Chapter 6
He showed up at 6:40 p.m. with grocery store peonies and a paper bag from the Thai place we used to order from on Sundays. I watched him from the window of my building on Hudson, his black suit replaced by a sweater and jeans, the same gold belt buckle. My Hampton checkout had been at noon. I'd moved to a sublet on the third floor that a friend from college left me keys for, a studio with a fire escape and a radiator that clicked.
I buzzed him up before I could talk myself out of it. Priya had said "through lawyers" but also "you can listen if you feel safe." I felt safe enough with the chain on.
He stood in the doorway, not crossing. "You got the leave notice," he said.
"Yes," I said.
He set the flowers on the little kitchen counter. "I didn't want you to get pulled into HR. I tried to delete my messages because I panicked. That IT guy—"
"Don't," I said. "Tell me about the bar."
His face tightened. He sat on the edge of the futon like he used to, elbows on knees, the pleading hand from the lobby now flat on his thigh.
"We had a drink at the hallway bar," he said. "Jasmine and I. Before the suites. It was nothing. I paid, we talked about her quota. Then the cufflink thing. I swear the door was stuck."
"Why did you tell her not to mention the bar?"
"Because it looks like we were hiding," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Marisol already thinks— Claire, if you take the post down, HR closes this in a day. We both go back. I talked to Dana Ortiz, she said we could do a separation agreement quietly, no fault, you keep the apartment deposit."
Dana Ortiz, the lawyer he'd seen before the gala. The name on Priya's conflict check.
"You went to a lawyer before you messed up," I said. My voice was quieter than I expected.
"I went because we were fighting," he said. "I thought we needed help. Not this."
He reached into the paper bag and pulled out the green curry container, like feeding me would fix it. The smell filled the small room, coconut and lime.
"Take the post down, Claire. Please. For both of us."
I looked at the peonies, the plastic sleeve still on. I looked at the suitcase in the corner, the white hard shell with silver trim now scuffed at the corner from the marble drag.
"I'm on leave because I told the truth on Slack," I said. "You're on leave because you deleted messages and told Jasmine what to say. Those are not the same."
"It's the same system," he said, and for a second his old charm flickered. "We can still control how this ends. Nobody needs to know the bar part. It means nothing."
"It means you knew it would look bad," I said. "And you tried to make her lie."
He stood, frustrated. "So what, you want me fired? You want a divorce over a drink and a stuck door?"
I opened the door chain. "I want you to leave. And I want you to tell your lawyer to stop texting Jasmine for you."
He didn't move right away. He glanced at the curry, at me, at the suitcase. Then he picked up his coat.
"Priya said you kept the post up," he said at the threshold. "Is that final?"
"Yes," I said. "Until HR tells me what they found, it's staying up."
May you like
He nodded once, jaw tight, and walked down the hall. I locked both locks. The peonies stayed on the counter. I didn't take them out of the plastic. I sat on the futon and texted Priya: "He came by. Asked me to delete post. I said no. He mentioned Dana and the bar." She replied in two minutes: "Good boundary. Document everything. I'll email Marisol."
The radiator clicked loud in the quiet. My laptop sat closed on the table, Slack paused, the job on hold, the marriage in the same waiting place. I left the curry untouched and opened the window to let the cold air in, breathing in the street noise from Hudson, steadying myself on the one thing that hadn't changed since the lobby: I was still holding the line.
