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“You know, I’ve been sort of slowly going through
things,” I say. When I called my mom last week to tell her I
was coming home, I’d said it was to retrieve some of my old
things from growing up—yearbooks, photos, books. I wasn’t
ready to tell her the truth: that I was really coming home to
retrieve my old self.

It’s not even that she wouldn’t understand my decision or
support me. But she’d worry. And she’d be sad, and she’s
already had so much sadness with my dad and it sounds like with Jamie
lately. So I decided to protect her, which ended up meaning I was
lying to her.

And
maybe, if I’m actually honest, it meant I was lying to myself a
little, too.

The
truth might set you free, but it may not be an easy liberation. And
right now, I’m enjoying feeling liberated too much to tie
either of us up in the facts of my departure.

“It’s too bad Sebastian couldn’t come with you to
help,” she says. “It’s always more fun to do that
kind of chore with someone, and I’m sure Jamie isn’t
pitching in.”

“I’ve been doing okay alone,” I say. “In
fact, it’s been kind of nice to have the time to myself. I even
picked up some temporary bookkeeping work.”

“Oh, well, that’s kind of neat,” Mom says. “How’d
you come by that?”

I twist my mouth, thinking of how to put it. “Someone Jamie
knows needed help.”

“Well, that’s great, Cass. Home less than a week and a
job just falls into your lap.”

More like Ryder’s face just falls into my lap.
I cover
my eyes with my hand, horrified by having such an image pass through
my mind while I’m on the phone with my mother but unable to
suppress the smile the thought brings to my mouth.

“A little spending money while you’re on vacation,”
she says. “That’ll be good. Don’t let Jamie borrow
it all.”

I laugh at the irony. “I’ll try,” I say.

“Are you going to work there the whole time you’re here?”

“I guess if they need me,” I say.

“I’m sure they will,” she says. “Who doesn’t
want a pretty, smart, funny, interesting, responsible woman around?”

“Someone just like her mother?”

Mom laughs. “Exactly.”

After I get off the phone with my mom, I crawl into bed, leaving the
curtains open, the expanse of our wooded backyard black on the other
side of the window, softened by the white glow of the moonlight. It’s
restful and peaceful, but I can’t seem to sleep, her question
at the end of our conversation bouncing around in my head.

We’re here to work,
Ryder had said at the start of last
night, and even though obviously he’s as complicit in what
happened in his office as I am (maybe even more, right? I mean it is
his
office, after all), I wonder if I’ll be seen as a
liability now, the thing to be removed from the balance sheet instead
of the person keeping the balance sheet.
You’re a
distraction
, Sebastian used to say to me sometimes when he was
working from home, and at the beginning of our relationship, I
thought it was a good thing that I had the power to take him away
from whatever he was doing, be the most compelling thing in the room,
or even the whole house. To be desired.
I just wanted to see what
you were doing
, he’d say, coming out of his home office and
sitting next to me in the den, his work forgotten for the moment
because something much more interesting existed: me.

But eventually, it became a problem, like so much else between
Sebastian and me. Wanting to see what I was doing while he was
working became wanting to control what I was doing all the time.

Ryder is my boss. He already has control of what I do, and he has
control over whether I continue to do it. If I’m deemed too
much of a distraction, he becomes vulnerable, less in control of both
himself and his business.

And if Sebastian is any kind of example, feeling vulnerable can
sometimes make people angry. Vindictive. Unfair.

And then their problem is your problem and you’re literally
rearranging your whole world trying to solve it.

But you know what? I’m tired of men running my life. If Ryder
thinks he’s going to fire me or void our deal because of what
happened last night, he needs to prepare himself for a piece of my
mind on Monday. Every kiss, every touch, every
everything
last
night—well, it’s his fault, too. Who backed who onto that
desk?

I’m not saying that I minded it. But I’m also not saying
I’m sorry.

