Page 90 of Cut Off
He nods. “That’s a good deal.”
“It’s a really good deal.”
I let the words, the shape of them, and the implication underneath them sit there. I’m not going to say I want this to work, and I’m not going to ask him to make it work. I have my pride, and he gets to do this part.
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
For one long, suspended second, I’m absolutely sure he’s going to do it. His jaw works. His weight shifts off the counter just enough to suggest movement that isn’t happening yet. There’s a flash in his eyes, and my heart hammers so hard, I’m genuinely afraid he can hear it.
This is it, I think. This is the part where he says some version of what I outlined for him in my head. He doesn’t have to be elegant about it. He doesn’t have to give a speech. He could just say, We’ll figure it out, or, I don’t want you to go, or, Stay, or, We need you here. Any of it. I have a whole library of acceptable scripts, and I will accept the cheapest version; I’m not picky.
I’m the person who knows Eli’s juice cup has to be the blue one or the world ends. I’m the person Jonah comes to for everything. I’m the person whose hand he held on the gearshift driving back from Gwen’s house. Whatever this is, it’s not nothing, and we both know it’s not nothing, and all I’m asking is for him to acknowledge that out loud, in daylight.
Say it, I think. Say it.
His face closes.
All at once. Like a door swinging shut on a hinge that’s been waiting to close.
He stares at the counter. He picks up his coffee mug, which is empty, and sets it back down. When he looks back up, his expression’s been rearranged. Carefully. Professionally. It is the face of a man giving a post-game interview about a loss he didn’t take personally.
“Zoe,” he says, not like the way he said it in the dark. “This is a huge opportunity.” His voice is unbelievably even. “You should be all in on it. You should go up there and become a killer executive producer.”
“Okay,” I say automatically. My voice is also even. We are both being very even.
“But for sure,” he goes on, and his tone sounds rehearsed now, “whenever you’re in town visiting family, we can do lunch.”
Do lunch.
Do lunch.
The words slap like a wet dishcloth across the face.
I’m pretty sure I wince but recover. After that, I don’t move my eyebrows. I don’t move my mouth. I don’t let so much as a single muscle in my throat betray the fact that my chest has just been opened up with a can opener.
I wait one more beat and give him every chance in the world to take it back. I give him the kind of beat in which a competent person could’ve realized they had said the worst possible combination of words in the English language.
He doesn’t.
He keeps going. “And listen. I want you to be set up. You’ve been—you’ve done so much. Let me put together a bonus to help you get started. Deposit, moving costs, whatever you need. I don’t want you walking into this without a cushion.”
He means it. That’s the part that actually empties the bottom of my stomach onto the floor. He’s not being cruel. He’s being thoughtful. He’s being the most considerate version of himself, the version that takes care of people. And he’s being absolutely, devastatingly practical.
It is the kindest possible way a person can tell you that you’re not the thing they cannot lose.
And I can’t feel my face, or my legs for that matter.
“And don’t worry about Eli, Zoe,” he continues. “He’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. He’s so much further along than where we started. That’s because of you.” His words are warm, generous. “He’s going to miss you like hell. We’ll figure it out. We’ll Facetime. You can fly back. He’d love Seattle. There’s that aquarium he keeps watching videos of.”
“Right.” My voice is barely hanging on. “Right, the aquarium.”
“It’s gonna be fine.” He nods. “We can talk numbers later in the week.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Zoe—”
