Page 3 of The Words We Lost

“It’s unanimous then. Tomorrow it is.” He nods decidedly before he reroutes our conversation. “How about you catch me up on everything I missed at the meeting over lunch? My treat.”

His lunch offer triggers my pace to quicken as I imagine SaBrina finishing up her Greek salad sometime in the next hour and coming to knock on my door. “Sorry, but I really can’t today. I need to prepare for a meeting.”

“What meeting? I cleared the majority of your schedule for conference prep this week.”

Only six more doors until I reach my office. I do my best to mask the fear in my tone and punch the words out in rapid succession. “SaBrina requested a meeting with me this afternoon.”

“What? Why? If there’s more on that Sutter’s Mill proposal she wants then I’ll—”

“It’s not about the proposal.”

His cadence slows to a crawl. “Then what’s it about?”

From experience, I know how impossible it will be to divert Chip’s attention away from something he wants, so when he tips his head toward the alcove sandwiched between the women’s bathroom and the break room, I don’t decline the invitation. One way or another, this conversation is happening.

Once we’re hidden from view, I move my hand to my chest to feel for the fabric that rests directly under my clavicle. Absently, I rub at the spot, finding little comfort as I speak the truth I’ve been afraid to say for months. “I think she’s figured out you’ve been covering for me.”

He lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug as if completely undaunted by my admission. “I’m an editorial assistant; assisting editors is literallywhat I’m paid to do here. My work on that proposal shouldn’t be a big deal.”

I exhale and try my best to look like an authority figure, though at the moment I feel about as powerful as a cocooned butterfly. “You and I both know you’ve given me far more help than any editor should request of their assistant—which is why it can’t continue. Today was the last time you can help me like that.”

His voice collapses into a hush. “You didn’t request anything of me, Ioffered. Just like you offered to take me on as a college intern two years ago when not a single editor here was willing to give me a chance. I wouldn’t have a job if not for you.” The permanent glint in his eyes turns mischievous. “You do realize it’s not possible to load every manuscript into that robotic reading app you’ve been using, right? If you turn the listening speed up any higher on that thing, you’ll put yourself at risk for a stroke.” He shakes his head as if this is all a simple misunderstanding and not an elaborate scheme we’ve been playing at for months. “I’m a freakishly fast reader and you’re...”Broken, I think, as he pauses to select his word choice before finishing with, “Experiencing a temporary setback. Your therapist said your brain fog would normalize in time, right?”

That’s not exactly how Dr. Rogers had put it, but this alcove isn’t conducive to such a personal conversation. What my therapist had actually said was that if I was willing to do the work, willing to walk backward in time and navigate the loss that stifled my ability to comprehend the written word, I might improve.Might. But he also made certain to tell me that trauma responses like the one I’ve been experiencing for the better part of a year come with no certainties or guarantees.

A life lesson I know all too well.

I stop scanning the dozen or so empty cubicles in the center of our third-floor office building and return my gaze to Chip, willing the courage to come. “I think it’s time I tell her the truth about what’s really going on with me.”

I knew I couldn’t keep such a limiting handicap a secret for longin an industry built on books. Chip’s superpowers in speed-reading manuscripts may have bought me borrowed time, but now that time is up, and I can’t allow his career to sink with mine. I know too much about life at sea to let Chip jump in after me when I’m the one flailing and sputtering for breath.

“You can’t.” All pretense of calm washes from his face. “SaBrina isn’t like Barry.” He eyes me as if I’ve somehow missed the last nine months under the command of an editorial dictator. “If you tell her you can’t keep up with the reading requirements of this job, she won’t suddenly respect you for your honesty, she’ll fire you for incompetence. She’s fired staff for a lot less—just think about how many receptionists we’ve gone through.”

I know he isn’t wrong, but I don’t see another option. Sometime within the next hour SaBrina is going to march into my office and accuse me of using my grief as some kind of unethical hall pass to shirk my work responsibilities onto my assistant, and I have no real defense. Because in some twisted version, it’s true. Once again, grief has stolen something irreplaceable from me.

Needing to move, I make a break from the alcove and into the fresh air of the hallway. Chip follows at a clipped pace.

“Okay, I say we grab a couple of subs from Luigi’s and talk through a new game plan because unlike you, I’m not used to biking twenty miles each morning on my Peloton. And even though I’m not sure how many miles I biked in the rain with a flat, I do know my brain cells will combust from lack of sustenance if I don’t eat something soon. I also know your hangry eyes are starting to show.”

“You’re not hearing me, Chip. There are no more game plans for the two of us to make together. This ismyproblem to fix. I made this mess, not you.”

“But—”

“No.” I shake my head, cutting him off. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but from this point on, it’s best you’re not involved. I can handle SaBrina on my own.”

He eyes me unconvincingly, but Chip doesn’t know how manytimes SaBrina has badgered me on the whereabouts ofThe Fate of Kings, or how many times she’s insisted I turn Cece’s laptop over to our IT department so they can scour the hard drive more closely, or how many times she’s managed to work in questions about my current relationship status with the Campbell family into professional conversations—particularly why I was named one of the two trustee holders of Cece’s intellectual property. Given that the estate details have never been public record, I still haven’t a clue how SaBrina gleaned that tidbit of information. Somehow, the woman has eyes and ears everywhere.

“Go save your brain cells from combustion,” I encourage Chip, now standing outside of my closed office door and testing out what is likely a sad and pathetic version of a smile. “If you hurry, maybe you can catch a sidewalk sale on a pair of pants so you can ask Chelsea out before the end of the day.” I’m not sure I’ve ever used her actual name with him before, but I need Chip to leave because I can’t think when he’s looking at me as if I’ve already been given the ax.

“Fine,” he says resolutely. “I’ll go, but I still say that telling SaBrina about your brain fog is a huge mistake. There has to be another way.”

He walks away without looking back, and I watch until he reaches the elevator lobby. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if I could just think for a minute there might be a way to keep my job while also keeping Chip out of trouble. I skim my teeth over my bottom lip and reach for my office door, thinking of the lone protein bar at the bottom of my desk drawer. Maybe Chip’s right about my hangry eyes showing. First, I’ll eat; then I’ll strategize.

I push into my office and immediately startle back.

A heart-stopping, electric current stuns all five of my senses at once at the sight of the broad-shouldered man staring out my office window. For the briefest of seconds, every shattered thing in my world pushes to the periphery to make way for a hope that hurts nearly as badly as the heartache it’s desperate to replace. On sheer instinct, my body moves towards him, desiring a reunion I’ve never allowed, a restoration I’ve never believed possible. But as soon ashe faces me, it all comes rushing back into focus again. The place and time I yearn for in my restless dreams no longer exists. And yet somehow, the past I fled is standing right in front of me, hundreds of miles off course and a handful of years too late.

For an immeasurable amount of time, neither of us speaks, allowing my brain the space it needs to thrust my last in-person memory of Joel Campbell to the surface. Joel: sitting in the front row of Lighthouse Community Fellowship at Cece’s funeral next to a leggy redhead who fiddles with the yellow marigold pinned to his lapel. Me: sitting two rows behind them in the not-quite-family-but-more-than-friend section. Perhaps the most honest definition of the in-between I straddled as Captain Hal’s daughter and Joel Campbell’s...whatever we once were to each other.

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