Page 67 of Sexting the Boss
Unknown: Deli next door. Same place you always grab soup when you’re pretending you don’t skip lunch.
My stomach drops.
I don’t remember telling him that. I don’t remember telling him anything recent at all, and that’s the problem. He fills in gaps like they belong to him.
Without thinking too much, I lock my computer and stand up. If I think too much I’ll freeze, and freezing has never helped me. I tell myself I’ll handle it, I’ve done this before, I don’t need help. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going. Once I reach the deli and get inside, my senses register olive oil, toasting bread, and the fresh smell of something citrusy. The noise hits me too. Orders being shouted. A register chiming. Chairs scraping. It feels too normal for what I know is about to happen.
My ex is leaning against the counter.
Same haircut. Same jacket that tries to look expensive and doesn’t quite manage it. Same eyes that never soften when he smiles. He looks older, harder around the mouth, but not changed in any way that matters.
He grins when he sees me.
“There you are,” he says. “Thought you might pretend not to get my message.”
I stop a few feet away from him and keep my bag tight against my side. “What do you want.”
He laughs, low and pleased, like the sound itself is supposed to get under my skin. “Straight to business. You always were like that when you were scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I say, and it’s half true, which is better than lying.
“You ran,” he replies. “That tells me enough.”
“I left,” I correct. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They were to me.” His eyes flick over me, slow and proprietary, and I fight the urge to step back. “You clean up nice now. Office job suits you. Makes you look respectable.”
“That’s not a compliment,” I say.
He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was.”
I glance toward the door, calculating distance, exits, timing. I’m already planning how to leave without escalating, which irritates me because I shouldn’t have to do this math.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “You know that.”
He leans closer. “I knew where you’d be.”
“That’s not impressive,” I say. “It’s unsettling.”
His smile thins. “You always had a word for things that made you uncomfortable.”
“I learned them after I left you,” I say.
That gets a reaction. His jaw flexes. His eyes sharpen. “You didn’t leave. You vanished. No note. No explanation. Just gone.”
“I told you I was done,” I say. “You just didn’t accept it.”
He laughs again, but it sounds tight now. “You never did finish things properly. You liked leaving people wondering.”
“I left because you hurt me.” I keep my voice level because raising it will give him something he wants.
He steps closer, enough that I smell his cologne, and it turns my stomach. “You exaggerate.”
I don’t respond. I’ve learned better than to debate my own memory.
“You owe me a conversation,” he says. “Closure.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
