He had this same look on his face after I slapped him in that hotel elevator. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I joke about that?”
“You want to quit being my assistant?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be the first to do that now, would I?”
“Some of them were fired. Most of them were fired. Because none of them were as good as you. You can’t quit. We said going into this that we wouldn’t let it affect our working relationship.”
“You honestly don’t think it has?”
“No, I don’t. I got half a shit-ton of work done this morning. We’re both being professionals here. We’ve both remained fully clothed. What’s the problem?”
“The problem, Mr. Cannavale, is that I am neither a sex robot nor am I an administrative robot. I can’t turn my feelings on and off like you can, and I don’t want to try to do that every single day.”
He keeps shaking his head, like I’m speaking a foreign language. “So let me get this straight… You’re talking about—what? Quitting the job but continuing to pretend to be my girlfriend until after my brother’s wedding?”
And there it is.
The word pretend.
That’s all it is to him.
I can’t believe it didn’t even occur to me that he was just pretending all this time.
There’s a steaming hot lump of something in my throat. I want to burst into tears and scream Liar liar, I’m going to set your pants on fire! But I’m going to summon up all of my inner strength and channel Julianna Margulies from every episode I’ve ever seen of The Good Wife instead. Take the high road. Get off the emotional roller coaster. Make a rational decision and then calmly express it and leave. “Actually, I don’t want to go to Cleveland with you anymore either, Declan. I quit all of it.”
He clenches his jaw, but there’s that flash of something in his iced coffee eyes that reminds me of the warmth in him.
I look away again because if I don’t take the heat that’s rising in me and use it to roast his nuts on an open fire, then we’ll just have sex on the floor of his office, and I’ll still end up with the same problem.
I not only fell for my boss, but I fell for an act.
Or some alcohol and carb-induced holiday reverie. A rated-R version of The Nutcracker. The nutcracker that turned into a naked dancing prince was just a dream. Now I’m waking up to a rat in a suit.
“You’re just going to leave me?” His voice is cold and flat.
“I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice. I’ll find and train my replacement.”
“You’re doing the exact thing I told you I don’t want you to do.”
“I’m not filing a claim with HR, Declan. I just can’t work for you anymore, and I can’t believe you don’t understand why.”
“I need you here as my assistant. What do you want—a raise?”
“Go to hell, Declan.”
“Yeah, because I’m the asshole—it’s never the one who walks away.”
I almost make it to the door. I almost manage to bite my tongue and keep my mouth shut. But I spin around to face him and say, “You know what I think? I think Hannah probably walked away after years of trying to get through to you. But you never heard a word she said because you were so busy trying to convince her you were right that you couldn’t even see what was wrong. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with who you are or who you and I were together these past few days. I loved the time we spent together. You’ll never know how much. But I’m not going to spend one more second pretending that I’m okay with this.” I put my hand on the door handle and wait for him to say something, anything.
But he doesn’t.
I glance back at him, and it is chilling, the way he’s looking at me. I either hit a nerve or an artery, and he clearly didn’t hear a word that I said after the Hannah thing. He has no rebuttal. And he clearly does not want me to continue talking.
So I open the door.
“If you leave now, don’t bother coming back,” he mutters.
“Fine. Don’t bother calling or texting me, because I won’t respond. It’s not my job to anymore.”
“Oh, and don’t worry—I’ll still give you a good letter of recommendation if you need one. About your administrative skills, I mean. Not as a fake girlfriend.”
I have no idea what Julianna Margulies would say in this situation on The Good Wife, but I let my middle finger do the talking for me.
I don’t slam the door shut, because there are at least five other people here today and also because there are dampers on all of the office doors to prevent them from slamming shut. But I have never wanted to slam a door so badly in my life. Or to throw a desk through a glass wall—or a lawyer.
Or to punch something.
At least I can go home and do that, thanks to the thoughtful asshole who gave me a punching bag for Christmas.
Merry fucking December 28th to me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MADDIE: Hi. <sad face emoji>
DECLAN: Hi Piper.
MADDIE: Yeah. It’s me. I’ll delete this convo from her phone when we’re done. She’s here talking to my mom in the other room. Rough day, huh?
DECLAN: It’s not great. She okay?
MADDIE: I’ve never seen her this smad before, TBH.
DECLAN: I don’t know what TBH means. Or smad.
MADDIE: TBH=to be honest. Smad=sad and mad.
DECLAN: Ahh. I tried calling and texting her and going to her place after she left, but she won’t respond. I don’t blame her. I was a total asshole.
MADDIE: IMO she just needs time. IMO=in my opinion FYI. FYI=for your info.
DECLAN: LOL I do know what IMO and FYI stand for, thanks.
MADDIE:
