We settled in; Sloane took the far end of one couch; I dropped onto the other.
For a while, the only sounds were wrappers crinkling and the quiet crunch of chips. The peanut butter jar sat on the cushion between us, traded back and forth without comment.
It was almost normal, almost.
But the awkwardness crept in. We would have to talk aboutit.
It started small; Sloane suddenly seemed very interested in the nutrition label on her granola bar. I became deeply focused on scraping peanut butter off the inside of the lid.
Neither of us looked at the other until finally she cleared her throat.
“So.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Yeah.”
She glanced up, then quickly back down.
“That was… uh…”
“Yep.”
We both stopped.
A beat passed.
Then Sloane muttered, “This is so weird.”
I laughed—short, rough, almost surprised. “You think?”
“Well, excuse me,” she said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Yesterday you were the coworker who absolutely couldn’t stand me, and this morning you were—”
She stopped dead, and color flooded her face.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Finishing that sentence seems dangerous.”
She groaned and dragged both hands down her face. “Oh my God.”
I leaned back against the cushion, fighting the pull at the corner of my mouth.
“For the record,” I said, “I nevercouldn’tstand you.”
She looked at me sideways. “Bullshit.”
“I was professional.”
“You were an ass.”
“Professional ass. There’s a distinction.”
She pointed a chip at me. “You literally wrote me up for being three minutes late once.”
“You were four minutes late.”
“Three and a half.”