The day ended—well, okay—besides Ms. Fallon's mistakes and Marcie's slight bicker towards me in the breakroom. Strangely enough, I was the only one smiling when the elevator doors slid shut. By we, I mean Marcie and me. Ms. Fallon had vanished down the stairwell, her mascara gone and her upbeat attitude apparently with it. The tension was obvious. As a businessman, I felt compelled to smooth it over. Maybe it was the melatonin gummies I'd taken earlier, but for once in the day, I felt relaxed.
Marcie hadn't pressed the button yet. She knows I don't touch common surfaces.
"Should we talk, or—"
"That won't be necessary," she said robotically.
"Ms. Fallon helped a lot this morning."
"So I've heard."
"Were you worried about me?"
Only then did she press the button. The elevator lurched downward.
"Not at all," she replied. "I've always had full confidence in Ms. Fallon."
I expected we'd continue walking together once we reached the lobby, but instead she turned back with a polite smile.
"Good night."
"Your car's this way," I said, pointing toward the street.
"I parked somewhere else."
She was gone before I could get another word in. So much for extinguishing the tension.
The next morning, I was already seated at Grant's desk when he breezed in, cheerful as always. He didn't notice me at first—then froze.
"Are you all right? You look terrible. Did Marcie cut you back to one caffeine pill? I know your doctor—"
"No." I stood, moving to the door. "Ms. Fallon is here today. Marcie came earlier but left. At her request."
"Oh... so she really is leaving."
I clicked my tongue, debating whether to go, but I still needed answers.
"What does it mean when someone says they want to live their own life? Is that good or bad?"
Grant tilted his head.
"Depends."
"So—in Marcie's case?"
"She's been here a decade. Maybe she just wants to try something else."
"But she's well paid. And my mother mentioned marriage—people her age, settling down. Is Marcie looking into that?"
"Ennio—I don't know. Possibly."
"She was acting strange when I showed up at her house."
"You went to her house?"
"With a gift. But that doesn't matter. She was avoiding her feelings. I know they're for me."
Grant looked like he was suppressing a laugh. He hasn't seen how strangely she's been acting.
"She's been with me for ten years," I pressed.
"Have you ever considered," he asked carefully, "that maybe you like her?"
We stared at each other. My brain's gears began to turn.
No. I can't like Marcie. She's perfect for the role of secretary—looks included. But not in that way.
"As a friend," Grant said gently, "I know your thing about avoiding women. Maybe use this time—while she's not around—to figure out why. You might find an answer."
I know the answer. But I'll never say it.
What kind of grown man admits his nightmares still hunt him? That monsters stalk him in the dark and leave him paralyzed in his closet? It's pathetic. Embarrassing enough that it's been happening since I moved to California. And I don't have time for childish fears.