Page 77 of The Associate
“Sometimes in the same minute.”
Penny didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.
“The safe part,” she said, her voice gaining a firm, protective edge, “is what matters. That’s the real thing. Nurture that. Protect it like it’s the last match in a storm. Guard it with your life.” She paused, her eyes holding his.
“The other part… that’s the old garbage talking. The stuff they put in our heads to keep us controlled and afraid. You have to talk to him about that. You have to tell him when you feel small. If he’s worth the safe part,” she said, her gaze unwavering, “he’ll listen. He’ll hear you. If he’s not…” She let the implication hang, clear and stark. “You’ll know.”
The afternoon light had softened, slanting longer and more golden through the coffee shop windows. The mugs were empty, leaving only circular stains on the wooden table.
Chloe flagged down the server and paid the bill with a smile, waving off Samuel’s fumbling attempt to reach for his wallet. “Next time,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
As they shuffled out of the booth, gathering scarves and coats from the bench, Penny paused. She rummaged in her large, slouchy leather bag, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hang on,” she murmured. Her hand emerged clutching a paperback book. The cover was unassuming, a soothing wash of color with clean, simple typography.
She turned to Samuel and pressed it into his hands. The book was warm. The edges were slightly softened from use.
“This helped me untangle some of the knots,” she said, her voice low and matter-of-fact. “It’s not an instant fix. It’s just… tools. For understanding why we feel broken,” she met his eyes, her gaze steady and sure, “and that we’re not.”
Samuel looked down at the book in his hands. The weight was solid, real. He ran his thumb over the cover.
“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate but heartfelt. He slipped the book into the inner pocket of his coat, where it rested against his chest.
Outside, the late afternoon air had a crisp bite. They stood for a moment on the sidewalk, the city moving around them in its endless, indifferent flow. Penny turned to him and opened her arms. He stepped into the hug, and it was different from their stiff, obligatory embrace after their date. He could feel the strength in her, the resilience. Chloe hugged him next, a brisk, warm squeeze. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”
He watched them go. Chloe’s arm slid around Penny’s waist, tucking her close against the chill. Penny’s head tilted to rest against Chloe’s shoulder as they walked, their steps in sync. They were a unit, a fortress of two against the world. He watched until they turned a corner and were gone, swallowed by the city.
He stood alone on the sidewalk, the ghost of their warmth still on his skin, the solid weight of the book a pressure over his heart. The shame over the previous night with Gael was stillthere, a cold, familiar knot in his gut. But it was no longer the only occupant.
Now, it shared space with something new. Penny had given him a question, a litmus test he could hold up to the blinding, confusing intensity of Gael:Safe or small?
And she gave him a proof. Tangible, walking-away-down-the-street proof. A happy life after The Hills wasn’t a whispered fantasy or a sin-laden dream. It was a choice. It was a daily, deliberate fight against the old garbage, fought with tools and talk and the brave, terrifying act of holding another’s hand in the light.
∞∞∞
Gael
The private room at Le Berceau was a study in hushed power. The walls were lined with dark, sound-absorbing velvet, the light cast from low, bronze sconces that painted the men around the table in chiaroscuro; sharp planes of cheekbone and jaw, pools of shadow in the hollows of eyes. The air smelled of aged leather, rare steak, and the rich, peaty scent of the single-malt whiskey already breathing in a crystal decanter at the table's center.
Gael entered last, as was his custom. A silent attendant pulled the heavy door shut behind him, sealing them in.
The others were already in their usual seats. Landen, in a navy cashmere sweater, held court from the head of the table, his laughter a warm rumble. Jaden sat ramrod straight to his right,his posture so precise Gael sometimes wondered how his spine didn't already snap, his fingers aligning his cutlery with surgical focus. Adrian, across from him, was already dissecting the wine list with a sommelier, his voice a low murmur. And Sebastian, at the far end, simply existed, a mountain of quiet authority, watching the room from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, a half-smile playing on his lips as he observed Landen’s performance.
Greetings were terse, a language of grunts and glances. A nod from Sebastian. A lifted chin from Jaden. Adrian paused his conversation to offer a faint, acknowledging smile. Landen’s gaze swept to Gael, his grin widening.
“Took you long enough,” Landen said, his voice filling the comfortable space. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “We were about to send a search party. Thought you might have gotten trapped in a stack of briefs.”
Gael slid into the empty chair opposite Sebastian, the leather sighing under his weight. He reached for the decanter, the heavy crystal cool in his hand. He poured two fingers, the liquid catching the low light like captured fire. “Some of us have clients who require more than a catchy headline and a photo spread,” he replied, his voice dry. He brought the glass to his lips, the whiskey a smooth, burning path down his throat.
Jaden, without looking up from the perfect ninety-degree angle he’d achieved between his knife and fork, spoke in his clipped, quiet baritone. “He means his billable hours actually pay for the whiskey you’re guzzling, Landen.”
A quiet chuckle emanated from the end of the table. Sebastian leaned back, the shadows deepening the lines of his face. “Let him be,” he rumbled, his voice like stones settling. “He’s cranky when he’s hungry. Order the steak, Gael. You look peaked.”
The waiter materialized as if summoned by magic, and they placed their orders.
As the waiter vanished as quickly as he appeared, the conversation seamlessly shifted.
“Had to release the pianist last week,” Adrian said, sipping his wine. “Safe word adherence became…interpretive.”
