Page 124 of Sexting the Boss
I stare at him, and it hits me, sudden and unfair, how tired he looks under the polish. Not tired in a tragic way. Tired in the way men get when they’ve carried responsibility as a habit, and then someone they care about makes the weight personal.
He adds, “I’m sorry for the deli. I’m sorry for following you, and I’m sorry I made you feel like your choices didn’t matter.”
My pulse ticks up, and I press my tongue to my teeth, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“You did make me feel like that,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “And I’m not asking you to forget it. I’m telling you I’m changing it.”
I want to ask how, and I want to demand proof, and I want to be difficult, since difficulty has kept me alive.
Instead, I do the thing that scares me more.
I step closer too.
“Okay,” I say, quiet in my own way, which is to say, blunt and honest. “Here’s what I need. I need you to ask, not assume. I need you to let me say no without acting like it’s rejection. I need you to stop showing up in my life like a surprise inspection.”
He nods. “Done.”
“And I need,” I continue, voice cracking at the edges, “for you to understand that when I pull away, I’m not playing games. I’m trying to breathe.”
His hand lifts, then stops, hovering near my cheek like he’s waiting for permission.
I give it by leaning into him.
His palm cups my face, warm and firm, and the simple steadiness of it makes my eyes sting.
“I can do that,” he says.
I swallow. “Good.”
He brushes his thumb along my cheekbone, then drops his hand, and that alone is a statement. He can touch me and also let go. He can hold and not trap.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten it before I drown in feelings. “Are we done being idiots?”
He looks at me for a beat, then he smiles, real. “We’ll probably still be idiots.”
“Great,” I mutter. “I love consistent branding.”
He laughs, and the sound shifts something in my chest, like my body finally believes the emergency is ending.
“Get dressed,” he says.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“We’re going out,” he replies. “A date. You said you wanted normal.”
I narrow my eyes. “Normal people don’t go on dates the day after dismantling a money laundering network.”
“Normal people don’t do half the things you do,” he says, calm. “But you still deserve dinner.”
I want to argue. I also want to say yes so fast it’s embarrassing.
“What kind of dinner,” I ask, suspicious.
“The kind with cloth napkins,” he says. “The kind with menus that don’t have pictures.”
I groan. “So, emotional damage with a side of overpriced vegetables.”
