Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(17)

When she says his name, I feel him. Feel his smile, his hands; I feel his lips against my neck. He’s never far away. Never out of my mind, always causing ripples. No, I’m not done with Robert Dade. I’m not sure I ever will be.





CHAPTER 7





THE NEXT MORNING comes too soon. The drum of regret pounds gently at my temples, reminding me of last night’s decadence. The moment I arrive at work Barbara tells me in a voice laced with marvel and glee that I’m being moved to Tom’s office.

I nod, unable to show enthusiasm. “Did Mr. Dade call?” I ask. He hadn’t called the night before. There were no texts on my phone this morning.

Barbara shakes her head, her loose curls holding absurdly still due to an excess of hair spray. “You two didn’t have a spat, did you?” She leans forward conspiratorially, “I liked Dave but Mr. Dade is so much hotter.”

I bristle at the remark. It’s not fair to Dave that he be compared to Robert. They are no longer competing for the same prize. I nod curtly at Barbara and walk into the office I’m about to abandon.

I’ll be moving one floor up, a physical symbol of my current trajectory. I don’t make a fuss. No one comes to my office to congratulate me or help me in the move. It doesn’t take long. Six years and the only things in my office are papers and files. No pictures of kids, no cute little paperweights, no paintings that weren’t placed there by the company. There’s nothing in here that says, This is Kasie’s office, except for those files, which, of course, are more than enough. Many a night I have found comfort in the numbers and calculations that are stored so neatly in files and storage disks. Their cold logic is something I can count on. If I could manage to turn my entire life into a math equation, I’m sure I could figure it out.

Still, I’ve become accustomed to my office, the way the drawers of the file cabinets creak their greetings when I pull them open. I’m fond of my desk with its hardwood dyed black, the subtle curve of its legs that hint at a certain femininity to this utilitarian piece of furniture.

But of course my new office is better. The view shows a little more of the city, the desk is made of a slightly better wood, the chair is a little more comfortable. The only thing that intimidates me is the work that waits for me here. Files stacked on top of one another are filled with information about departments I’ve never been briefed on. My in-box is flooded with information that needs learning and questions that need answers. I will be organizing teams for projects without knowing the players I’ll be picking from. I will be helping those teams address problems I don’t understand. Mr. Costin seems to have “forgotten” to give me password access to some files I’ll need in order to manage the departments successfully, so I end up spending at least an hour talking to the IT guys—IT guys who, if I didn’t know better, were instructed to deliberately try my patience. I might have written it off as the normal inconvenience of tech problems if I didn’t see one of them smirk when I wondered aloud why Mr. Costin hadn’t given me the authorization he knew I’d need.

And still Robert doesn’t call.

I spend the day reading and taking notes. A few of the people who will be working for me stop by to offer congratulations. All the words are right and the bitterness is concealed but I can still detect it. I can see the gleam of resentment in their eyes as they shake my hand, offer their help in the transition, and so on. None of them loved Tom but they all respected his work. Will they feel that way about me? Is that what I want? Respect mingled with animosity? Well, you play the hand you’re dealt. I bend my head over yet another file.

And still he doesn’t call.

It’s a good thing, I tell myself. I need some space from him. I can’t have him touching me with his voice, his eyes, his hands every day. He wants to corrupt me. I need space from him so that doesn’t happen. It’s good that he hasn’t called.

I keep reading the file, a low level of anxiety quickening my pulse.

Eventually the night arrives. I don’t leave until six thirty. There’s no point in staying longer. I can only learn so much in one day.

I’m ill at ease as I enter the garage, step into my car. Mr. Costin did not come to see me and when I tried to call him with questions, my calls were sent to voice mail. He’s trying to help me fail.

I pull my car onto the busy city streets. As usual the traffic is an exercise in patience. Most Angelenos can tolerate it as long as we’re moving forward. It’s when traffic is completely stopped that we become agitated. That’s when we have to admit that we chose the wrong route and are not going anywhere at all.