Chapter Nine - Monday
1020 Words
I spent the entire weekend telling myself nothing had changed.
On Sunday night, I accepted that everything had changed.
On Monday morning, I walked into Voss Tower and pressed the button for twenty-two.
The button that lights up says twenty-two.
I almost wish it didn't.
* * *
Oliver is already at his desk when I arrived.
He takes one look at my face and says, "Something happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Your face says something happened."
"My face says, Good morning, Oliver. Please focus on the Meridian account."
"The Meridian account closed on Friday." He spun his chair to face me fully. "Maya said, What happened?"
I sit down.
I open my laptop.
I close it again.
"He walked me to the train in the rain," I say.
Oliver is very quiet.
Then: "The CEO."
"Yes."
"Damien Voss."
"Oliver—"
"Walked you to the train. In the rain." He pauses. "With his umbrella?"
"Yes."
"And he got wet himself?"
"His shoulder."
"His shoulder," Oliver says, this with the gravity of a man processing significant information. "Maya. He got his Savile Row suit wet for you."
"It's just a suit."
"It is absolutely not just a suit." He leans forward. "What did he say?"
I think about the pavement. The rain. The way he looked at me.
"He said he's glad I'm here."
"And you said?"
"I said, I'm glad I'm here, too."
Oliver sits back in his chair.
"Maya," he says. "That's basically a declaration."
"It was a sentence."
"In CEO, that's a declaration." He pauses. "What are you going to do?"
I open my laptop again.
"Work," I say.
"That is the least satisfying answer you have ever given me."
"It's also the correct one."
* * *
At ten o'clock, there is a message.
Good morning. How was your weekend? — D.V.
I stare at it.
Damien Voss is asking about my weekend.
Like a person. Like someone who thought about me over two days and wants to know how they went.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Quiet. I reorganized my kitchen. You? — M.A.
Meetings. Too many. I thought about Friday. — D.V.
My heart does something complicated.
So did I. — M.A.
I sent it and immediately want to take it back.
I do not take it back.
His reply comes in forty seconds.
Would you have lunch with me today? Not work. Just lunch. — D.V.
I read it three times.
Not work. Just lunch.
Oliver, who has apparently developed the ability to read internal messages from across a desk, makes a sound that is not quite a gasp.
"He didn't," Oliver whispers.
"Stop reading my screen."
"He did." Oliver pressed both hands to his desk like he needed support, "Maya said. He asked you to lunch. Not a meeting. Lunch."
"I know what lunch is."
"Are you going to say yes?"
I look at the message.
Not work. Just lunch.
Ten days ago, I stepped out of an elevator on the wrong floor and felt a bond I had promised myself I would never trust again. Ten days ago, I built every wall I had back up in three seconds flat and walked away.
And every day since, he has been — careful. Patient. Present without pushing. Giving me the information I deserved to have. Leaving coffee on my desk. Walking three blocks in the rain and getting his shoulder wet and not asking for anything in return.
Just being someone worth trusting.
Just that.
I type back.
Yes. Where? — M.A.
Forty-second floor. Twelve-thirty. I'll have something brought up. — D.V.
I put my phone down.
Oliver is vibrating.
"I need you to be calm," I tell him.
"I am calm."
"You are the opposite of calm."
"Maya," He leans forward. "Do you know how many people have been on the forty-second floor voluntarily? In two years? I have counted. It is three. And two of them were there to be fired."
"Oliver—"
"You're going up there for lunch." His voice is hushed. Reverent. "For lunch, that is not work."
I turn back to my screen.
But I am smiling.
I am absolutely smiling.
* * *
— Damien —
I asked her to lunch.
I have not asked anyone to lunch in six years.
I do not do things like this. I do not ask people to lunch because it is not work. I do not leave coffee on desks. I do not walk three blocks in the rain and get my jacket wet and stand on a pavement telling someone I am glad they exist.
I do all of these things now, apparently.
Marcus appears in my doorway.
"The harmonious team wants a final debrief—"
"After two," I say. "Clear twelve-thirty to two."
A pause. "You have the Singapore call at—"
"Move it."
Another pause.
"Of course." He started to leave. Stops. Turns back. In six years, Marcus has never once commented on anything personal. He says, "She's good for you, sir."
I look at him.
"The work," he adds quickly. "The Meridian audit. Very good for the company."
"Yes," I say. "She is."
He leaves.
I look out at the city.
Twenty-two floors below, Maya Adkins is at her desk.
In ten days, she has found more discrepancies than my team had found in three weeks, led a presentation that made my CFO use words like the cleanest in years, closed a call with her former Alpha with composure that should not be possible, and stood in the rain on a Friday evening and told me she was glad to be here.
Not because of the bond.
Or not only because of the bond.
Because she decided to.
I think about walls.
About how long it takes to build them and how much longer it takes to trust someone enough to open a door in them.
She is opening a door.
Slowly. Carefully. On her own terms.
I am not going to rush it.
I am just going to be here.
At twelve-thirty.
With lunch.
And all the time she needs.
- Writer
