Hayes leaned against the frame, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled precisely three turns up his forearms, revealing tanned skin stretched over the kind of defined muscle that comes from actual rock climbing, not just gym sessions. A thick silver watch glinted against his wrist bone. Most of the office called him McSteamy behind his back, and they weren't subtle about the way "work husband" rolled off their tongues whenever we collaborated. The office gossip mill thrived on speculation I had no interest in feeding.
I nodded toward the guest chair. "You summoned?"
"I did." He grinned, but his expression softened the longer he looked at me. "But first—happy early birthday. I know it’s not until the end of the week, but I leave tomorrow for thatconference, so I’ll be out of the office, and I didn’t want to miss the chance."
My pulse stumbled. My birthday wasn’t exactly my favorite subject this week. "Thank you. But really, you didn’t need to do anything. It’s just another year."
Ethan tilted his head, one brow arched. "Just another year? It’s not every day you turn twenty-one for the nineteenth time."
Without waiting for permission, he placed a small, carefully wrapped package on my desk—simple brown paper, tied with twine.
“Ethan...”
“Just open it.”
I unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a worn—but in great condition—first edition of “The Handmaid’s Tale”—the book I’d mentioned loving during our coffee conversation weeks ago.
“You said it changed how you thought about storytelling,” Ethan said quietly, looking almost shy. “I found this at an estate sale last weekend. The previous owner made notes in the margins, but nothing crazy—I thought you might find them interesting.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Though now I’m second-guessing myself. Maybe you think that’s annoying? I should have asked first. Open the front though?”
I opened the cover carefully. His handwriting was on the inside flap: *"For someone who sees the world in stories. —E"*
“This is...” I traced the aged pages. “This is perfect. But you didn’t need to—”
“I know I didn’t need to. I wanted to.”
