Chapter 6 - The Date We Didn’t Go On
By the time November arrived, Northbridge felt both familiar and entirely different.
The elevators still smelled faintly of expensive cleaning products.
The coffee on twenty-three was still terrible.
My inbox remained capable of reproducing overnight.
But I no longer flinched whenever a manager stopped beside my desk.
My new supervisor, Allison Chen, asked questions without making them traps.
When she disagreed with me, she explained why.
When I produced work, my name stayed on it.
I discovered that respect was less exhausting than praise.
The independent compensation review resulted in an adjustment and a role expansion supported by my work record.
Grant did not approve it.
He was not copied on the recommendation.
I read the decision twice anyway, checking for the catch.
Allison noticed.
“You don’t have to apologize for this.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your face did.”
I laughed.
Then I framed the first project summary that listed me as lead analyst.
Not because it was glamorous.
Because I wanted evidence of a life in which I could be seen without making myself smaller.
Outside work, Grant and I did not date.
That sentence became a surprisingly complicated part of my days.
We occasionally exchanged messages through our families about my father’s recovery.
Once, Evelyn sent a group photograph of Dad teaching her how to fix a sticking cabinet hinge.
Grant replied:
My mother has officially become more qualified to run facilities than I am.
I laughed for a full minute.
Then I missed him.
It was ridiculous to miss someone I barely knew.
Except I was beginning to understand that I missed the possibility.
The dinner conversation.
The quiet car.
The man who had noticed my discomfort and made room for it.
One Saturday, we ran into each other at a charity book sale in Manhattan.
No mothers.
No company event.
No appointment.
He stood beside a table of battered detective novels, wearing jeans and an expression of genuine surprise.
“Carter.”
“Mercer.”
His smile arrived immediately.
It did inconvenient things to my judgment.
“You read those?” I asked, pointing at the books.
“Frequently.”
“I assumed your recreational reading involved acquisition targets.”
“Only when I’m trying to sleep.”
We walked between the tables.
For twenty minutes, conversation was easy.
He told me about his father.
I told him about the terrible apartment I had rented after college.
We argued about whether a mystery ending counted as clever if the author concealed essential information.
“It’s cheating,” I said.
“It’s suspense.”
“It’s poor disclosure.”
He laughed.
Then we reached the doors.
A restaurant across the street had warm windows and empty tables.
For a second, we both looked at it.
He turned toward me.
“Emma.”
I knew what the question would be before he asked.
I also knew what my answer needed to be.
“We can’t,” I said.
His expression softened.
“I know.”
“I don’t want every good thing that happens at work to become something people explain with your name.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want you wondering whether I’m saying yes because saying no feels risky.”
He held my gaze.
“I don’t want that either.”
The honesty hurt.
It also steadied me.
We stood beneath the awning while people moved around us.
Then he said, “For the record, this is deeply inconvenient.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Finally. Something we agree on.”
He walked me to the subway entrance.
Not because I needed escorting.
Because neither of us was ready to end the conversation.
At the stairs, he stopped.
“Whatever happens next,” he said, “keep taking your work seriously.”
I looked at him.
“I’ve always taken my work seriously.”
“You’re right.”
A pause.
“Keep insisting other people do too.”
That night, I opened an email I had ignored for months.
A former colleague now worked at a national nonprofit improving food distribution systems.
They were hiring a director of operational analysis.
I had applied before the blind date.
Before the photograph.
Before any of this.
The subject line read:
May you like
Would you still be interested in a conversation?
For the first time, I knew my answer.
