I can barely breathe thinking about it.
I watched her yesterday, just for a moment too long, but she didn’t notice—or maybe she did, and just pretends not to. Christ, I hope she does. What does she think of me? Does she see it? This thing between us?
She said something about the meeting with Dr. Lawrence, a colleague attending this conference with us, but I can’t remember a word she said. Her voice is like a melody, so soft, so soothing, but it makes me anxious, restless. How does she do that? It’s not normal. I’m not normal. Nothing about this is normal.
I’m a fool to be thinking these things. A fool to want her like this.
Or am I?
She smiled at me—was it for me? It felt like it was just for me, like she knows how I feel. But does she? How could she? I have to be careful. I can’t let this get out of hand. She’s my assistant, my subordinate, but more than that... she’s mine. No, that’s wrong. She’s not mine.
But she could be.
She should be.
She belongs in my life.
We fit together so perfectly.
She doesn’t even know it yet, but she will.
I’ll make sure of it.
One day, I can tell her everything—every twisted thought, every desire. Will she be disgusted? Afraid? Or will she smile that smile again, and tell me she’s been waiting for me to say it?
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Fuck, I don’t want to stop.
I’m losing control. I can feel it slipping, and I don’t know if I want to hold on or just let it go. Maybe it’s already too late.
She’ll be near me all day long. I’ll see her again. I have to be careful.
But how can I be calm when she’s so close, so perfect, so?—
Everything.
I have to play it cool. She’s too important to fuck this up.
Speak of the Devil
Frankie
The next coupleof days pass similarly. Doctor Devil has work dinners the next two nights, so I end up wandering around downtown for a place to eat alone. So far, it’s Frankie: 0, San Francisco: 2. The food hasn’t been terrible, but both places I’ve tried have been touristy and busy. I debate asking Dr. Kincaid for some recommendations, seeing as Sam Wo was delicious when we went together. I debate going back, too. Since he lived here, he probably knows of all the good places to eat. However, I don’t want to seem desperate to have a meal with him again, and it might come off that way if I ask.
I’m usually asleep by the time he gets back to the room, and in the mornings he’s gone—presumably to give me space to get ready. The only thing giving me proof of life are his brief and detached emails to accompany him to certain talks and panels. He’s quiet when we’re together—almost like he’s lost in thought. My hands are sore by the end of each day from taking copious amounts of notes, and I clean the notes up and send them to him via our shared cloud folder every afternoon before catching up on emails in his stead.
On the third night, I happen upon a small restaurant in North Beach that has decent food, so now the score is Frankie:1, San Francisco: 2. However, halfway through my meal, a young family sits down at the table next to me. It doesn’t help that the mom—a young woman with long, dark hair and her partner—look just like my ex-fiancé and me. To rub even more salt in the wound, their son appears to be about three, and he gleefully chews on his breadsticks and giggles in the way that can make even the most-hardened person crack a smile.
June was his due date,I think glumly.He’d be almost three today, like this child.
This family could have very easily been me if things hadn’t gone completely wrong.
If I hadn’t lost everything.
My food turns to lead in my stomach and I can hardly touch the rest of the delicious pasta I ordered. My skin tingles with envy and grief all at once—and a yearning so strong that I have to blink away tears as I quickly walk away from the restaurant and away from the ghosts of my past.
I’m hardly paying attention when I turn a corner to catch the touristy cable car back to Powell Street when someone says my name.
