The Confession
433 Words
11:47PM. Resort bar.
“Everyone out,” Damien said.
The VPs scattered. Fast.
Only me left. Because I was “coordinating the invoices.”
He was at a high table. Whiskey. Two empty glasses.
“Ms. Lane. Sit.”
I sat.
He pushed the second glass to me. “Drink.”
“I don’t—”
“Drink, Ava.”
I drank. It burned.
He drank too. Then another.
We didn’t talk for 10 minutes. Just the ocean. Just him pouring.
“You’re good at your job,” he said finally. “Too good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.”
“Stop.” His glass hit the table hard. “Stop calling me that.”
“Damien,” I whispered.
He laughed. No humor in it. “There it is.”
He leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Tie gone. Shirt open at the collar.
“You know what the problem is, Ava?”
“What?”
“You.”
My breath stopped.
“You stay late. You wear my jacket. You hold my hand on a plane and pretend it meant nothing.”
“It didn’t—”
“Liar,” he said. Soft.
He looked drunk. Not sloppy. Dangerous. Honest.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” he asked. “Having you in the room next to mine. Hearing you breathe through the wall. Saying your name and hating myself for it?”
“Damien…”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m your boss. You’re 23. This is wrong.”
I was 24. He knew that.
“Then why did you hold on?” I asked. “On the plane.”
He went quiet.
“Because I’m selfish,” he said. Finally. Looking at me. Eyes dark. “Because for 20 minutes, you weren’t my assistant. You were just… scared. And you chose me.”
The bar was empty. The waves were loud.
“I’ve been trying not to want you for 3 years, Ava,” he said. “It’s not working.”
The confession hung there.
He stood up. Swayed once. Caught himself on the chair.
“I’m going to bed,” he said. “Alone.”
He walked away. Left his glass. Left me shaking.
Before he hit the stairs he stopped. Didn’t turn.
“Don’t follow me, Ava.”
Then he was gone.
I sat there until the bartender kicked me out.
*Note to Self: He said it. All of it.*
*Note to Self #2: He told me not to follow him.*
I’m going to.
- Writer
