No.
It was business.
It was just business.
"Well, Mr Peterson?" I said, gaining control of myself and smoothing down my hair and straightening the lapels of my jacket to stare him down with a high chin and icy eyes. "What will it be?"
Harry swallowed, lowered his eyes, and then sighed. He looked up to me and gave me a curt nod.
"I'll have my assistant draft up the termination papers right now."
My eyes narrowed dangerously at him, and Harry cowered slightly.
"Mr O'Sullivan."
Abbi
I gripped my cardboard box of things in the elevator as I waited for the doors to close and debated between crying and screaming. My knuckles were white from gripping the edges so tightly, and my eyes stung with the very real threat of tears. As the doors began to slide closed, I realised there was nothing to stop me from doing both: weeping till I was shrivelled like a raisin and yelling at the top of my lungs till I was hoarse and mute.
My toe was tapping furiously on the floor of the elevator, just waiting, begging for the doors to close so that I could lose it, absolutely lose it. The doors were inches from creating a soundproof seal when fingers darted into the space, forcing the doors back open.
I sucked in a breath at the sight of Michael. His own eyes widened in surprise as he held the door open, the air between us growing thick as if a fog swept in suddenly from the mountains. Neither of us said a thing as the silence stretched on. Michael hesitated as I stared at him, unflinchingly, the cardboard box in my arms. It was clear in his tightened shoulders that he wanted to step back and let the elevator doors close on me.
By letting the elevator doors close, he would be letting the doors close on me too, on us. I saw he wanted that. I saw that he had to fight against everything inside of him to clear his throat, straighten his tie, and step into the elevator with me.
His pride made him. His ego. His arrogance. His stubbornness. He didn't want to appear weak. He didn't want to allow the impression that I'd somehow won the upper hand. He had to maintain control.
So he went against what he knew was best, what we both knew was best, and stepped inside.
The doors slid silently shut as we stood side by side, each facing straight ahead. I bit my lip as I watched the numbers count down from seventy-six. Seventy-six seconds and I'd be free from him. I only had to keep my mouth shut for seventy-five seconds and I'd be able to walk away, unharmed, save a tiny, fresh wound in a sea of scars. Seventy-four seconds of self-control, and Michael O'Sullivan would once again be out of my life.
Hopefully for forever this time.
Seventy-three seconds. Just seventy-two seconds.
"You got me fired," I hissed.
I immediately knew it was a mistake. A huge mistake. But I hadn't been able to stop myself. Something boiled over inside of me and it was as impossible to stop as a crashing wave. I told myself it was anger, indignation, a sense of injustice. But I feared there was something deeper, a longing, a yearning, a need for this sixty-five seconds not to be the last sixty-five seconds.
As my heart pounded in my chest, I thought that maybe Michael wouldn't respond. He would do what I could not, what was best, and keep silent for sixty-four seconds more. I thought he was going to keep silent. But then I heard his voice, low and hard, as he continued to stare ahead at the closed doors just like me.
"You left me. You saw me and just drove off."
I let out an angry scoff. "And that justifies getting me fired? Making me jobless, paycheque-less?" I spit. "When I have a—"
I caught myself just in time. But my near slip-up scared me. I tried to regain a measure of self-control over my racing heart and sweating palms.
"When I have bills to pay," I said slowly, in the closest thing to calm I could manage in the tight, hot space.
Michael gave a dark laugh of his own. "What did you expect?" he asked. "I'm a senior partner for one of the largest international law firms in the world. I will not tolerate insubordination of any sort."
Again I tried to bite my tongue. I willed the flashing lights above the doors to flash faster. Forty-five…forty-four…forty-three… Just shut up, I told myself. Just shut up. Don't make it worse.
The wave was crashing again, and all I had was my two bare hands to stop it.
"You know damn well that this wasn't about the fucking airport," I whispered, daring to glance up at him next to me.
"You're mistaken," Michael said, his tone distant, disinterested, cold. "It was business."
"Bullshit," I laughed. "Bull. Shit."
Next to me, Michael shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
"Perhaps consider being more professional next time, Ms Miller," he said.
I bristled, my fingers holding the cardboard box shaking. Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four seconds of self-control and he would be gone. Twenty-three seconds of shoving down my anger and my frustration and my hurt and it would be over. My breathing was quickening, coming in fast little gasps, but the flashing numbers above the door seemed to be slowing with each passing number.
Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…
"Why don't you just tell the truth?" I blurted out, anger bubbling up again. "I know you couldn't just tell me the truth nine years ago, but maybe you could 'consider being more truthful this time'?"
Michael's voice was emotionless as he said, "I don't know what you're talking
