“I’m not structuring my life around your coworkers,” I replied.
His face flushed red. He grabbed the anniversary box from my desk and shook it as if something else might fall out. When he realized the fob was the only thing inside, he leaned closer and hissed,
“You’ll regret embarrassing me.”
Then he turned and stormed out.
I forced myself to continue my meetings, but my stomach stayed twisted all afternoon.
A few hours later, my phone rang.
Derek.
I answered, expecting more yelling.
Instead, he laughed—loud, triumphant.
“I burned your dream sports car, Sam.”
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