He arrived at 7:02 p.m.
I heard the knock and stood in my living room for three full seconds before I opened the door.
Clayton stood in the hallway with two bags of takeout and a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He'd changed. Dark jeans. A gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He looked like someone who'd just finished a long day and decided to bring dinner to a colleague.
Except we both knew that wasn't what this was.
"Thai okay?" he asked.
I looked at the bags. The logo was familiar. The restaurant on Capitol Hill we used to go to every other Friday.
"Yeah," I said. "It's fine."
He stepped inside. I closed the door.
He set the bags on the kitchen counter and pulled out containers. Pad see ew. Spring rolls. Panang curry. He remembered.
Of course he remembered.
"I'll get plates," I said.
We ate at the kitchen table with the project files spread between us. He walked me through the asset list, pointing out gaps I'd missed, asking questions that forced me to think three steps ahead. He was good at this. He'd always been good at this.
I hated that I'd forgotten.
"You're prioritizing wrong," he said, tapping the spreadsheet. "You're thinking about what's urgent. You need to think about what's load-bearing."
"Load-bearing," I repeated.
"The thing that holds everything else up. If it fails, the whole structure collapses." He looked at me. "The asset list is load-bearing. The client deck isn't."
I nodded. Took a bite of curry. It tasted exactly the way I remembered.
"Do you still run along the waterfront?" he asked.
I set my fork down.
He wasn't looking at the files anymore. He was looking at me.
"Sometimes," I said.
He nodded slowly. "I thought I saw you. A few months ago. Early morning."
My chest tightened. "You didn't say anything."
"No."
"Why not?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Because you looked like you were trying very hard to be someone who didn't think about me."
The air in the room changed.
I should have said something. Should have steered us back to the spreadsheet, back to the safe perimeter we'd been maintaining for two weeks.
I didn't.
"I was," I said.
He didn't move. "Did it work?"
"No."
The word hung between us.
He stood. Slowly. He walked around the table and stopped in front of me. I looked up.
"Tell me to leave," he said quietly.
I didn't.
He reached down and pulled me to my feet. His hand slid to the back of my neck, and then his mouth was on mine and the year we'd spent apart collapsed into nothing.
I kissed him back. Hard. My hands fisted in his sweater and pulled him closer. He made a sound low in his throat and backed me against the counter. The edge dug into my spine. I didn't care.
His hands moved to my waist, then under my shirt. His palms were warm. I arched into him and he lifted me onto the counter. I wrapped my legs around him and he kissed me like he was trying to make up for twelve months in twelve seconds.
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
The project files ended up on the floor. My shirt ended up on a chair. His sweater ended up somewhere I didn't track.
We ended up on the couch, then the rug, then finally the bed, and by the time we stopped moving the sky outside was dark and my lungs were burning and I couldn't remember why I'd thought I could survive without this.
Afterward, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. Clayton's arm was across my stomach. His breathing had slowed.
"This doesn't change anything," I said.
He didn't answer right away.
"Okay," he said finally.
I turned my head. He was looking at me.
"I mean it," I said.
"I know."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe myself.
I fell asleep before I could decide if I did.
When I woke, the bed was empty.
I sat up. The apartment was quiet. His clothes were gone. The messenger bag was gone.
I walked into the kitchen.
The counter was clean. The project files were stacked neatly on the table. The takeout containers were in the recycling.
There was fresh coffee in the pot.
And on the coffeemaker, a yellow Post-it note.
*The Thai place changed ownership. The new one is better.*
I stood there in my T-shirt and bare feet and stared at the note.
Then I ripped it off, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash.
I poured myself coffee. Drank it black. Got dressed.
By the time I walked into the office at 8:47 a.m., I was armored.
Sandra looked up from her desk. "Morning."
"Morning," I said.
I sat down. Opened my laptop. Pulled up the revised asset list and sent it to the creative team.
At 9:15 a.m., Clayton walked past my desk.
"Morning, Margot," he said. Calm. Professional. The same tone he used with everyone.
I didn't look up. "Morning."
He kept walking.
Sandra leaned over the partition. "You okay?"
"Great," I said.
She studied me for a long moment. Then she went back to her screen.
I stared at my laptop and told myself I was fine.
I told myself last night didn't mean anything.
I told myself I didn't still taste him on my lips.
I told myself a lot of things.
None of them were true.
