Page 64 of Cava with My Colleague

Eleven floors. That’s all. One minute.

The elevator lurches.

Then stops.

The regular lighting flickers off, replaced by dim emergency lights. We’re suspended somewhere between the second and third floors.

“No,” Jade mutters. “No, no, no.”

I press the emergency call button. An automated voice responds immediately in French: “Emergency services have been notified. Maintenance is en route. The estimated wait time is twenty to thirty minutes. Please remain calm.”

“Thirty minutes?” Jade’s voice pitches higher.

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s just a mechanical issue. We’re safe.”

She nods, but I can see her hands gripping the strap of her laptop bag tightly.

I pull out my phone. No signal. Of course.

Jade checks hers and sighs. “Nothing.”

We stand there in silence. One minute. Two.

This is fine. We can handle thirty minutes. We’re adults.

Jade slides down the wall to sit on the floor, setting her laptop bag beside her. She pulls her knees up and rests her head on them. Today she’s in pants instead of a skirt, and I’m glad I don’t have to distract myself from her bare legs.

I remain standing for another minute, but it feels ridiculous to loom over her. Finally, I lower myself to sit against the opposite wall, legs stretched out in front of me.

The space between us is maybe four feet. Might as well be four miles given how careful we’ve been to maintain distance.

Five minutes pass. The emergency lighting casts strange shadows. I can hear the building’s ventilation system humming. Jade’s breathing. My own heartbeat.

I want to say something. Ask if she’s okay. Comment on the absurdity of this. Anything.

But we agreed. Professional only.

Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, Jade says: “I’m sorry.”

I look up. “For what?”

“For what I said. About your son. That was unfair.” She lifts her head to look at me. “You’re right—we’re colleagues. Your personal life isn’t my business.”

Hearing her say it hurts more than it should.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say.

“I was angry. I . . .” She trails off. “I shouldn’t have made it about you keeping things from me. You don’t owe me your life story.”

I should agree. Should let it drop. Should maintain the professional distance we’ve worked so hard to establish.

Instead, I hear myself say, “I should have told you. About Fernando. About . . . everything.”

She looks up, surprise in her eyes. “Why didn’t you?”

The question hangs between us. I could deflect. Could give her some non-answer about professional boundaries.

But we’re stuck in an elevator between floors, and I’m tired of the walls.