Page 33 of Empty Net
I stand there with my hands flat on the granite and do not turn on any other lights.
I did not say his name.
I did not look at his face.
I left before morning.
The facts line up in order. Clean. Brutal. Mine.
I close my eyes.
The room does not forgive me. It only holds me.
CALEB
After Nolan leaves, my apartment becomes evidence.
The counter. The hallway wall. The bedroom door not fully closed. The shirt I dropped somewhere between the kitchen and the room. His absence in every place his body was a minute ago.
I stand in the hall for longer than is useful.
Useful is not the correct category. I know this, and still I reach for it. Usefulness has served me well. It got me through Columbus and Nashville and the first month in Atlanta. It got me into Alderman's office at 6:45 in the morning with a conflict disclosure and a voice steady enough to make the right thing sound simple.
Usefulness does not know what to do with the fact that Nolan Cray just left my apartment before midnight and took all the heat out of the room with him.
I retrieve my glasses from the kitchen counter. Put them on. The world sharpens, which feels rude.
There is a bowl of clementines beside the keys. One has rolled near the edge of the counter. I move it back into the bowl because apparently I can restore order to fruit.
The wall by the hallway has a faint mark where my shoulder hit it. I touch it with two fingers. This is not professional behavior. There is no professional behavior left in the apartment.
He wanted me.
That is not in question.
I am very good at questions. I can turn almost anything into one if I need the distance. Did the player demonstrate interest? Was consent clear? Were boundaries observed? Did previous disclosure and recusal adequately remove professional influence? Was there any indication of coercion? The answers are yes, yes, yes, yes, no.
None of those questions touch the center of what happened.
Nolan wanted me and would not look at my face.
The sentence hurts if I let it mean rejection. It becomes easier to bear if I make it accurate.
Nolan wanted me and could not look at my face.
That is different.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets are wrecked. One pillow is on the floor. The gray comforter is twisted halfway off the mattress. My bedroom looks less organized than it has in four years.
Less organized.
I laugh once, not because anything is funny, but because my mother has been training for this phone call my entire life.
I do not call her about Nolan.
This distinction matters to me for approximately twelve seconds.
Then I call her.
