by Sienna Blake
And yet miles weren’t enough.
I needed to put more distance between me and this sudden truth, if I had any chance at all of outrunning it.
Once I returned to my penthouse in the early morning, my body was weary, limbs shaking with fatigue, eyes heavy and stinging, but I did not allow myself to sit even for a moment. If I allowed myself to sit, I might think about the consequences of what I'd seen in Abbi's apartment. If I rested my body for just a moment, my mind might take over. If I stopped, I would see her again and I feared I wouldn't be able to move.
I shifted through my penthouse like a sleeping shark—in motion, but with blank, empty black eyes. I texted Caroline back in Dublin:
Get me on the first flight out of Denver.
I slipped my cell phone into my pocket and I retrieved my suitcase from beneath the bed. I packed my shirts with the utmost care and diligence and focus. If I focused on folding perfectly along a seam, I wasn't focused on the question Abbi answered without a word. If I concentrated on preventing wrinkles in fine linen, I couldn't concentrate on the years I'd lived without knowing I had a daughter. If I could devote myself to my career, my success, my accolades, my cars, my art, my loft, my clothes, my watches, my vacations to remote islands, my shiny plaque displaying my name and title outside my office, perhaps I could prevent her from entering my mind for the rest of my life.
If I kept going, if I kept focused, if I didn't stop, I could believe this. I could.
Caroline's text made my cell phone buzz in my pocket.
Caroline: To Dublin?
Me: First flight out is all that matters. I don't care to where. I'll be at the airport in an hour.
In the luxurious, spacious bathroom, I was careful not to glance at myself in the mirror as I gathered my toiletries into my travel bag. I was afraid of what I would see: a haggard man with a five o'clock shadow and eyes red with confusion and hurt because his whole world had been turned upside down.
But if I didn't look up as I grabbed my razor, my shampoo, my comb, that man didn't exist. If I didn't look up, I could imagine myself as I was before I saw those green eyes. I could imagine a confident, self-assured, ruthless businessman in control of himself and his future and his happiness. I could imagine me without the knowledge of a daughter.
That's the way it had to be.
I tossed the bag of things from the bathroom into the suitcase and called the lobby for a cab before dialling Harry Princeton's number. It was 4:52 in the morning, but I was important enough to receive an answer no matter what time of day.
Harry's voice was groggy from obviously just being awoken, but I didn't even give him the luxury of banal pleasantries to allow him a chance to wake up. I jumped straight into it.
"Harry, I'm leaving the States," I said. "I'm returning to Ireland where I will conduct the rest of our business remotely."
In my mind there was nothing more to say so I went to hang up, but Harry managed to clear the sleepy cobwebs from his head just enough to call out a confused protest.
"Michael—"
"Mr O'Sullivan," I snapped.
"Mr—Mr O'Sullivan," Harry quickly corrected. "I'm sorry, excuse me, but you're—
you're leaving?"
"Yes."
I assumed that had been made abundantly clear by my just saying that I was leaving.
Harry stumbled over his words for a moment or two before asking, "It's just that we haven't concluded everything yet. This is—it's just abrupt. Is something wrong?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose as my temples throbbed. Everything was fucking wrong. Fucking everything. It was wrong that Abbi didn't tell me I had a goddamn child. It was wrong that I met her like that. I spit out a laugh, as if what happened could even be called meeting. It was wrong that I was running away from it.
It was wrong that it was the only thing I could think to do.
"The conclusion of our business can just as easily be conducted long-distance as face-to-face, Mr Princeton," I said coldly as my eyes flicked toward the red numbers on the clock on the nightstand. "Now I really must be going."
"Mr O'Sullivan, I don't understand!"
My self-control shattered as I burst out in anger, "And it's not for you to understand, Mr Princeton. It's for you to say, 'Yes, sir' and shut the fuck up. It's for you to obey, not inconvenience me with your blabbering questions. I am in control here. And I am doing what I wish, what I fucking wish. Do you understand me?"
My chest was heaving as my fingers gripped the Blackberry so tightly, I feared I might snap it in two.
"Yes, sir." Harry's voice was meek and quiet. "I'm sorry. Yes, of course we can finish things remotely. Of course, Mr O'Sullivan."
Pain lanced through my head like a spear and I shook from head to toe. The bed looked so tempting. To just sit for a moment…to rest my blistered, aching feet…to rest my head on the pillow for just a second or two…to allow my eyes to sink shut for just one quiet minute… I was tired. I was so tired.
The call from the lobby thankfully saved me from the dangerous siren song of the bed. I shook my head to refocus.
"My cab is here, Mr Princeton," I said mechanically. "Goodbye."
I hung up and retrieved my suitcase from the bed. I crossed the penthouse and grabbed the door handle. But instead of feeling the uncaring cold of the metal, I felt beneath my fingers the warmth of faded paint. I froze, flashes of memory hitting me like large, cruel pieces of hail from which I had no protection.
I was young. Too young to remember anything but vague shapes, fuzzy colours, murmured voices as if from under water. I saw my fingers reaching around the corner in my childhood home. I saw the hallway to the front door. I saw the indistinct square of yellow from the porch light.
I remembered peeking around the corner just enough to see him at the doorway, my father.
I was far too young to possibly remember what he was wearing, let alone what he looked like. Though the hallway was blurry, the floor and the walls and the door around him unclear, he became distinct: a suit, a suitcase, sandy-blonde hair, a clean-cut, sharp jaw, and green eyes.
With fingers wrapped around the corner, head peeking out, I watched him grab the door handle. He didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. I watched him leave, the door closing behind him, never to reopen.
