Page 12

Lark

She hasn’t been at work for three days now.

I don’t know why she’s not here and it’s driving me crazy.

I tap my pen against the notepad, giving up even the pretense of pretending to work. The space is too quiet, and people are too subdued without her around. Her absence has an effect on everyone, and it’s not good.

Standing up, I make my way to the painting that hangs on my wall. It’s an abstract flurry of blues and grays, like a storm captured on canvas. With a sigh, I make my way to the window, watching people far below scurry about their lives. An hour slips by with me trying to imagine where Lara is instead of tackling the mountain of paperwork.

“Tell me,” I ask the empty room, “what's keeping you away?”

Of course, the room doesn’t answer or offer any sympathy for the frustration and fear running circles in my mind. What if she’s hurt? What if it’s something serious? Why wouldn’t she call me?

“Maybe she's just busy,” I say, taking a few steps to stretch my legs and hopefully shake off the restlessness.

Or maybe she's avoiding you , the skeptic inside me counters. Maybe bringing her food was too intimate. Maybe I’d crossed a boundary I didn’t know existed.

I shake my head, refusing to entertain those ideas. She wouldn't run. Not again. Not from her own company. She’d fire me if she needed an escape.

I sit down and try to focus on work once more, but my thoughts keep drifting back to her and worrying. It's no use.

The clock ticks too loudly, a steady beat that annoys my distracted mind. I swipe through screens, watching the data blur as my eyes unfocus to think about her instead. Emails go unanswered. I swear the silence grows teeth.

I don’t know how she has this effect on me. I went five years without seeing her. Now it’s been a few days and I’m falling apart. She's just... gone. No good mornings exchanged, no quick glances that linger too long. Nothing.

The keyboard feels alien under my fingers. Numbers and projections all blend into a meaningless mess my brain can’t decipher.

“Damn it,” I say, pushing away from the desk. My chair lets out a squeal of protest.

I grab my jacket, the office walls closing in on me. I want to tell her to get out of my head, but I know that’s a losing battle – she won’t listen. She never has, not since that first meeting on the plane.

When it’s finally time to go home, I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing and that makes me feel weak. This isn’t like me. Obsessing over her isn’t a good look, nor does it feel good.

Home is a welcome space and mom's voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts as she hands me a steaming mug. “You look like hell,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee. I had no idea she’d be here today, but I’m glad she is. She’s had a spare key to my place since forever, and I wouldn’t dream of things being any other way. But it’s rare that she’ll drop by without a warning.

“Is it work? Or... her?” Mom’s eyes search my face as if she’ll find an answer.

“Both.” The word sends relief through me, as if just saying it out loud that she affects me helps me come to terms with and deal with everything that comes with that implication. “She’s been gone for days now. Shana won’t tell me anything, and no one else seems to know.”

I hate not knowing more than anything.

“Maybe she's sick,” Mom says, leaning against the counter.

“Then why wouldn’t she tell me?” I frown, staring down into the dark liquid with an urge to add something a little stronger. “Why would she shut me out?”

“Maybe she can't help it.” Mom's voice is soft.

“Can't or won't?” The distinction feels important, but my mom doesn’t have that answer, and neither do I.

“Enjoy your coffee,” she says, effectively ending the conversation before leaving the room. But the question remains, a splinter in my mind.

“Can't or won't?” I mutter into the cup, watching my breath make ripples on the surface of the coffee.

*

It’s been another two days, and she still hasn’t come back or contacted me.

I stand by the elevator, waiting to head up when I catch a familiar whiff of perfume. My heart thunders and I turn. Our eyes meet and she looks caught, guilty, maybe even afraid. But why?

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing the empty space. She steps inside and I follow, aware of how her presence immediately fills the confined space. I hesitate for only a second before speaking; long enough for the doors to close behind me.

“Morning,” I say, my voice sounding more casual than I feel as I struggle to hold back the flood of words that want to come crashing out.

“Good morning,” she says so very softly, her eyes not meeting mine as she touches the button for our floor.

My heart races as I take a deep breath. “You've been out for a week.”

She stiffens, still avoiding my gaze. Her fingers stroke the strap of her handbag, and I’d swear she’s trembling. The black dress she’s wearing seems so harsh, and her hair is smoothed back into a slick bun that makes her features seem sharper. She looks… normal. Right down to her heels and touch of makeup that looks like she’s wearing none.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concern bleeding through, despite my attempt at staying professional.

“Everything's fine,” she says, but there’s a curt edge to her voice, as if I don’t have the right to ask her questions.

We ride up in silence, but it's suffocating and there are so many words I want to say. As the floors tick by, I can't contain it anymore. My protective instincts, dormant yet powerful, surge within me, demanding action.

“Look, if something urgent came up, you should have told me.” My tone is firm, insistent.

Her head snaps up, surprise filling her beautiful features. “Why on earth would I inform you?” she asks, her voice sharp and cautionary.

“Because—” I stop myself. Do I even know why?

“I'm your boss, not your friend,” she says, her eyes now intent on mine. Her words are a cold reminder, a verbal shove back into my place. “You work for me. That's it.”

I can’t breathe around the lump of anger and frustration in my throat.

The elevator comes to a halt and dings. The doors slide open, and she steps out without another word, leaving me wondering how to get through the invisible barrier she's reinforced between us.

With my elbows on my desk and my fingertips pressing into my temples, I scan the digital spreadsheets. A notification pops up in the corner—her name in bold. I click, expecting a work-related memo, demands, or maybe another sharp-edged reminder of where I stand.

Sorry about this morning , her message starts, disarmingly gentle. My son was sick.

I blink. Once. Twice. My hands hover over the keys, uncertain if I should respond or how. Son? The word bounces around in my head, sounding more and more unreal as it plays on repeat.

She has a child? She’s guarded that fact like a state secret; I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it mentioned around the office. Shana probably knows, but I wonder if anyone else does.

And what else don't I know? I type out a response before I can stop myself.

Is he okay? The concern that fills the words might not be obvious to her, but I sure as hell feel it. I can’t imagine being a father, but I’d think having a child so sick I had to miss work would be an awful experience. But again, she’d reminded me that I just work for her, so that concern is something I'm not supposed to show.

Minutes crawl by, each second stretching longer than the one before. Then, three dots bounce on the screen. She’s typing.

Yes, much better. Thank you. I swear I can hear her surprise in the words.

Good to hear. I lean back, my eyes tracing the ceiling's precise lines. Why share this with me now? She’s not the type to share her secrets, and I can’t help but wonder where this newfound trust is coming from.

Thanks for your... understanding. Another message from her shows an unexpected softness. This might be the moment that chipped at the barrier between us, but I won’t hold my breath.

Anytime , I write back, but I want to say more. I have so many questions, but I don’t think now is the time to ask them. She already let me see more than she tends to share, pushing might cause this fragile trust to break. But why now?

See you tomorrow , she sends.

See you then , I say, though it's just text on a screen.

But tomorrow, maybe, just maybe, the walls between us might be a little thinner, easier to topple or scale. And as I shut down my computer, I realize I'm looking forward to finding out.