Page 137 of Dear Grumpy Boss

“Elise.” He leaned back in his chair and gave me a long, thorough once-over. “I’ll text you tonight, all right?”

“Sure.” I swallowed down my hurt feelings. This wasn’t about me. If I kept telling myself that, maybe I’d start to believe it. “Bye, Weston.”

Renata was off the phone when I left Weston’s office, appearing just as run ragged as he was.

“How’d it go?” she asked. Her wry expression said she knew exactly how it had gone.

I took a deep breath and offered her a smile. “Do you like sushi?” I lifted up the bag. “I have extra.”

She grabbed it from me. “I’m so hungry, I’d eat a rat. My boss isn’t giving me a break.”

My laugh was forced, but I was trying. “Well, let me know if you’re hungry tomorrow and I’ll grab you something when I go to lunch. It’s no trouble.”

“You’re a good one, Elise.” She shook her head. “He’s not himself at the moment. What’s happening with the EPA and in the press is a personal attack in his mind. Weston’s entire ethos is being called into question. He’s not just defending Andes, he’s defending himself.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. And it turned out I didn’t have to. Weston’s voice came through the speaker on Renata’s phone.

“Renata, I told you I’m not taking visitors.” His harsh bark rattled down my spine. Was I a visitor?

Renata quickly picked up the phone, glancing at me then away. “I understand that, but I assumed there was an exception for—”

He cut her off, and although I couldn’t hear what he was saying, the droop on her face told me everything. This phone call was in direct response to her allowing me access to him.

She hung up and avoided my gaze. “Thanks for the sushi, honey.”

“I’m not an exception, am I?”

With a heavy sigh, she folded her hands on her desk and finally met my eyes. “I told you, he’s not himself. The decisions he’s making do not reflect how he feels about you.”

“Sure. But he’s still making them.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. There was nothing left to say. My boyfriend had just barred me from his office, and we both knew it.

At midnight, I received my text. I stared at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering until it turned black. It was a relief when it went away. I put my phone face down on my nightstand, covered my head with my blankets, and made myself shut my eyes.

In the morning, after a few hours of broken sleep, I allowed myself to read Weston’s texts.

Weston:Home now. About to crash. Bad day.

Weston:Are you asleep?

Weston:Goodnight, baby.

He’d sent me one more this morning.

Weston:Check in with me when you get this so I don’t worry. Too much going on to be worried about you, baby.

That I was crying before getting out of bed was a bad sign of how the day was going to go. I swiped the tears away from my eyes.

The bitter part of me wanted to let Weston be worried since I was consumed with it. But I wasn’t that petty.

Me:I’m fine. Don’t worry. I hope today’s better.

I didn’t check my phone again until I’d showered and dressed for work. He’d read it but hadn’t responded. Dread sat like lead in my gut. Nothing about what was happening felt right. Weston was in crisis, and instead of leaning on me, he was holding me at arm’s length.

Or maybe he was pushing me away entirely. That was what it felt like.

Saoirse was in the kitchen when I plodded in. As soon as she saw my face, she filled a mug to the brim with coffee and slid it across the counter to me. When I saw it was the one I’d bought her at the farmers’ market, with a picture of an opossum and the words “Eat trash and hail Satan,” I nearly sobbed. This was her favorite mug. She never shared it.

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