Caleb

On Monday, I’m waiting by the mailroom, leaning on the doorjamb with my arms crossed, when Roxie arrives at eight thirty.

She stops when she sees me, her eyes widening, and she gives a little gasp of surprise.

“Morning,” I say.

She gathers her wits and lifts her chin. “Morning.” She slips by me into the room, puts down her purse, and takes off her jacket.

I follow her in and perch on the edge of the desk, watching her. She hangs her jacket on her chair, puts some envelopes into a pile, refills her printer with paper, and turns on her computer.

Finally, however, she looks at me. “Caleb…”

“I missed you,” I say mildly.

She drops her gaze and fiddles with a paperclip. “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. You were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t, and we both know it. “I suppose I’m to infer by it that you don’t want to see me again.”

She continues to fiddle with the clip. “I think it’s best.”

“Why?”

“Caleb…”

“I thought you liked me,” I murmur.

Her expression softens. “I do.”

“But not enough.”

“It’s not that.” She sits suddenly in her chair. “There are reasons it won’t work.”

“Like…”

“I don’t want to go through it all now, not here.”

“Then meet me after work tonight, and we’ll discuss it then.”

“No, Caleb. But thank you.” She looks up at me. “I had a great time. Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I want to demand an explanation. I want to make her explain why she thinks we’re so wrong for one another. I want to know what terrible secret she’s hiding, so I can say it’s nothing and prove to her that I don’t care.

But I can’t make her do any of that. If she’s made up her mind, maybe she’s right, and we’re not right for each other.

“Do you want me hand in my resignation?” she asks. “I’ll understand if you do.”

“Of course not. I don’t come down here usually. We won’t see much of each other.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry if I made things awkward for you by coming onto you that night. I hope you don’t regret it.”

“I don’t,” she whispers.

I get to my feet. “All right. Stay safe, Roxie.”

“See you.”

I turn to leave, and she calls out, “Caleb?”

I stop and look over my shoulder at her.

“He was wrong. You’re the best son a man could ever have.”

I pause, then leave the room and take the elevator back to my office.

*

The next three days are the longest of my life. I spend most of them dreaming about her, and wondering what she’s doing. It’s like she’s haunting me. At the most inopportune moments, images of her flash through my mind—her red lips curving as she teases me; the soft, pale skin of her thighs; her green eyes staring into mine as I move inside her.

On the fourth day, after work, I drive over to her place and park just down the road.

I’m not sure yet what I’m going to say to her. I just need to talk to her, to ask her to see me again. I need to know why she thinks we won’t work.

I’m just about to get out of the car when I see her come out of her apartment. She closes the door and then, walking quickly, she sets off in the opposite direction.

I get out of the car and follow her. Maybe she’s playing with the band tonight, I think, and I might be able to watch her perform.

Ignoring the fact that technically I’m stalking her, I swallow my unease and follow her for several blocks. Eventually, she stops, not at a bar, but at an Italian restaurant.

Is she meeting someone for dinner? My gut clenches with jealousy, and I stand in the shadows, hating myself for doing this, but unable to move. I watch her disappear into the restaurant. She’s gone for five minutes, and I’m about to move to see if I can find which table she’s at when she appears again.

She’s wearing a black mini skirt and a white shirt, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She picks up a notepad and approaches a nearby table, and stands there listening as the customers talk.

She’s a waitress. She works at Hearktech during the day, and here at night, and occasionally plays in a band too. I remember the law books I saw in her apartment next to the computer. I think she’s studying as well, possibly taking an online law degree. Jesus. She puts even my work ethic to shame.

I watch her for a few minutes, entranced by her small, slim form moving around, and then I walk slowly back to my car.

*

Friday night, I have to go to a function with Seb, Harry, and Elen, some charity thing we’ve been part of, so it’s Saturday before I have time to see Roxie.

Early this time—just after nine—I drive out to her apartment again, park up, and get out. I go up to the front door, almost bumping into a woman coming out. She looks at the huge bouquet of roses I’m holding, smiles, and holds the door open for me, so I slip inside.

I go up the stairs to Roxie’s room, wondering if she’s still asleep. For the first time, I feel a flicker of uneasiness. Maybe I should have rung first. But I wanted to surprise her.

I hope she’s alone. You fucking idiot. This is the first time it occurs to me that she could have someone in there. What will I do if a guy answers the door in his boxers?

I stand outside her door and hesitate. Maybe I should just turn and go. Do I leave the flowers? Again, what if she’s not alone? Surely, she wouldn’t have gotten off with another guy in such a short space of time? But you don’t really know her at all, do you Caleb? I thought we had the spark of something special, but I was probably fooling myself.

I turn to go, and the door opens.

She’s talking as she comes out. I was right—she does have someone in there with her. I want to duck behind the pillar so she doesn’t see me, but I’m too late. I stand there like a fool with the roses in my hand and watch her exit the apartment.

She sees me immediately, and stops and stares—at the flowers, then at me. She looks different—her hair is twisted up in a tidy knot, and her face is free of makeup.

She’s not with a guy. Or, at least, not a grown-up. She’s carrying a little boy, maybe three or four years old.

And, even though the kid has blond hair, I immediately know by the way he’s snuggled up to her and the soft voice she’s using that it’s her son.