“I picked up something for dessert.” She said it like she said most things.
In a matter of fact manner.
She was already pulling containers out of a paper bag on the kitchen counter.
I looked up from the email I was reading and watched her arrange them with more care than the statement warranted.
There was a tiramisu from the Italian place on Fifth and something with chocolate I didn’t recognize and a small container of what looked like lemon tarts.
“You said you wanted something dessert-adjacent after dinner,” she remarked, not looking at me.
“I didn’t know what that meant exactly, so I got several somethings.” “Several somethings?” I looked at her with a small smile of amusement on my face.
“Don’t make it weird.” She answered, fighting back her own smile.
I wasn’t going to make it weird.
I was, instead, quite impressed that Sloane Reed had stopped at a bakery on her way home from a board meeting because I had mentioned, in passing, three days earlier, that dinner felt incomplete without something sweet afterward.
She set a small plate beside mine without being asked.
“Thanks.” I said, unable to get my eyes off her.
The tiramisu was the exact one I would have picked if given the choice, which she hadn’t given me because apparently she’d already known.
It was thoughtful.
I said nothing about it but just ate the dessert as she ate hers, and the evening continued the usual way our evenings went.
We had a simple routine for weeks now.
It was a comfortable rhythm of two people who had stopped needing to perform for each other.
It didn’t happen in a single moment but with small, consistent shifts that only became visible when you stopped to look at the whole picture.
It went from starting the day with coffee in the mornings, then the dinners that started accidentally but have now become a deliberate part of our lives together.
The way she now sat on the opposite end of whatever sofa I was occupying instead of choosing the chair across the room.
The way I’d started leaving the office earlier than necessary, just to make sure I was home before she was, just to see her walk through the door.
It didn’t feel like a contract anymore, but at the same time it didn’t feel entirely real, more like a happy drug trip that made reality seem better than it really was.
I knew this and didn’t allow myself to dwell on it too much but rather just enjoy the moments because dwelling meant acknowledging things about the brewing company case, the timeline and the conversation I still hadn’t had with her.
All glaring things that made it so painfully obvious that it was just an arranged contract.
I had become exceptionally skilled at not looking at things I didn’t want to see.
The following evening, I turned on the television after dinner out of habit more than intention.
It was some documentary about deep sea exploration that Henry had mentioned was good.
While I got comfy, Sloane appeared in the doorway and disappeared only to reappear a few minutes later, glass of wine in hand, and settled onto the sofa beside me.
She did it with an ease she was probably unconscious about that told me she hadn’t decided to join me rather, she’d simply done it, the way you did things in a house that had started to feel like yours.
“What is this?” She asked with her nose scrunched up.
I found it really cute.
Too cute.
“Deep sea documentary.” I responded, calling myself back to the present.
“Why are we watching deep sea documentaries, Zane?” “Henry recommended it.” She laughed with her head thrown back.
“Henry has terrible taste.” She commented after catching her breath.
I watched her laughter with so much fascination, it took a moment to bring me out of my reverie.
“Henry has excellent taste.
You’ve never trusted his recommendations because he once suggested you read a self-help book.” I argued.
“It was a bad self-help book.” “It was a New York Times bestseller.” I countered.
“A New York Times bestseller can be bad.” She retorted.
She settled further into the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her, and we watched something about anglerfish for a while, and somewhere between the bioluminescent jellyfish and the segment on hydrothermal vents, the conversation drifted from the documentary to something else entirely.
“His wife threw the worst and the most terrible dinner party.” She narrated through laughter, leaving me wondering how we got there.
“This reminds me of how my father had embarrassed himself with his poor command of the Japanese language while trying to greet a Japanese partner.
We all tried to stifle the laughter but once one person laughed, the flood gates were open.” I said, adding to our conversation.
We then moved the conversation to a comparative merits of Seattle coffee versus the coffee in Portugal, which led to Portugal generally.
“Portugal was fun.” she said, looking like her mind was back there again.
I could relate.
“Yeah, Portugal was fun.” I agreed and let my mind wander to the moments we had shared there.
The documentary ended and another one about volcanic activity started in its place.
I don’t remember exactly when the conversation stopped, but I remembered her voice getting quieter.
I remembered the weight of her settling slightly against my side, gradual enough that neither of us marked the moment it happened.
“We should probably go upstairs.” I muttered sleepily but we didn’t make it up because the documentary was background noise to something that felt considerably more important than sleeping patterns.
I don’t remember falling asleep at all.
But I woke up to a violent shift.
I felt it before I saw it, the shift in her breathing, tension returning to her shoulders as her consciousness caught up with her body.
Sloane sat up so fast it was almost violent.
“Oh my god.” She gasped.
“Good morning.” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Oh my god.” She said again and was on her feet now, smoothing her hair, looking anywhere except at me.
“We fell asleep.
We actually fell asleep on the sofa.” It seemed like the realization was slowly dawning on her.
“We did.” I said carefully.
“This is,” She gestured at the general state of the room.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” “It’s a sofa, Sloane.
People fall asleep on sofas.” She shook her head vehemently.
“Not us.
We don’t fall asleep on sofas together.” “We did last night.” I said, feeling the urge to stretch my limbs.
“Stop saying that like it’s not a problem.” I stood, slower than she had, and watched her continue the process of trying to reassemble herself, straightening her shirt, running her fingers through her hair, panicking like she was caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.
The kitchen door opened.
The housekeeper, Lucia, walked in with her morning tray, took one look at the scene, Sloane mid-panic, hair disheveled, standing three feet from a rumpled sofa that clearly hadn’t been slept in by one person and smiled.
“It’s not what you think.” Sloane said quickly.
A full, warm, knowing smile spread across her face that said she’d already drawn conclusions and was thrilled about them.
“You don’t have to explain yourself ma’am, especially not to me.” she responded and set the tray down with deliberate care.
“Should I bring breakfast for two, then?” Sloane’s face went through several distinct shades of red.
I said nothing, because there was genuinely nothing useful to say.
I watched two more staff members pass through the hallway behind Lucia, glance into the living room, and exchange a look that needed no translation.
By the time Sloane fled toward the stairs, the entire household staff had apparently reached the same conclusion at exactly the same moment.
And judging by the way they were all smiling at each other, none of them were planning to keep it quiet.