RYDER

The
door of Ogden’s Books has an old-timey bell that rings lightly
when Jackson and I enter the empty space. Ogden’s had been an
institution of Little Five Points for something like the last three
decades, the kind of bookstore that carried new bestsellers alongside
vintage, hard-to-find collections. It survived the migration to
e-readers and the recession, but it turns out the owners couldn’t
resist a good old-fashioned payday, which is what Jackson’s
real estate connection told them they’d have if they ever
decided to sell this place. It’s on a corner, three-thousand
square feet and two stories connected by a spiral staircase with
floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street that were probably okay
for a book club but are perfect for a night club.

“I think we should call it Fitzgerald’s,” Jackson
says, as he rolls the blueprints out on the counter near the back.
“He’s my favorite American writer.”

Jackson
is one of the smartest guys I know, without question, but I’ve
never seen him crack a book or even mention F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“Name one thing he wrote other than
The Great Gatsby
and
I’ll consider it.”

“I
don’t know. Something about bullfighting. I don’t
remember titles.”

“That’s
Hemingway,” I say.

“Who
died and made you librarian?” Jackson says.

“I
used to come down here in high school sometimes,” I say,
looking at the empty built-in shelves that line the walls. “I
read
The Catcher in the Rye
in that corner there all in one
afternoon.”

“Wow,
Ryde,” Jackson says, grinning. “I never pegged you for a
nerd.”

“The
girl that worked the register here was hot and she recommended it,”
I say. “Gave us something to discuss between make-out sessions
in the back office.”

“What’s
on Cassie’s reading list?”

I can’t separate her name with the memory of her smooth thighs
squeezing my head as she came from my tongue, and I twist my mouth,
trying not to let it turn into a smile that would give me away. “How
would I know?”

“Seemed
like y’all were having a pretty intense meeting of the minds
the other night in the back office.”

“We
were about to have a meeting of something,” I say, remembering
the promise of Cassie’s hand starting to undo my jeans, her
soft fingertips brushing my granite-hard erection. “I don’t
think I ever thanked you properly for barging in, by the way.”
I punch him solidly in the bicep.

Jackson
rubs his arm. “The undefeated Ryder Cole still has it.”

“Can
we talk about our business,” I say, gesturing around the
would-be nightclub, “instead of my business?”

“Hey,
we’re partners. Your business is my business. Especially when
it involves an employee.”

“It’s
just fun and games, Jacks,” I say. “Nothing to worry your
pretty little head about.”

“Cool,”
he says. “Then you won’t mind that I’m going out
with her tonight?”

“What?”
I say. “Since when the fuck has this been happening?”

“Since
never the fuck,” he says. He shakes his head, chuckling. “I
know you, Cole. And I know when you’re into a woman. I called
it with Caroline, like, a month before you two got together,
remember?”

“Yeah,
great job with that one,” I say. I walk to the front of the
store and skim my index finger across an empty shelf, the old dust
adhering to my skin, too sticky to brush off easily. “What are
you thinking about these shelves?”
Jackson crosses to me.
The shelves cover the full length of most of the side walls, with no
break between the top and bottom floors. “On the blueprints, I
had them taken out for space, but now that I’m seeing them
again, I’d probably say leave them. We can wire some
interesting lighting in there.”

“Maybe keep a few lower ones open for people’s drinks or
purses or whatever.”

“I like that,” Jackson says. “Usually in
architecture we say form follows function, but this is kind of the
reversal.”

“Think they’ll revoke your license for playing against
the rules?” I joke, heading up the spiral staircase. Jackson
follows me, carrying the blueprints.

“If they do,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “I
have friends with three-bedroom penthouses.”

We lean on the second floor banister and look out the front-facing
window. The street’s quiet, not unusual for a Sunday afternoon.
Everyone’s still recovering from last night. We could barely
get the doors closed at 3:30 this morning at Altitude, which suits me
just fine.

“No way, dude. You’re on your own,” I say. “After
Caroline moved out I swore off living with anyone,” I say.
“Even you.”

“Your
loss,” Jackson says. “You ever hear from her?”

A pack of goth teenagers cross the sidewalk, passing around a
cigarette. A couple walking a dog peer into the first-floor window of
Ogden’s, then move on.

