Page 43 of The Affair
“Oh, hey,” he replied, his eyes barely able to meet mine. “I’m glad you’re here early. Can we talk?”
“Um, sure,” I said, locking the door behind me.
We would not be opening early today. I’d learned my lesson on that one.
“I know we kind of left things in a weird place yesterday and I wanted to apologize. I think I overstepped.”
I felt my heart fall. Or maybe it was my stomach sinking to the floor. Either way, I could feel the disappointment reaching out to every molecule in my body.
“Oh, no. You’re fine,” I said, trying to level the sound of my voice.Was it working? Or was that a tremble I’d heard?
“No, it’s not. You’re my boss.”
“Not really. Well, kind of,” I rambled. “I mean, I’m not your boss in the truest sense of the word. I don’t pay you. This is just an arrangement, right?”
I swallowed hard, hating myself a little. That was not the right thing to say, and I could see it in his eyes the second the words left my lips.
“Of course. It’s not like this is a real job.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, feeling awful.
“I’m going to go make some coffee or something,” he said softly.
I watched him walk away, the chance to say something sliding through my fingers like sand.
Say it, Elle.
Tell him.
Jump.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there.
Silent. Scared. Sidelined.
Chapter Six
Saturday, July 23, 1988
Sunny
High 86, Low 70
Took William his mail. Sally visited, and we went for groceries. I picked up William’s order. My heel is really hurting—heel spur, I think. After lunch, I sat in the chair most of the afternoon and crocheted. After supper, I went to William’s and visited. I watered the plants when I got back. Mary called today.
Ipushed my back against the sofa, stretching my sore neck and hands out. Squinting my eyes, I tried to make out the time on the tiny clock in the corner of my laptop screen.
Just past eleven.
I’d been working on typing in these journal entries since I got home nearly five hours ago. For the past two weeks, this had become my sole pastime.
Well, this, and ordering takeout from whomever in town would deliver to me.
After about a minute of trying, I’d given up on the dictation software and gone back to just typing everything out. I loathed the sound of my own voice, and I hated knowing I’d have to go back and fix any errors it’d produced.
Plus, the whole thing reminded me far too much of Sawyer, and if I had to be around him all day, I certainly didn’t want my brain filled with thoughts of him all night as well.
