The next afternoon, Emerson finished his negotiations in Geneva. He walked alone down the cobblestone streets of the Old Town.
As he passed an antique stationery shop, a glint of black and gold caught his eye.
He pushed the door open. He asked the shopkeeper to take out the 1920s vintage fountain pen from the display case.
The cold, heavy metal against his fingers instantly brought back the memory of Faith chewing on her plastic pen during their late-night calls.
He pictured the stubborn, degree-less girl who could write circles around seasoned professionals.
"I'll take it. Wrap it, please," Emerson said, handing over his black card.
Walking back out into the crisp European air, he pulled out his phone. He looked at the call log, still ending with Faith's abrupt hang-up.
He still believed she was a temperamental teenager. But an irritating, persistent urge to fix the disconnect pushed his thumb to the screen.
He snapped a photo of Lake Geneva and sent it to her.
How is the European copy progressing? he typed.
In Brooklyn, Faith was staring at her laptop with dark circles under her eyes.
Her phone buzzed. She saw the photo of the lake. Her chest tightened painfully.
She zoomed in on the picture. She scrutinized the reflections in the glass windows of the boats, desperately looking for the silhouette of the French woman. She found nothing.
The sour taste of jealousy flooded her mouth again. He was on a romantic getaway with his partner, and he was texting her about work? It was cruel.
She built a wall of ice around her heart.
Everything is fine, she typed, her fingers hitting the screen hard. I won't interrupt you and your partner's vacation anymore.
On the street in Geneva, Emerson stopped dead in his tracks.
He stared at the word partner. His dark eyebrows slammed together.
Suddenly, the pieces clicked. The abrupt yelling. The hanging up.
She thought the woman at the door last night was his girlfriend.
A bizarre, completely inappropriate surge of pleasure hit Emerson's chest. She was jealous.
But the image of a nineteen-year-old girl immediately doused the fire. He rubbed his temples, a headache building behind his eyes.
He stood on the sidewalk and typed rapidly with one hand.
You misunderstood. I don't have a partner. That was a colleague last night.
He stared at the text. It wasn't definitive enough.
I am currently single, he added. And I have zero interest in office romances.
In her Brooklyn apartment, Faith read the two messages popping up on her screen.
She froze. Her entire body turned to stone.
No partner. Single. Colleague.
The words exploded in her brain. The heavy, suffocating jealousy vanished, instantly replaced by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated mortification.
She had acted like a jealous, bitter ex-girlfriend to a professional consultant who was just trying to help her.
Heat rushed to her face, burning her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She wanted the floorboards of her apartment to open up and swallow her whole.
She covered her burning face with both hands and let out a pathetic groan.
She had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.
Ten minutes passed. Emerson watched the empty chat screen. He let out a long, slow breath, sliding the boxed vintage pen into his coat pocket.
He locked his phone. He would deal with the little menace when he got back to New York. He turned and walked toward the waiting car to take him to the airport.
