Chapter 8
The diner was two blocks down from the office building, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that had been on the burner since morning. I got there at 8:15 and she was already there. The blonde woman from the office. No taupe suit this time, just a cream sweater and the same gold belt cinched over dark pants. She had taken the booth in the back, away from the window, and she didn't stand when I slid in across from her.
"You ordered?" she asked.
I hadn't. My tote was on the seat beside me, heavy against my hip. I shook my head.
She flagged the waitress with two fingers. "Two coffees. Black for me. Whatever she wants."
"Black is fine," I said.
When the waitress left, the woman folded her hands on the table. Up close she was older than I'd thought in the office, lines around her eyes that the even office lighting had smoothed out. Her nail polish was pale and chipped.
"I'm Diane Fletcher," she said. "HR. Well, senior partner oversight now. I was in that room because Ryan requested a neutral. That's my role."
I nodded. My throat was dry. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call you."
"Diane is fine."
The coffees came. She waited until the waitress was gone again before she spoke.
"I asked you here because I didn't like how that went the other day," she said. "Ryan turning it into — what he did. You shouldn't walk into Thursday without knowing what's actually on the table."
I wrapped my hands around the mug. It was too hot to drink. "Thursday is still on?"
"It is. Ten a.m. Same room. He insists on the same room."
I breathed in. The diner smelled like bacon grease and cleaner.
Diane leaned forward a little. "You left in February. Is that right?"
"January," I said. "I moved out January 19th."
She nodded like she'd expected that correction. "After you left, Ryan stayed on as project lead for the Meridian account. He missed two client deadlines in March. He no-showed a presentation in April — the client flew in from Denver. He told them his wife had just left him and he was not in a good place. He used those words."
I felt my stomach tighten. I stared at the steam coming off my coffee.
"By May, Meridian pulled the account," she went on, her voice low and even, not unkind. "That's a seven-figure account. The partners put him on leave. He came back in June and told management you had sabotaged his reputation. That you had called clients. That you had ruined his life."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "I didn't call anyone. I didn't talk to anyone at the firm after I left. I changed my number."
"I know," she said. "We checked the call logs. We interviewed the clients. No one heard from you. What happened after you left was Ryan not showing up. Not answering emails. Drinking at lunch. That was his."
So that was it. The blue fabric in the box, the office, the whole performance — it wasn't about us. Not really. When he stood behind that cream chair and said you ruined my life, he wasn't talking about our marriage. He was talking about his job. His reputation. The life he had built on being the reliable man in the navy suit. And he needed me to have ruined it, because the alternative was that he had.
"It was easier if it was me," I said quietly.
Diane's eyes held mine. "Yes."
We sat for a minute while the diner filled around us. A truck driver paid at the register. The cook called an order.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because on Thursday he will try to do it again. In that room, on record, he'll say you ruined him and hope you apologize or argue or cry and it will muddy the water. I need a clean record. No interruptions. One person speaks at a time. Everything stated clearly for the notes. No one gets to perform."
I thought about the box still sitting on that chair. The folded blue fabric inside it that I now knew was not a gift or an apology but a prop he had chosen.
"You'll be there?" I said.
"I will be there. I will stop him if he interrupts. I will stop you if you do. Same rule for both. Statements on record, then we close. You bring the box or you don't, but if you bring it, you state what it is and what you want done with it."
I finally lifted the coffee and sipped. It was bitter and hot and it grounded me.
"And if he says it again? That I ruined his life?"
"Then you say what you said last time," Diane said. "Calmly. On record. And I will make sure the record shows his timeline came after your departure, not because of it. That's not me taking your side. That's the file."
I nodded. My hands were steadier now. The tote beside me felt less heavy.
"Ten a.m.," she said. "Come five minutes early. Use the side entrance. I'll meet you in the hall."
May you like
We both stood. She left three dollars on the table for the coffee.
Outside, the morning was bright and the sidewalk was already warm. I walked to my car knowing exactly what he meant now and exactly what I would not carry for him.
