Page 6 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“After hours, then?”
The words taste like gravel in my mouth. My collar feels tighter than it did a second ago, heat gathering under the starchof my shirt. I press two fingers against my cufflink, adjusting a sleeve that doesn’t need adjusting.
Her eyes don’t soften. If anything, the temperature of the room drops another ten degrees under the chill of her silence.
A bead of sweat slides between my shoulder blades, irritating against starched cotton. I shift my weight, tapping a knuckle against the counter in what I hope looks casual but feels like a tell. My hand wants to drum out nerves I can’t afford to show.
For years I’ve prided myself on control—smooth, unshakable, unreadable. But right now, with Michelle watching me like I’m poison, I can’t seem to stop my body from betraying me in a hundred microscopic ways.
“I’m busy.”
The kind of busy that translates to “I would rather scrub toilets than spend five minutes in your presence.”
“Michelle, I know yesterday’s news was shocking?—”
“Was it?” She sets down the coffee pot with a control that suggests she’s fighting to keep from hurling it at my head. “Because from my perspective, the shocking part isn’t discovering my building is scheduled for demolition. It’s realizing that you’ve been lying to me for years while I served you coffee and treated you as a decent human being instead of the corporate villain you apparently are.”
“I wasn’t lying.” The words emerge before my brain conducts quality control. “I was protecting confidential business information.”
“You know what the worst part is? I actually believed we were friends. Real friends. The kind who might give each other a heads-up about life-changing news.”
The accusation hits differently than her anger—quieter, more devastating. Her hands shake slightly, and I realize this isn’t about business ethics or development protocols. It’s about trust.About seven years of morning conversations that apparently meant something entirely different to each of us.
“We are friends,” I say quietly.
“Friends don’t let friends find out their world is ending from demolition notices.” Her voice cracks slightly. “What am I to you, Grayson? Really?”
The question hangs between us, demanding honesty I’m not sure I can give. Because the truth is uncomfortable.
“You’re...” I struggle for words that don’t sound like corporate damage control. “You’re important to me.”
“Important enough to protect me from decisions that would destroy my life?”
“Important enough that this conversation is killing me.”
She’s right. The truth lands with the force of a gut punch, hollowing me out. A sharp pressure blooms in my chest, radiating up into the base of my skull until it feels like the beginnings of a headache. My pulse drums in my temples, steady and merciless.
I care about her. Genuinely care. But not enough to alter my professional trajectory. Not enough to risk my reputation or investor relationships. Not enough to matter when it counted.
“Your financial situation wasn’t my responsibility,” I say, the words metallic and wrong on my tongue.
Michelle flinches as if I’ve struck her. “Right. Of course not.”
“That’s not what I meant?—”
“It’s exactly what you meant.” She turns away, her shoulders stiff with hurt that feels heavier than simple business loss. “You built a friendship with a woman whose livelihood you were actively threatening, and you never saw a problem with that. Because my security was never your responsibility.”
“I thought I was making smart business decisions,” I say, and it sounds hollow even to me.
“You were. That’s the problem.” Michelle faces me again, and there’s something heartbreaking in her expression. “You chose the path that served your interests while destroying mine, and you did it consciously, deliberately, with full knowledge of the cost.”
The assessment cuts deep because it’s accurate. I protected my professional reputation while sacrificing individual trust. I chose convenience over consideration, efficiency over empathy.
“What do you want from me, Michelle?”
“I want you to admit that you made a choice. That you prioritized your business over our friendship. That you protected your interests while sacrificing mine.” Her voice carries exhaustion that goes deeper than this conversation. “I want you to stop hiding behind professional language and acknowledge that you hurt the woman you claim to care about.”
We stare at each other across the counter that has somehow become a battlefield. The morning bustle has completely stopped around us. Mrs. Hensley and Caroline pretend to read while obviously absorbing every word.
