But then, Ben kissed the recruit.
“She’s a distraction,” Jasper had said to me that summer day in my office, pacing in front of my desk, his jaw tight.
“He did the right thing,” I’d told him calmly. “He’s got feelings for her, and he told you he can’t work with her. He’s following the rules.”
“He’s forgetting about the job,” he’d said, a little angrily, and I’d felt a jarring sense of discontinuity, a sinking, embarrassing sense of disappointment in myself. The night before, Jasper and I had ordered tacos from our favorite place and stayed at the office until ten, going over a contract while an Astros game streamed on my computer screen. It had been the most fun I’d had in months, and when I’d gone home, flushed with the pleasure of being around him—the tie-loosened, talkative Jasper it seemed no one else ever got to see but me—I’d thought, Maybe I could ask him out sometime. Maybe me and Jasper, we could make it work.
But seeing him like that—not even acknowledging that Ben, his best friend since their college days, had found someone he liked enough to jeopardize such a big job—had felt like a glass of cold water to the face, a reminder of how ridiculous it would be to break my professional boundaries for a man who so clearly didn’t care about relationships. When I’d found out, not long after, that Jasper had nearly sabotaged things between Ben and Kit to get the deal, I’d told him to forget about the new firm, that I’d be staying put. I’d stood in his office with my hands on my hips and told him I’d never been so disappointed with someone in my life, and I hadn’t even been exaggerating.
Of course we patched it up, eventually. He’d apologized to Ben, had apologized to me, and he’d done it sincerely, with genuine remorse in his voice and in his eyes. But for a while, it had strained things between us. Or at least, it had for me. It was my feelings for him—my feelings outside of friendship or collegiality—that had made me so completely disappointed, and I’d known it was unfair to him, unfair to our work together. I’d tried, after that, to keep a better distance. To keep work at work, to enjoy our friendship but not expect more from it. I’d even dated a little, though pretty unsuccessfully, and Jasper and I had gotten back into a good routine.
But I don’t have much hope for that routine as I prep for our trip.
Because I kissed him.
How do you reestablish a routine after that?
Through e-mail we agree to meet at the airport, an early indicator of how awkward it will be, since our buildings are barely a half mile from each other and we normally would’ve shared a car. By the time I get to the gate I’m flustered and feeling sorry for myself—the security line long and irritating, but also full of reminders of where I was meant to be flying today. I see a young woman carrying a tote bag full of wrapped gifts and feel a pang of envy; I see a family—the parents harried-looking but the kids, wearing matching snowman sweatshirts, giddy and energetic—and think about Kelly and Malik and the kids.
Jasper’s sitting in the spot he always prefers at a gate—end of a row, facing a window. He never works right before a flight, at least not in any of the obvious ways. He puts his phone away in the front pocket of his bag and reads a book, usually a paperback he’s bought from one of the airport shops. “You’re overpaying,” I always tease. “Go to the bookstore next time.” And he always smiles and says, “Too much choice at the bookstore.”
I wish he had a paperback right now, so I’d know how to open this conversation, our first face-to-face since last week. Instead I sit beside him and settle for a neutral “Good morning,” and for a long minute I think the only thing he’ll say back is his quiet repetition of the same. But finally, he speaks.
“I know we need to talk about it,” he says. He keeps his eyes ahead, staring out into the predawn dark, the white body of plane huge and stark. “I’ve been thinking about how to talk about it.”
Despite the fact that I’ve never had to talk to Jasper about something like this between us, I know, from all the years I’ve worked with him and been his friend, what this means. It’s how he approaches any problem he has to solve—a quiet retreating while he works it out, understands all he can. A forceful returning once he has the answer, an unyielding commitment to seeing it through.
But since he doesn’t say anything else, I guess he still doesn’t have an answer.
“Jasper.”
He drops his eyes from the window, looks over at me.
“I am so sorry. I know the kiss was awkward, and—”
“That’s not the word I’d use for it,” he says, his voice sharp.
I swallow. “It’s not?”
“No. It was the best kiss of my life.”
“Oh.” Oh. It’s the only thing I can say, think. My brain feels like it’s been put through one of the wind turbines of that plane out there. The best kiss of his life.
He clears his throat. “But I know the rules here. I know why we have them, and I know they’re important to you.”
“I’m the one who broke them.” It’s the thing he doesn’t seem to have worked out. He’s acting like the kiss was all his, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it takes away my agency, makes us unequal. I open my mouth to protest, thinking of Kelly’s words to me—that Jasper and I are partners, not boss and employee—but Jasper speaks
