CHAPTER EIGHT

I scoot my swiveling leather chair back as I glance at the red LED clock mounted to the white wall of my small office space—2:51 p.m. and nine minutes to go before I'm off for the day. In a way, the white wall in front of me is the only real wall, since the rest of the three walls surrounding me are of clear glass from floor to ceiling—even my door behind me is made of glass. Outside my office, through all of the the panes of glass, the muffled sounds of phones ringing and indistinct chatter typify my day as Jen's newly-minted Production Coordinator.

I shimmy my chair forward, returning myself up to my desk with its clear glass table top. Beneath the triple monitors of my work computer and amongst my keyboard and mouse, piles of manila folders lie in several different stacks across my desk. I sigh as I slam my forehead onto my table with a resounding thud upon the thickness of the glass. I still find myself so distracted at work and I don't quite know why—although now, I think it's only getting worse, considering what Mother had to say yesterday. Instead of getting easier, it's been as if it's getting harder to keep up with coordinating between the head office, the eleven different P.A.'s that I supervise, and all of the different production schedules and related tasks for each of their assigned clients. My door behind me clicks and swings open.

"That'll leave a bump," Jen's voice rings out as I sit up and turn around. "You seem a bit distracted today. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah," I lie.

"Did you get the confirmation for studio time for tomorrow morning's big interview?"

"Uh, the one in Brighton?"

"No, not that one. That big one for Dalton—"

"Right, sorry. The one in Manchester—I'll get on that right now."

"Thanks," Jen says just before she leaves.

On my way out of the office, I've taken to a new habit of using an alternate route to exit the building. As I get down the hallway, near Mr. Ashford's office, I stop and linger at the empty conference room wall with its array of the dozens and dozens of autographed pictures—although, truth be told, there's only one that I stare at in particular. Max and Harvey smiling in front of a black background, their signatures signed within the white border in black pen underneath each of their respective likenesses—it's one of the photos we had taken on our very first official assignment at that photography studio outside of London. That emptiness hits my chest as I consider Max's smile—it's hard to believe that I was only a few feet away from him when this photo was taken, but I might as well have never have been there at all.

"You're welcome to take that one home with you if you'd like," Mr. Ashford's voice says from behind me, startling me into quite a conspicuous jump. "So long as you promise not to say a word to Mrs. Blakefield—doubt I'd hear the end of it."

"Mr. Ashford, I didn't realize you were still here," I say, turning around. He raises his thick cigar to the level of his eyes.

"Forgot my cigar." He squints, regarding the cigar quite intently. "I used to have such a terrible habit of practically living here. I suppose that's why my late wife passed away so young—couldn't bear the loneliness."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I—I never had the chance to tell her just how much I truly loved her—she passed so suddenly." He points the back-end of his cigar at the photo of Max and Harvey. "You go on—take that home with you."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I can't," I say and he joins me, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with me, next to the photo. He sighs, shaking his head as he lifts the photo up by its frame and takes it off the wall. He turns to me, his eyes softening into mine as he hands me the photo—frame and all.

"You see that old photo up there," he says while pointing rather high above my head to a black-and-white portrait of a lady—she's perhaps in her early- to mid-twenties and she's as glamorous as any model I've ever seen. Because of the distance and how relatively small the framed portrait is, I squint to see if I might recognize who she is—I don't seem to know her from any past era, but I realize that the portrait is the only one I've yet to observe on the wall without any signature whatsoever. "I took that photo when I was about your age, long before I met my late wife."

"She's quite beautiful."

"Yes, very much so—and the one that very much got away," he says before he walks away towards the exit, leaving me with the framed photo of Max and Harvey awkwardly clutched to my chest. Pausing under the frame of the doorway, without turning back, he adds, "Don't make either of my mistakes."

~ ~ ~

In the car park, alone in my car, I slam my forehead into my steering wheel and sigh—I can't believe how incompetent I've been at work. With my face still in my steering wheel, I start the ignition and turn my head to look at my passenger seat currently occupied by a stack of manila folders with Mr. Ashford's impromptu gift sitting face down atop the pile—Max floods into my mind, sitting on that very seat. His unique, unfettered laugh rings into the bittersweet memory of my ears. I can almost feel the warmth of his eyes as the image of him smiles at me before he fades away, leaving only the stack of folders to take his place in the emptiness of my car.

I shut off the engine and lean back into my seat as I crank the reclining handle. Lying back with the rays of the sun splashing across my face from through my windshield, my nose tries to recall that hint of smoky cedarwood cologne once more. I close my eyes to help my nose concentrate, but it fails me. In frustration, I open my eyes and start my car up only to shut it off again as my body recalls the warmth of Max's embrace—the one and only hug he ever gave me and just before I stupidly pushed him away.

