I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. The world keeps spinning.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, hoping for.
“Hello?” she says.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Would you be available for an interview sometime in the next two weeks?” she says. “Assuming you’re still interested.”
It feels like I’m swallowing a rock.
“Of course I am,” I force out.
I’m not even sure which part I’m agreeing with—whether I’m available, whether I’m interested.
But it’s the only answer that could possibly make sense, right?
The escape hatch I’ve been waiting for, right when the whole house of cards is falling down, and I should feel happy, or at least relieved, but all I can feel is this whole-chest ache, yet another loss of someone, something, I didn’t even have to begin with.
“Fantastic!” she says. “Could you just send us your availability and we’ll set something up?”
I clear my throat. “I’ll check my calendar as soon as I get home.”
Home. I ignore the ping in my heart at that word.
It’s just an apartment. It’s never been mine.
31
TUESDAY, AUGUST 6TH
11 DAYS
Miles doesn’t come home that night.
I know because I don’t sleep.
I’m not waiting for him, though. I’m thinking about Ashleigh. Mentally drafting and revising apologies. Wondering how I managed to do to her the exact thing I hate most. I always identified with my mom, but in this situation, I know who I’ve acted like, and it’s not Holly Vincent.
I want to hide at home, skip work Tuesday, but there’s too much going on, and I can’t leave Ashleigh or Harvey in the lurch.
So I arrive a full twenty minutes before my shift starts, having ordered full-blown espresso from Fika, which has me moving at warp speed.
“You buy me a three-piece suit?” Harvey asks as he moseys through the fog to meet me at the locked front doors. He tips his head toward the oversize paper box in my arms.
“Pastéis de nata,” I explain. “Portuguese custard tarts. For Ashleigh’s birthday.”
The idea came to me around two a.m. By four, I’d found a bakery that had them, forty minutes south of here. At five, I was on my way.
Harvey stares at me, concerned. “You do know Ashleigh’s Persian, not Portuguese, right?”
“What? I know,” I say. “She just told me she fantasized about moving to Portugal, so . . .”
He rears back. “What’s in Portugal?”
“Pastéis de nata,” I say. “And beautiful beaches, I think.”
He shrugs to himself and unlocks the doors. “Well, I’m glad you remembered, because I forgot her doughnuts at home yesterday, and the grandkids ate them.”
Inside, I set the box on her side of the desk, then busy myself updating displays so I can miss her arrival.
All day, we manage to dodge each other, the box of pastries gradually emptying as she, Harvey, and a couple of her favorite regulars pick over them.
When I come back from lunch, she’s sitting at her computer, and flicks a glance my way. “Hi,” I say tentatively.
“Hello,” she replies.
I take my seat and try to focus, despite the noxious cloud of awkwardness. Eventually I settle into a rhythm, and then Landon arrives to relieve Ashleigh for the evening shift.
“Sweet! Goodies!” he says, one earbud already in, the other blasting from around his neck as he slips behind the desk.
“Daphne brought them,” Ashleigh says, gathering her things, “for my birthday.”
“A couple people went in on them,” I automatically say.
“Still can’t lie for shit,” she says, without averting her gaze from her computer.
