We went to this quiet bar downtown, sat in a corner booth, and talked for three hours about everything except work. She told me about her divorce 2 years ago, about how she threw herself into her career because it was easier than dealing with the loneliness. I told her about moving to Denver to get away from my ex, about feeling stuck between who I used to be and who I wanted to become.
At one point, her hand was resting on the table and mine was next to it. Our pinkies almost touching. The space between our fingers felt electric. “I should get going,” she said eventually. “Oh, but she didn’t move.” “Probably a good idea,” I agreed. Also, not moving. We sat there for another 10 minutes before she finally stood up.
I walked her to her car. We said good night. I watched her drive away and knew I was in serious trouble. Which brings me to tonight. I’d gone home around 7, ordered pizza, tried to watch a game, but couldn’t focus. Took a shower, got into bed around 11:30, and just stared at the ceiling, thinking about her like I always did.
At midnight, my phone buzzed. A text from Sloan. Are you awake? My heart kicked into overdrive. She’d never texted me this late. Never texted me anything personal at all. Really, just work stuff. I typed back, “Yeah, everything okay?” Those three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. “Can I call you?” I sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Sure.
” My phone rang 5 seconds later. Hey, I answered, trying to sound casual, even though my pulse was racing. Hey. Her voice sounded different, shakier than usual. I’m sorry to bother you so late. You’re not bothering me. What’s going on? A pause. I could hear her breathing on the other end. I’m outside your building. Everything stopped.
What? I know this is crazy. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I’ve been sitting in my car for 20 minutes trying to talk myself into leaving, and I can’t.” She let out a shaky laugh. I can’t stop thinking about you, Carter. And I know this is wrong and complicated and probably the stupidest thing I could possibly do.
But I had to see you. I had to. What’s your apartment number? I told her. Hung up. stood there in my boxers and t-shirt, heart absolutely pounding, but trying to process what was happening. Sloan was here at my apartment at midnight. I threw on jeans, ran my hands through my hair, checked my breath.
My hands were actually shaking. I felt like I was 17 again, nervous and reckless, and completely out of my depth. The knock came 3 minutes later. I opened the door. She was standing there in jeans and a sweater, hair down for once, falling in waves past her shoulders. No makeup. She looked younger, vulnerable, beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. “Hi,
” she said softly. “Hi.” We stood there staring at each other. Every rational thought in my head was screaming at me to be careful, to think this through, to remember that she was my boss and this could destroy both our careers. Then she stepped forward, reached up, and touched my face. Her hand was cold against my cheek. “Uh, tell me to leave,” she whispered.
“Tell me this is a mistake and I’ll go and we’ll pretend this never happened.” I should have. I really should have. Instead, I covered her hand with mine and said, “I don’t want you to leave.” She closed her eyes like I’d just confirmed something she’d been afraid to hope for. When she opened them again, they were darker, determined.