My own father left when I was young, leaving me with nothing but vague, blurry memories and a pain in my heart that was quite the opposite.
As I stood there at the door I imagined the memory I left my daughter would be much the same. She wouldn't remember the living room, the couch, the rug, the television; that would all fade and become obscure to her memory. But she would remember me leaving.
She would remember her fingers brushing against the soft material of her pyjama bottoms, and that would be the closest she would ever have to my touch. She would remember how little I gave her.
And she would remember me leaving.
The phone in my penthouse rang again; it was the lobby calling again. My cab was here. It was time to go.
I went to the phone and picked it up.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I'm coming."
Abbi
I didn't have the luxury of quitting my job at Levi, Levi, & Burke after an ill-advised night with my boss. So I went into work Monday morning with the intention of setting things straight between Michael and me. I'd rehearsed the lines again and again during my commute into the office.
“We are work colleagues and nothing more.”
I'd repeated them under my breath in the crowded elevator.
I focused on them, shoving aside any other thought, as I walked with dread and fear and anxiousness toward my desk.
“The other night did not happen and will not happen again.”
I could get through these next few weeks with Michael; I could send his faxes, filter his emails, prepare his documents, fetch his signatures, pick up his lunches, set up his phone calls, organise his schedule. I could separate Mr O'Sullivan from Michael, from the
man in the Wicklow mountains, from the father of my daughter. I could do what was best for myself, what was best for Zara.
“You do not have a daughter.”
I was ready to say all of this, or rather as ready as I was ever going to be, when I turned the corner to Michael's office and slowed when I found Harry Princeton sitting on the edge of my desk, waiting for me. He stood promptly when he saw me approaching and clasped his hands behind his back.
"Ah, Ms Miller," he said, "I need to speak with you."
I glanced nervously over his shoulder at the closed door of Michael's office. Had he gotten me fired again after what happened between us?
"Good morning, Mr Princeton," I said apprehensively, hesitating to set down my briefcase should I just have to pick it up again to walk back out.
Harry inclined his head to me, clearly agitated and distracted. "I'm sorry for the abruptness of all of this, but…"
I was going to be fired again. Michael, the coward, didn't even have the balls to do the dirty deed himself. At first didn't hear what Harry said, I was glaring so hard at the closed office door. A frown played at my lips as I drew my attention back to him.
"I'm sorry?"
"Yes, I know, it baffles me slightly as well," Harry said, taking off his glasses only to put them back on. "But we'll set everything up for remote communication and there shouldn't be too many hang ups. I suppose it's not our place to question his judgement."
"Remote communication?" I echoed.
My eyes darted again toward the closed door, but this time with a frown of confusion.
"Figuring out the time difference between here and Dublin will of course be the most difficult aspect, but we'll manage somehow, I suppose," Harry said.
"Michael's in Dublin?" I asked, heart starting to race.
Harry checked his watch.
"I'd imagine he's arrived," he said. "Though I haven't heard confirmation, so maybe he's still in transit."
I shook my head; I wasn't sure whether I was confused because I didn't understand or because I didn't want to understand.
"I'm sorry, Mr Princeton," I said. "You said Michael left?"
Harry nodded. "Saturday morning, I believe."
I stared with wide, unseeing eyes at Harry's face as his lips moved. But I barely heard him as my thoughts spun faster and faster. Michael was gone? He wasn't coming back? He was gone?
How could he be gone?
"You don't mind, do you?"
I blinked and shook my head as if to unclog water from my ears when I finally noticed Harry had stopped talking and was staring at me as if awaiting a response.
"Sorry," I said, dragging my fingers through my hair. "What did you ask?"
"Taking your old position?" Harry said. "You're alright returning to it now that Michael no longer requires your services here in Denver?"
I nodded, still finding words difficult in my current state of shock.
"We'll keep your rate of pay, of course," Harry continued.
"That's very generous, sir."
I was speaking as if on auto-pilot. My eyes stared into the distance, not able to focus on Harry, let alone anything else. Harry smiled and nodded.
"Alright then," he said. "You'll find your old cubicle prepared for you once you gather up your things."
I nodded again.
"Good."
Harry nodded too and went to move past me, only to hesitate, pause, and lay a kind hand on my shoulder.
"Please don't think it has anything to do with you, Ms Miller," he said. "Alright?"
I managed to meet his eyes and force a weak smile. "Okay," I practically croaked out.
Harry didn't need to know that it was quite the opposite; I was at the very heart of Michael's unscheduled and hasty departure.
"Good," Harry repeated and then he left me alone, standing by myself in the hallway outside Michael's office.
I stared at the closed office door, still not quite believing that he was not behind it, that he would not be behind it ever again. Tears that surprised and angered me pricked at my eyes. I moved quickly to my desk to distract myself with packing my things before they threatened to fall.
I wasn't sure I could stop them once those floodgates burst.
Someone from HR had left a cardboard box on the floor next to my desk, and I used it to load everything up to transfer back to my old cubicle. I focused on item by item: stapler, sticky notes, yellow, orange, pink, filing folders, calendar, highlighters, pens, pencils, one by painstaking one.
Why the hell was I upset? I swiped at a rogue tear rolling down my cheek. What the fuck was wrong with me? This was the best case scenario for me. How could my aching heart not see that? I should have been rejoicing, not crying.
Michael was gone. Zara was safe from ever running into him again. I still had my job, and I was keeping my higher salary. I'd gotten everything I'd wanted.
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 t
he 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.
