Monday morning.
My head weighs three tons, my eyes sting, and I feel like I swallowed an ashtray.
Thank you, tequila.
I drag myself to the kitchen, barefoot, yesterday's wrinkled dress still hanging off the back of a chair. I take out my mom's miracle cure: two fizzy aspirin tablets, a big glass of sparkling water, a spoonful of honey and a pinch of cayenne pepper. It stings, it burns, but ten minutes later I'm somewhat human again.
I check the time: 8:12 a.m.
If I leave now, I'll barely make it.
I throw on black jeans, a fitted white shirt, a quick bun, and lipstick to pretend "everything's fine."
On the subway, I close my eyes and see that red heart again.
I keep repeating to myself that I'm going to corner him. Calmly. Professionally.
"Ethan, what the hell was that 3 a.m. like about?"
Simple. Direct. Adult.
I push open the glass doors of the lobby at 8:57 on the dot.
Sophie from accounting grabs me in front of the elevator.
"You look like you had a big night!"
"Thanks, Soph. You're so sweet."
"Spill! You went home with someone?"
I shrug.
"A nice guy. Nothing crazy."
She nudges me.
"Don't worry, the next one will be your boss. I've seen the way he looks at you."
I roll my eyes, but my stomach tightens.
Ninth floor.
I drop my bag, turn on my computer, and look straight toward his glass office.
Empty.
Weird. He's always here before everyone else.
I get up and head down to reception. Marc, the friendly security guard who knows everything about everyone, is sipping his coffee.
"Hey Marc, Eth.....Mr. Blackwell already came in?"
He shakes his head.
"Nope, he said he'd be late. His wife got into a small car accident this morning. Nothing serious, apparently, but he's taking her to the ER to get checked."
The word wife hits me like a brick.
I freeze, my mouth slightly open.
"His… wife?"
Marc frowns.
"Well yeah, Claire. You didn't know he was married?"
I slowly shake my head.
"…No."
He shrugs.
"He never talks about it. And he doesn't wear a ring, so a lot of people don't know. I only know because I saw them together at the Christmas party last year."
I mumble a thank you and go back upstairs, legs turning to jelly.
Married.
Ethan is married.
Everything spins.
The elevator looks, the whispers, "I want you," the 3 a.m. heart it all collapses into something else.
He's insane.
Or I'm the one being completely stupid.
I sit at my desk and stare at my screen without seeing it.
No ring. Ever. My memories fast-forward: his hands on the table, on the elevator railing, on my waist in my dream. No band. Not once.
At noon, I drag myself to the cafeteria like a zombie.
The rumor has already circled the open space three times.
Back table: Sophie, Karim and two girls from marketing.
I sit down with my tray, pretending nothing's wrong.
Karim speaks loud, as usual:
"Apparently she got bumped at a red light. Nothing major, just whiplash. But he dropped everything to take her to the hospital."
Sophie: "That's sweet, honestly."
One of the marketing girls snorts.
"Sweet? Claire Allen, seriously? She's an ice queen. Gorgeous, supermodel gorgeous, but the kind who looks at you like you're dirt on her Louboutin."
The other adds:
"Yeah, and honestly I didn't even know they were still together. You never see them. They've been married what… eight years?"
Sophie turns to me.
"You knew, Amelia?"
I shake my head, throat tight.
"No. First I hear of it."
I pick at my salad without tasting it.
Everyone keeps talking about Claire Allen like she's some kind of legend: ruthless businesswoman, heiress of a major luxury company, always perfectly put together, no kids, constant business trips.
And Ethan, the discreet husband who never wears a ring.
I put down my fork.
I feel sick.
I want to see him.
I want him to walk past me, look me in the eyes, so I can explode.
Or cry.
Or both.
I check the clock: 1:47 p.m.
Still not here.
I go back to my desk. I open an email I don't write. I stare at his glass door.
I clench my fists under the table.
Come on, Ethan.
Come so I can ask you to your face what I am to you.
A game?
A whim?
A little mistake you allow yourself because your wife is too cold and your perfect marriage bores you?
I breathe in sharply.
I feel the rage rise, I swallow it down.
But god, when he walks through that door,
he'd better have an explanation.
Because I sure as hell don't.