Page 16 of A Taste of Vanilla

I stare at the handle and think of the croissant. All of those layers. The butter folded into the dough, again and again, each turn creating something delicate and breakable. It takes time to make a croissant properly. Patience, protection, and restraint. I had woken up early to make them. Four-thirty, to be exact. Because Grant had an eight o’clock meeting and I wanted to catch him before his day got away from him. I had spent the whole night convincing myself I had overreacted. I loved him, and love means you keep trying.

Another sound comes from behind the door. This one, however, is unmistakable.

A woman’s soft gasp.

My hand moves before I can think. The door opens, and for one second, no one understands what’s happening.

The office is bright with morning sun. Glass, chrome, navy and wood accents… Grant’s suit jacket hangs over the back of his chair. His tie is loose. His white shirt is open at the collar.

Elise is perched on the edge of his desk, one heel on the floor and the other dangling. Her blouse is unbuttoned enough, but my brain refuses to count how many. Grant stands between herknees with one hand braced beside her hip and the other tangled in her hair.

They both turn. Grant understands the gravity of this first.

Shock, then guilt, and then what I assume to be irritation. I’ve seen it enough. But it’s gone so fast I almost miss it.

Elise makes a small sound and scrambles away, tugging her blouse.

The coffees spill from my hand, hitting the floor with wet, ugly bursts. One of the lids pops off, ice scattered across the hardwood. Coffee spreads under my boots, pale and sweet and humiliatingly domestic in this situation.

The pastry box is still at my side. I could hold onto it through an apocalypse. Grant isn’t worth that.

“Halston,” Grant says, but my name ends up sounding wrong coming from his mouth. Not because he says it with fear, but because he says it like I’m doing something that’s entirely inconvenient. Like I had interrupted.

I had.

I look at Elise. She’s pale beneath her makeup, her hands shaking as she buttons her blouse. One of them is misaligned, and I want to laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it feels easier than collapsing.

I look back at Grant. His hair is messy, which is a shock. He never lets it get messy. I’ve seen him in bed, in the shower, halfway through the flu, and once after a charity 5k he had only run because his father sponsored it. His hair has never looked like this. Even in bed with me. Even after we had gotten engaged.

Elise did that.

Something in me cracks.

Grant steps toward me. “This isn’t?—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out calmly.

He stops.

Elise whispers, “I’m so sorry.” I look at her again and honestly? She looks sorry.

It makes me hate her more. Not because she was the only person who did something wrong. Not because Grant was less guilty. He was monumentally guilty. A whole skyscraper of guilt in an expensive watch. But Elise’s sorry forces me to acknowledge that what I saw happening was real. People don’t apologize for misunderstandings while they sit in their boss’s office with their shirts buttoned wrong.

“Halston,” Grant says again. It’s softer this time. He’s negotiating. “Let me explain.”

I look down at the coffee spreading across the floor. One of the cups had landed upside down near his desk. The order sticker faced up.

GRANT— ICED AMERICANO, LIGHT ICE.

I remembered he prefers light ice because he hates when drinks get watered down. I’ve always known that. I know his preferences well. Light ice, blue ties for investor meetings, no garlic before dinner with clients, he sleeps on the left side of the bed because he hates being far from the door, he loathes when I leave wet towels on chairs, and he likes my lemon scones but not my vanilla ones because a client pointed out a speck of vanilla bean between his teeth once.

He thinks my laugh is beautiful in private, but far too loud in restaurants.

I know him, and yet somehow, I hadn’t known this.

“There’s nothing to explain,” I say.

Grant inhales. “That’s not fair.”