Unable to bear it any longer, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and pull up my messages—reading through all of my text messages with Max, reliving each moment we spent together, from the very beginning, all the way to our end. That emptiness returns—maybe Mr. Ashford is right—I have to get it off my chest—I have to tell him how I really feel. I type: 'Even if I never hear from you again, I need you to know that I am truly in love with you and that I miss you every single day and I don't know what else I to do to try to forget, even if I don't want to.' I hesitate to send it—because if he doesn't reply, then this will be my last message I'll ever send to him before I erase him from my phone for good. I exhale deeply, pressing the send icon before returning my phone into my pocket. I pause to consider the possibility that he's deleted my number, blocked it, got a new phone, or changed his number, or perhaps all, or several of the above. I sigh as I send it—and whether he even gets it or not—I sigh, knowing that now, at least, it's out in the aether.

I stare at the lone car at the other end of the car park—the only other one left apart from mine. A graying man with a loosely-fitting suit of tweed to match his hair exits the office building and dashes into that lone car. He takes off in a hurry, leaving me to the emptiness of my deserted lot. I wonder if he has anybody to go home to—perhaps he's all alone just like me. My phone rings on vibrate and I fumble to retrieve it from my pocket, hoping that it's Max—it's Dalton.

"Hey, Dalty," I greet him, quickly clearing the anxiously depressed hoarseness from my throat as I wonder if he's calling to know if I perhaps messed up his big day tomorrow. "I got a hold of the studio before they closed—you're all taken care of."

"Hey—oh, that's great—you're awesome—as always," he says with a rather giddy tone. All things considered, I can't say that I can agree with that statement, especially at how distracted I seem to be at my new job. "Actually, I wasn't calling about that."

"Oh? What is it, then?"

"Are you free for dinner?"

"I don't know. I am rather busy," I reply—I need to be alone in my misery tonight—so I can delete Max from my phone—wishing to know of what it would be like if I could do the same for my memories of him. I glance over at the stack of files atop my passenger seat—my self-imposed homework for the night—and sigh. "If it's a matter of business, then we can meet. Otherwise—"

"Perfect! Can you meet me at my usual spot in about a couple hours? Let's say, half seven."

"Fine, see you there, then." As I hang up my phone, I question if this meeting really is just about business—I can't help but feel that it isn't.

~ ~ ~

As I pull up to the car park of a little hole-in-the-wall of an eatery that serves mostly British street fare, Dalton is already waiting for me. Standing in a white polo and black slacks, Dalton spots me as I exit my car. We share a smile and a wave, before I meet with him near the entrance.

After staring at the menu for some time, I realize that I have no appetite. Dalton orders a BLT with a side of chips. I order a simple builder's tea, earning a raised eyebrow from Dalton. We take our seats at the outdoor seating area, sitting opposite each other at a wooden table with an awning overhead. Above the car park, the sky begins to tinge faintly orange as the sun prepares itself to set.

"You're sure you don't want to order anything to eat?" Dalton asks, his eyebrows arching slightly.

"I had a good lunch," I lie, catching his floral medley with the hint of cucumber as it mixes in with the warm air of a suburban evening.

"Don't tell me it was your usual chicken caesar salad," he says as a lady brings over his food and my cup of tea. After a polite exchange, we thank her before she leaves. "That's hardly a lunch."

"As a matter of fact, it was not." I open the lid of my tea and give it a few blows to cool it down. "It was an Asian-style chicken salad."

"Not exactly a hearty meal, then." We share a smirk as he tries one of his chips, steaming as he picks it from the bunch. "I can't believe you're not at all hungry."

"Do you still keep in touch with Harvey?" The moment that the question leaves my lips, I wish I didn't let it slip out—even after all this time, I've never once asked him about Harvey—if only to avoid hearing any possible mention of the name that hurts too much to hear. Dalton's eyes narrow ever so slightly as he takes a bite of his sandwich instead of giving me a prompt answer. I sip my tea as I wait for him—in mental agony—to finish swallowing. As he finally finishes swallowing, he glances over to me and parts his lips, but instead of speaking, he takes a chip to his lips. I sigh, loudly. He smiles and lowers the chip from his mouth.

"I'll tell you but you have to make two promises." He rests his food upon the table between us, still smiling all the while—he's so disarming that he always makes me forget how cunning he truly is. He's named his price—I have no choice, if I want any info regarding the duo I have zero contact with. I have the urge to back down and tell him to forget that I even asked, but the urge to know gets the better of me.

"Name it." I close my eyes, bracing myself for what he might make me do—I can't believe I'm going ahead with this. I remind myself to relax as best as possible—besides, it can't be that bad, considering I am his boss now, after all.

"First, let's take a walk and you have to promise not to nag me about where we're going." He stands up, taking his food with him.

