PART 2:

” “Is that what you think?” Selina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That I’m looking for someone to make my life easier?” “I don’t think about what you’re looking for.” The words came out harder than he meant them to. “I think about my daughter and whether I can get home before she falls asleep. I think about making rent and keeping my health insurance and not screwing up the only stable thing in her life.

That’s what I think about.” Selina was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had changed, softer, but not weak. “You didn’t answer my question. Why don’t you look at me?” Adrian closed his eyes. This was a mistake. This whole conversation was a mistake. He should grab his cart and leave and hope to God she forgot this ever happened.

But he was tired, bone tired, soul tired, tired of being invisible and tired of being careful, and tired of pretending that he was made of something that couldn’t break. “Because the moment I really look at you,” he said quietly, “I stop seeing my boss. I stopped seeing a billionaire CEO. I start seeing a woman I could fall for.

And I can’t afford that. Not in any sense of the word. The rain filled the silence. Selina stared at him like he’d just spoken a language she’d forgotten existed. You’re serious, she said finally. Unfortunately. Adrian picked up his tool bag. I should go. Wait. Ms. Cross, with respect, I’ve already said too much.

You asked for honesty and I gave it to you. Now I need to leave before I make this worse. What if I don’t want you to leave? Adrian’s hand froze on the door handle. He didn’t turn around. What I want doesn’t matter, he said. It never has. I have a daughter who’s waiting up for me because she doesn’t sleep well when I’m not home.

I have exactly one life to offer her and I’ve spent eight years making sure it’s stable and safe and predictable. Getting tangled up with you, no matter how much I might want to, that’s not stable. That’s a hurricane. And I won’t do that to her. He opened the door. Adrian. His name in her voice stopped him like a hand on his shoulder.

Yeah? Thank you, Selina said. For being honest. I haven’t heard much of that lately. Adrian nodded once without turning around, then walked out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. His hands were shaking. The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time Adrian swiped out at the security desk and pushed through the lobby doors into the cold November night.

His truck was parked three blocks away in the cheapest lot he could find. And the walk gave him time to shove what had just happened into a box in his mind labeled things that don’t matter. It didn’t work. The moment I really look at you, I stop seeing my boss. He’d actually said that. Out loud. To Selina Cross.

To a woman who could have him fired with a phone call. Who existed in a stratosphere so far above his own that they might as well be different species. Idiot, he muttered, unlocking his truck. God damn idiot. The engine turned over on the third try. He needed to replace the starter, but that was a problem for a different paycheck.

He cranked the heat and pulled out into empty streets slick with rain. The apartment was in Riverside, 40 minutes away if traffic was light. It was a neighborhood that had been nice once, before the factories closed and the grocery stores moved out and the people with options left for somewhere better. Adrian’s building was a squat brick box with bars on the ground floor windows and a front door that stuck in humid weather.

Mrs. Castellanos kept geraniums on her window sill that somehow survived despite everything. And old Mr. Washington on the third floor played jazz loud enough to hear through the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Adrian parked in his assigned spot, number 2F, faded paint on cracked asphalt, and climbed the exterior stairs to the second floor.

His key scraped in the lock the way it always did, and he made a mental note for the hundredth time to pick up some graphite lubricant. The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light. Mrs. Castellanos looked up from her knitting when he came in, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s asleep, the old woman said before Adrian could ask.

Fought it until about 20 minutes ago. I told her you’d be home soon. I’m sorry I was late. You’re always sorry, I’m always fine with it. Mrs. Castellanos set her knitting aside and stood, joints creaking. Empanadas are in the fridge, beef and potato. Don’t let them go to waste. You’re too good to us. I’m exactly good enough. She patted his arm on her way past.

That girl loves you more than sense. Don’t forget it. I won’t. After she left, Adrian locked the door and stood in the small kitchen for a long moment. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator in the distant sound of Mr. Washington’s saxophone. He could see Emma’s homework on the table, math problems in her careful looping handwriting, a library book about dolphins.

Her jacket hung on the back of her chair. The center of his universe contained in a two-bedroom apartment that cost $1,100 a month. Adrian pulled the empanadas from the fridge and ate them cold over the sink, too tired to bother heating them up. They were perfect anyway. Mrs. Castellanos had a gift. When he finished, he washed his hands and walked quietly down the narrow hallway to Emma’s room.

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