She exhales loudly through her nose, tutting.
I go back to my desk, control slightly restored. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
Clara struts into my office about an hour later. “You need to leave. You’re going to be late.”
I glance at my clock. Ten a.m. I have to be at the retreat in one hour for a site visit.
I don’t want to go.
He’ll be there.
That kiss. It’s been on repeat since the flowers were delivered. Excruciatingly enjoyable, but bloody distracting. My work productivity today is zero.
I haven’t been kissed in a long time. And I don’t remember the last time it felt that good.
Dangerous, but good.
I don’t know if I can let myself go there. The last time—my ex-husband—he left me when I needed him. So, to leave myself vulnerable again, I’m not sure I’m ready. Why step into the lion’s cage when you’re safe on the outside? In my experience, all love brings is loss.
Life on my own has suited me for years. I’ve been able to focus on what keeps the memories at bay. Pour myself into Opengate. Carve a path that suits me without risking who I love. Whenthere’s no one, you can take every step with confidence that the only person you can hurt is you.
“Antonia,” she says. “Come on, you’re going to be late. Protesters are already there. You’re walking into a minefield. You need to make sure you’re ready.”
She gestures toward the bathroom door.
“Go on. Wash your face, put your makeup on, reapply your lipstick, brush your hair.” Her finger continues to waggle to where I should be heading. “You want to be on-site first before the board walk in there and pretend it’s their project.”
Reluctantly, I push back my chair and stand. My hands rest on my desk, almost holding up the weight of my shoulders. Today is heavy. Professionally and personally. Not only have I got protesters to face, but also the man I locked lips with. Both make my heart beat harder against my ribs.
“I’ve got plenty of time,” I tell her. “You don’t need to be such a dictator.”
She snorts. “Me, a dictator? Have you ever looked in the mirror?”
I ignore her, shaking my head. It’s a point I can’t argue with.
In the bathroom, I do as I’m told. I brush my hair, drawing it into a high ponytail tight enough to heighten my eyebrows.
My lipstick hides at the bottom of my bag. The one I wore at the restaurant. The one I always wear. The one that makes me feel comfortable.
I love it.
Once fished out the chaos of clutter, I put an extra layer on to be doubly sure.
It’s my armor.
It’s how I feel safe.
Ready, I stroll back out. Clara’s still standing there, hands on hips, waiting for me. She cocks her head to the side. “Nice lips,” she says. “You look good.”
“I look the same as I always do.”
She laughs. “No, Antonia. There’s something different. A sparkle in your eye. And that’s the kind of sparkle only one type of person can give you—a man.”
“Whatever you say,” I mutter.
I pick up my car keys from my desk and look over to the corner where my shoes lie.
I’m still in my slippers. It’s kind of a habit. I get into the office in the morning, kick off my heels, and put on my furry slippers.