"Done." I pick up my cup of tea from the table and follow him as he strolls past the car park onto the sidewalk of the main road. "And the second?"

"You have to promise you'll answer my next question truthfully." The warm breeze gently sweeps his hair from one side to the other.

"Right, I promise." I go to sip my tea, but put it back down near my waist as Dalton picks up his pace—practically jogging. Farther ahead of me, he takes something out from his pocket—which might be his cell phone, but I can't be certain since all I can see is his back, mainly. "So, where—?"

"Care to break your promises so soon?" He returns whatever he took out of his pocket and turns around, jogging backwards as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

"No, your right—I promised."

"Good. Just try to keep up." He picks up the pace once again as he returns to face the direction of his movement. Even now at a proper jog, he continues to eat his food—to my astonishment.

"So, what's your question?"

"That day at the cafe when I kissed you—I never stood a chance, did I?" He turns off into a rather tiny side street just as I take the opportunity to bin my cup of tea.

"Don't get me wrong, you're a good guy and you're attractive," I say as I speed up to catch up to him. "But I don't feel that way about you—I know that now."

"Fair enough—I figured—you know, a simple 'no' would do." He laughs as he makes another quick turn onto a different main road, but this time I manage to stay right on his heels. As we continue on for what seems to be an eternity in silence, I wonder where this is going as I can't help but feel as if I've walked this very same road before. The warm breeze helps to cool the beads of sweat starting to coat my shirt and my forehead as we jog into the fading light.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask between breaths.

"Of course—anything."

"Why did you turn down the promotion?"

"And recommend you instead?" He catches me off guard—I didn't know that he had, although the thought had previously crossed my mind. "I realized early on that there's no place I'd rather be other than working directly with my client. I don't know about you, but I can't stand the thought of being in an office every single day—I think I'd feel very, very lonely."

"Oh! Well, cheers for that!" We share a bit of a laugh, but his words manage to wind me—that emptiness returns, burning a hole into my chest.

"You're welcome." He speeds up and once again, as he's farther ahead of me, he retrieves something from his pocket, looking down at it for about a minute before stashing it away again. "You doing all right?"

"Never better," I lie, breathing heavily all the while. I can't remember when I last ran this much—if ever. Although, it is a bit exhilarating, if I have to admit.

"Do you need a break?"

"No," I lie again, wanting to get to where we're supposed to be going as fast as we can—if only to know why the road, the trees, and even the houses around these parts look so vaguely familiar. I faceplant into Dalton's back as he stops out of nowhere.

"You all right?" His hand grips my shoulder with a gentle squeeze, he narrows his gaze into mine.

"I'm all right. Why did we stop?"

"Take a look around." Here, now in the darkness of night, he smiles and I notice we've stopped under the branches of a tall and wispy willow. I frown and drop my eyes to the ground as I realize where we are. This is not just any willow tree—this is the exact willow tree that I first met Max. I back away in horror from the tree and from Dalton. "What's wrong?"

"Dalton, why did you bring me here? Have you been stalking me?" As I continue to back away, Dalton puts his hands up with his open palms towards me, gesturing—or feigning—his innocent intentions. "How did you know about this exact place!?"

"This isn't what you think, I promise." He takes a step towards me, but stops as I raise my arm and point my finger like a dagger toward his chest.

"You stay away from me, I swear!—" The chirping of a vehicle's tires comes to a halt in the middle of the roadway beside me and I hear the powered windows roll down—while I'm half expecting to hear the driver ask if I'm all right, I keep my eyes on Dalton in case he makes some sort of a move on me. Oddly, the driver says nothing and I almost wonder if the car is still there at all, until I realize that the vehicle's engine is still running. Dalton smiles, waving his phone up towards me while he points towards the stopped vehicle. Cautiously, I slowly turn toward the dark corner of my eye. Turning my head to see a dark SUV with its indicators signaling towards us. I squint and strain but I can't see the driver behind the wheel. With a hooded sweatshirt still obscuring their identity, the driver opens their door and steps into the roadway. He walks slowly towards me and the pounding in my chest rises to my eardrums. By the light of the moon, my jaw parts wide as I realize who it is.

"You already knew who I was from the first moment you saw me in my drive," Max says as he walks ever so slowly closer towards me. As he comes around the hood of his car, my vision hazes as if I'm a fish staring out from my bowl.

"Yes," I admit with a tremble in my voice that's noticeable to my ears. With his every line spoken with the cadence of a poet, Max draws nearer and nearer with every word.

"You're American—you've moved here years ago—it's already dark—and you're miles from home." Max stops a few meters from me, his soft hazel gaze glinting by the gentle glow of the moonlight. "Why did you turn down my offer of a lift?"

"I didn't want you to think I was a stalker." I swallow hard as the pounding in my chest moves into my throat.

"I'm