Page 56 of False Start

"That's just a rumor, asshole!" Silva almost shouts, his face turning red with either rage or embarrassment; I can't tell which. I roll my eyes.

"It's hardly just a rumor when you've been caught three different times with someone in the elevators after hours. Haven't you figured out yet that they have cameras? The footage is probably on Pornhub by now."

Silva's face is almost purple, but it barely registers. I could give two shits about whether Silva has a sex addiction. Or why Bergman, two desks down, is suddenly twitchy and sweaty all the time. Or even whether that sniveling weasel, Andrew, has stopped bothering with coffee completely and is now drinking straight grain alcohol at work.

It's all bullshit. Toxic, meaningless bullshit that's starting to make me wonder whether the six-figure salary is worth the trouble. I shouldn't benumbto this. Jason in Compliance had a nervous breakdown just last week, and no one batted an eye. An Ivy league degree, Wharton for b-school, and now I spend sixty hours a week selling my soul one PowerPoint at a time. I'm better than this.

No wonder I gravitated toward Denise. She's theoppositeof bullshit. She's vibrant and fierce; a force to be reckoned with. From day one, she held a mirror up to the ugliness in my life and dared me to do something about it. With her, I think I actually could.

My palms are clammy, and I keep fidgeting with the dial of my watch. She never called. Never texted.

All day, I was in a cold sweat, awaiting my fate, with no clue of what happened or whether—fingers crossed—I was worried for nothing. Now, trudging up the stairs to her apartment, I feel like a prisoner on his way to the guillotine.

Why didn't she text me?

"Hey," she mutters as she closes the door behind me.

"Hi, babe. How was your day?" I do my best to inject some cheer into my voice despite the somber expression on Denise's face.

She flutters around me to rinse a glass, or pet Clawdette, or straighten the sketches on her drafting desk. Anything but meet my eyes. I'm almost dizzy watching her.

"It was OK," she says, pulling the large throw against her body to fold it. I move slowly, careful not to startle her, and gently take the fabric from her hands. She doesn't fight me.

"We need to talk," she says before sinking onto the couch. The slump of her shoulders and the robotic tone of her voice tell me everything I need to know: I will not enjoy this talk.

I sit down next to her and pull her hands into my lap. After a moment, she pulls them free, wrapping her arms around herself instead.

"Baby, what's wrong? You're scaring me."

And she is. The look on her face is so resigned, so final. Like this discussion is a mere formality when she's already made up her mind. She sighs heavily.

"I might as well come right out and say it: I don't think we should see each other anymore."

I clench my fist so hard, I'm glad I'm not still holding her hand. What the hell happened this morning?

"Why not?" I ask, my voice low and dangerous. "Did Maya say something?"

She laughs bitterly. The sound grates on my ears.

"Yes, and no. She definitely wasn't happy to see us together. Said I'd been lying to her. That she couldn't believe I'd go out with a fatphobic asshole like you." She shrugs. "You know. Just what you'd expect."

I hiss out a breath. I shouldn't be surprised Maya thinks so poorly of me. Since the moment we met, I've been at my worst. But I thought we were making progress.

"I'm not fatphobic," I object, feeling both defensive and a little frantic. "I told you what happened. It was—"

"Your boss," she interrupts. "I know. And I told her that."

"And?" I press, my voice desperate.

"She didn't believe me. Oryou, I guess. She said, if you were really interested in me beyond a booty call, you would've claimed me publicly."

"And Iwantto! You're the one who wants to keep things quiet."

"No," she bristles. "I thought we agreed."

I shake my head.

"No, Denise. I've been clear that I want to be with you. I would've come with you to the Halloween party if you hadn't shut things down."

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