So why was I still sniffling, reaching for tissues instead of moving on?
I dabbed at my eyes, trying to keep my mascara from running, and cursed myself under my breath. It wasn't like Michael was staying forever anyway. He was always going to leave, always going to go back home to Dublin, always going to go back to his real life. Michael always left, after all. Why was I surprised?
Why did I let him hurt me?
Why did I let him hurt me again?
My thoughts became so all-encompassing that I couldn't focus on packing my office things. I rested my palms flat against the desk and let my head fall between my shoulders, my hair sweeping to curtain either side of my face.
I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be relieved. I wanted to be done with him. But I wasn't. I wasn't any of that. I felt like I'd lost him all over again, which was stupid, because I'd never had him, not even all those years ago. But I thought we'd have more time…
More time to what, though?
To give him more of my heart?
To build up higher hopes?
To make it all the more painful when he yet again wrenched it all away?
Before I could stop myself, I lashed out and swept my arms angrily across my desk, sending the box of my things crashing to the floor, the contents spilling out. I wedged my knuckles into my mouth to mute my scream of frustration when suddenly from around the corner came Michael.
In a fresh suit and shave he looked sharp and put together. There was no trace that something significant at all had happened over the weekend. I stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes as he approached with brisk, determined steps, face buried in his Blackberry.
"Ms Miller," he said curtly and strictly business-like, "I need you to call the bank and confirm the interest rate we agreed upon last week. Then I need you to set up a meeting with Ralph Anderson in accounting for this afternoon at 3:15. After that I need you to circulate an updated schedule for completing the merger to the board at PLA. I'll want a salad for lunch, dressing on the side. And don't go to that place you went to last time. I'm fairly sure their vinaigrette is the same shite our cleaning staff uses to clean the bathrooms."
Throughout all of this I remained mute, frozen as if I was seeing a ghost. When Michael finally looked up from his phone outside his office door, his eyes moved from me to my belongings scattered across the floor.
"And pick up that mess," he snapped crossly, throwing his arm out. "Your desk is a reflection of you and you are a reflection of me."
I could only shake my head. "You're not supposed to be here," I said, my voice a whisper.
Michael assessed my dishevelled appearance. I thought I saw a flicker of sympathy and tenderness in his cold, ruthless eyes. But it was incredibly likely I was having some kind of breakdown, so I was less than a reliable source, to say the least.
Finally Michael said simply, "I'm right where I'm supposed to be, Ms Miller."
He entered into his office and promptly closed the door behind him. I continued to stare at the door in disbelief. I only moved when Michael barked at me from inside, having developed x-ray vision over the weekend, apparently.
"Get to work, Abbi!"
I picked up the mess on the floor, still glancing occasionally at the door. Behind it was a mess I had no chance of picking up.
And I was the happiest I'd been all day.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Michael
I would have been fine if things between Abbi and me over the next week were awkward.
I would have been fine with a few averted gazes, red cheeks, legs crossed too tightly to avoid bumping knees in crowded conference rooms. I would have been fine with avoidance: in the elevator, in the breakroom, in the lobby. I would have been fine with nervous stuttering, anxious glances, fidgety fingers.
I would even have been alright with an outwardly, openly antagonistic relationship between the two of us. If Abbi had slammed doors in my face or thrown reports at me across my desk or jammed the closed button on the elevator as I approached, it would have been better. If she had been hostile, rude, angry, it would have better. I would have gladly gone back to her little games, purposefully misunderstanding me, directly disobeying me, generally making my life at the office a living hell.
Any of that would have been better, because it would have conveyed emotion, real, surging emotion. What I got instead over the past week was absolutely horrible.
I got “yes, Mr O'Sullivans” and “of course, sirs” and “right aways”. I got prompt, perfect work. I got the most professional, the most commendable, the most unreproachable personal assistant I'd ever had.
Abbi moved about me like those goddamn vacuums that run by themselves on the floor. She did her job and did it well. But just as that vacuum cares nothing for the couch it tidies around, it was made crystal clear that Abbi cared nothing for me. I was simply an obstacle to work around, a faceless mass to learn the shape of. Her interactions with me were devoid of anything that could even be generously referred to as emotion, negative or positive. I wasn't even sure her hazel eyes, glazed over like she wasn't present, even saw me.
I hadn't expected things to be rosy exactly when I decided to stay in Denver. But I could handle thorns. I had no idea what to do with this: it was like trying to grab hold of fog in the early morning. It was
