HE SHOULD HAVE LEFT

The Usual Spot

Amara reached the rooftop lounge twenty minutes late, shoes pinching after a day of meetings. She’d been running since morning, juggling back-to-back vendors, and now the crowd in the lobby barely let her squeeze through. In the elevator, she checked her phone—no word from Kel, of course. Probably still buried under a car, forgetting lunch again. She dropped the phone in her bag and stepped out as the doors parted.

Richard waited at their usual table, cool as ever, a jacket slung over his chair and two glasses of champagne already poured. He always made the place feel like his own. Honestly, he brought her so much business, the staff knew him by name, waving Amara over before she even said hello.

"You look stressed," he said, standing up to pull out her chair.

It was such a small gesture, but it caught her off-guard. Kel used to do things like that too, before the shop wore him thin. Not that he didn’t care now—just, lately, his hands were too tired or too greasy to bother with little niceties. She noticed the thought rise up, then pushed it down before it went anywhere else.

"It's been a long week," she said, sitting and lifting her glass. Below, the sun spilled gold along the city rooftops. "The Adeyemi wedding's turning into a circus. Now the bride wants three outfit changes. Three. Because my life clearly needed more complications."

Richard just laughed, relaxed and easy. The kind of laugh from someone who’d never lost sleep over an overdraft. "That’s why you set your rates. Let her change as much as she wants. You’re getting paid."

"If only the invoices would print themselves." She took a long drink, the first taste of relief she’d had all day. She felt it sink in and filed the reaction somewhere inside, not letting herself look at the tiny guilt tucked underneath.

She’d never say it aloud—not even privately. Nights like this weren’t really about Richard. Not exactly. What she craved was the ease, sharing a meal with someone where she didn’t have to tally up costs: what could wait, what had to give, or how to stretch last month’s paycheck just a little further. With Richard, none of that hovered in the air.

"How’s the fiancé?" he asked, tone light, gentle—maybe too gentle.

She never knew if his questions were innocent or if he enjoyed watching her flinch. Sometimes it felt like harmless small talk. Other times, it struck as a quiet test, cloaked in politeness.

"Kel’s fine. Busy." She forced a smile, grabbing an olive from the dish between them. No point adding more. Saying anything else meant admitting things she wasn’t ready to admit, even inside her own head.

Lately, being with Kel felt like watching water slowly leak into a boat. She wanted to bail them out, she really did, but some days she wasn’t sure how much patience she had left. She loved him. That hadn’t changed. But under the love, something meaner had started to grow—a tiny resentment that being with him now meant always bracing for the next unpaid bill.

"You always go quiet when I ask about him," Richard said, his voice soft, not accusing. He topped off her glass without her asking, and the champagne caught the last orange rays of the sun.

"Do I?" She gave him her practiced smile—the one she used on clients when things got too personal, the one she’d started using with everyone who edged too close to her real feelings. "Hadn’t noticed."

Of course she had. Noticing things came naturally—it was her bread and butter. She could spot a skittish caterer across a crowded room, feel the exact moment a groom started doubting, sense the tension as a client’s budget talk went sour. She caught every sign, every time, no exceptions.

Except for the one detail building in her own chest. These rooftop dinners weren’t about building her network—not anymore. They'd turned into little breathing spaces. Places she could remember who she was before all the demands and worries crept back home with her.

She didn’t call it cheating, even in her own mind. She called it a pressure valve. She called it downtime, something she’d earned after playing fixer for everyone else all day. Richard never pushed or asked for more than her company. It felt safe. Like nothing was actually happening that crossed any lines—nothing you could point at and name.

A waiter slid over a plate of grilled prawns—Richard’s choice, remembering from another dinner that she liked them. It was another small thing, but she noticed it, and the feeling it gave her—a spark of being seen—felt rare these days.

Richard’s phone buzzed; he silenced it, didn’t even check who was calling, his focus fixed on her. After a week of feeling like wallpaper in her own life, getting someone’s full attention felt almost sinful.

"Forget the Adeyemi wedding for a night," he said, settling back, grinning. "You deserve an evening off from everybody else’s needs."

She let herself believe him, at least for one drink and the slow signing-off of the sun. The city flickered into light far below, one window at a time, and for a moment, this rooftop was the only world that felt real.

They lingered over small talk—funny clients, gossip about a hotel renovation, bits and pieces that didn’t weigh much. She laughed more in an hour with Richard than in a whole week at home. She noticed that too, and pushed it out of the way with all the rest.

At some point, Richard reached across—just a careless move, brushing her hair from her face, the sort of thing a close friend might do without thinking. Amara froze, feeling the touch linger a second too long. They both ignored it. She told herself it meant nothing, adding this dismissal to the pile she’d started storing for safekeeping.

"You work too hard," Richard said quietly, studying her. "Someone should be looking after you for a change."

She shrugged, eyes down, not quite sure where to look. "Nice thought. Not very realistic, is it?"

"Why not?"

"I’m getting married, Richard." Firmer than she meant, as if saying it out loud would shore up the conviction she felt slipping. "This is the kind of conversation I shouldn’t be having."

He just smiled, hands up. "I get it. I’m not asking for anything. Just saying you deserve it."

She didn’t say yes, or no, just let the words hang between them. That space—the one she’d leave open for months without realizing—was where all this stuff kept growing.

When it was finally time to go, Richard walked her down to her driver, as always. No moves, nothing inappropriate, just opening her door.

"Same time next week?" he said.

"Same time next week," she replied. And she really was already looking forward to it, though she didn’t let herself think too hard about why.

The ride home drifted by in city lights and silence, her phone heavy in her lap. She thought of Kel, probably elbows deep in grease, staring down numbers that never added up right. Guilt pricked her, but she knew the drill—feel it, then set it aside.

She told herself this was harmless. She promised herself the habit would die off after the wedding, once everything was official and some piece of paper made it right. She wanted to believe that as much as anyone wanted their own small, convenient lies.

By the time the car stopped outside her building, she’d already tucked the memory away with all the others, folded up tight like it cost her nothing. She checked her reflection, fixed her hair, and went inside wearing the same worn-out smile Kel saw every day—as if nothing happened, as if nothing needed explaining at all.

Only much later, long after the rooftop nights ended, would she admit that none of this had ever been harmless, no matter how much she wanted it to be.