“No,” I say. “I’m sure she’s too busy
cheating on her new boyfriend to give me a call.”

“Shelby never liked her.”

“Shelby’s always been smarter than us.”

“For what it’s worth,” Jackson says, “she
thinks Cassie is cool.”

“Cassie is cool,” I say. “She’s cool. She’s
smart. She’s hot as hell. But she’s hiding something.”

“Her brother?”

“That’s some of it,” I say. “She says she
doesn’t know where he is.”

“Do you believe her?”

Part of me doesn’t care if I believe her. It’s the part
that is primarily concerned with going back to when we were
interrupted this weekend and fucking her senseless on every piece of
furniture on my office. The two mornings since our Friday night
encounter, I have woken up with Cassie’s naked body on my mind,
her perfect pink nipples, the inward curve of her waist, her long
legs bent over my shoulders as I kneel between them. And if tasting
her again or getting to be inside her in the near future means I need
to suspend my disbelief in what she says, my cock is definitely okay
with that.

But then there’s this other part of me that stops short at the
thought that she’s concealing something.
I’m
trustworthy
, she said when she convinced me to let her work at
Altitude. But just because someone won’t steal your money
doesn’t mean they won’t lie to your face. Ask Caroline.

“I don’t know,” I say to Jackson. “She told
me she hasn’t been around for a while because she just got back
in town from living in Europe.”

“Doing what?”

I shrug. “She wouldn’t say.” I turn away from the
street, leaning against the banister on my forearms, bare in my
t-shirt, except, of course, for my tats. A lot of the tattoos I got
during the three years Caroline and I were together, but I had the
sense not to ink her name. Or maybe I had a hunch. Foresight. A
tattoo is meant to be permanent but with Caroline I realized nothing
else is—not trust, not loyalty, not love. “Secrets, man.
I’m over them,” I say. “And over women with them.
It always blows up in your face.”

“Of course, the other night, seemed like you didn’t mind
Cassie blowing up in your face.”

I bow my head and laugh. It’s a fair point. “I think a
good time was had by all.”

“Except me,” Jackson says. “Which is why we’re
making a stop by the hardware store after this.”

“Why?”

“To get a new knob,” he says. “From the look on
your face when you talk about this woman, I have a feeling we’ll
all be better off with an office door that locks.”

CASSIE

I
had the whole speech ready in my head. I even practiced it out loud
last night while I was making dinner, chopping tomatoes and cucumbers
as I recited the lines, the sound of the knife on the cutting board
like the percussion in the mad music I was writing:
I won’t
deny that I enjoyed our encounter Friday night, but I also won’t
be punished for it. I’m good at keeping your books, you’re
getting back every dime of your money, and you finding me
irresistible isn’t my problem.
So if you think I’m
going to let you fire me without a fight, think again.

When
I practiced, I paused after “irresistible” so that it
could really sink in. I know it’s a little arrogant, but so is
Ryder. I figured he might respect something he recognizes.

But
when I walk into Altitude this morning, even in my very professional,
serious, “I-mean-business” white, button-up shirtdress, I
don’t feel quite as brave. Daylight has a way of doing that to
people in a bar, I guess.

There are no customers this early, of course, but it’s almost
strange to see it this way after being here Friday night and
experiencing it at its full potential. The dense sea of beautiful
people, the din of conversations and laughter and music combining
into one wall of sound, the pace of taking orders and making change
and serving drinks—I realize that the experience of the bar at
the top of its game on Friday has become cemented in my mind as
Altitude, all that play overwriting the idea of it as my place of
work. Being in the middle of all that activity, all that
life
was the most fun I’ve had in, well, years.

And I realize maybe that’s part of why I can’t let Ryder
fire me either. It’s not just the job and paying down Jamie’s
debt that I want to keep on track. This bar, these people—I
love this place. Friday night, working my tables, getting to know
Shelby, even joking around with Cash, I was part of a group. I wasn’t
alone anymore like I have been for almost two years, even while I was
with Sebastian. It felt good. It felt right.