Chapter 23 Cass

I exited the subway and peered up at the Davenport-Ridgeway Tower. The building was colossal for no reason. I took a long sip of my coffee and released a heavy sigh. We were kicking off the fourth week of due diligence, which meant I had to do a deep dive with Mahendra to make sure everything was going according to plan.

This was a standard part of my process, but it did mean I wouldn't see Marcus today. The only thing worse than a Monday morning was a Monday morning without Marcus Fitz. As I walked into the building's lobby, I thought about texting him to remind him I wouldn't be there. When I took out my phone I realized two things:

One, I didn't have his phone number. Seriously. Somehow, I had hooked up with this guy three times and I still didn't have his number—and I had phone numbers for guys whose last names I didn't even know.

And two, I realized Marcus was well aware I wasn't going to be there today, because the following email was already waiting patiently in my inbox:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Cassandra,

Morning. I hope you're well. I noticed you're not onsite today. I saw this is noted on the schedule you provided, so I apologize for not connecting on this earlier. At your earliest convenience, could you please reach out to me? I'd like to discuss the pro bono services I received this weekend and to confirm if we can schedule a follow-up. I have availability today, tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday (with Friday being my preference). If you can't do in-person, I'm also open to a video call.

Thanks so much, and please let me know if you have any questions.

Warmly,

Marcus Fitz

COO and Founder, Libra

I entered my seldom-used office with a smile on my face, which was truly an anomaly. Luckily, I could shut the door and guarantee none of my coworkers would see me beaming at my cell phone like an idiot.

Just as I was logging on to my laptop to prepare for the day (read: respond to Marcus's email), my cell phone began to ring. As soon as I heard that, I had a Pavlovian response. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach churned with dread. The only person who ever called me was my mother. But to my surprise, when I looked at the screen the name staring back at me was Trevor.

It was Trevor.

Every fiber of my being was telling me not to answer the phone. Every cell inside of me was jumping up and down, shouting DON'T DO THIS like the crowd in a theater during opening night of a horror film, screaming at the braindead side character who thinks it's a brilliant idea to go into the basement. But there was a cardinal rule of horror movies: Virgins survived and the girls who slept around didn't—and I obviously wasn't a virgin.

"Hello?" I answered the phone like I didn't know who was calling. I answered it as though I didn't have his number—when I would still know it by heart even if it weren't saved in my phone.

"Hey, hot stuff, how've you been?"

I was quiet when I heard his voice. It had been three years since we last spoke, but I still heard his voice the same way I did when it would rumble in my ear every night for the three years of our relationship. It was tinged with vivid memories of buzzy nights in our shitty apartment, smoking weed and having sex with the lights on because I loved looking at him, examining all his tattoos like they were new.

"Cass?"

"Trevor."

"How've you been?" he repeated.

"Over the last three years?" I responded. "Fine."

When he laughed, it was ice cubes in a glass of whiskey. The sharp odor of cigarette smoke. The cold touch of the hoop he wore in his lower lip.

"You're back in the city, right?"

"For a year now," I told him.

"And how did business school go? Did you finish?"

The question rolled over me with spikes. Briefly, I considered telling him I had never quit anything until I dropped out of law school to be with him. Finishing business school was nothing; I could have done it as a teenager, honestly. But something about Trevor always left me choking on words I would never utter. Instead, I simply said, "I did."

"That's cool, Cass. I know it was important to you."

We were both quiet. Faintly, the sound of a car honk in the background broke through. "I'm in town," he commented. "And I want to see you."

I hated my stomach for reeling at that moment. I hated my body for still wanting him—needing him—after all these years. "Really?"

"Yeah. I've been thinking about you a lot. And I'm in town now, seeing my buddy play a gig. I couldn't not call you."

Brimming with confusion, I leaned back in my chair and stared straight ahead. I had a black and white picture of New York's skyline hanging on the wall. It was hideous—completely without substance or significance at all. But I needed something to look at in those moments when my mind wandered. I always needed something to look at to keep the omnipresent memories from cropping up.

"That's not a good idea, Trevor."

"Why not?" he questioned, his tone accusatory even though my response had been straightforward and sensible. "Because of how much you want to see me too?"

When Marcus put words in my mouth, it was different. It was knowing and seductive—and often worked wonders to open me up to sharing what I truly longed to say. When Trevor did it, it was demeaning. Presumptuous. Harsh.

So why the fuck was I even still listening to him, hoping he had yearned for me like I had yearned for him all these years?

"I woke up one morning and you were gone," I reminded him, ending my pregnant pause. "No goodbye. No explanation. You were just gone."

"I had a reason."

"I would have loved to hear it."

He released a cross between a groan and a sigh—a sound so familiar I could have picked it out of a packed bar. "Cass, we were kids," he said. "I was twenty-five and you were asking me to move to Boston with you so you could get yet another fancy degree. I didn't want that. It was too damn…domestic for me. And you knew that about me."

"But you ghosted me," I reminded him. The words were humiliating—hard to say aloud. "We were together for three years and you literally just disappeared one morning. Why would I ever want to see you again after that?"

"Because you still think of me."

His answer was succinct, self-assured, and correct. I fucking hated how right he was.

"This is a bad idea," I was murmuring.

"But I'm not wrong. You think of me all the time."

"I think of everything," I snapped, reminding him of my stark reality. "I don't have the privilege of forgetting."

Trevor was silent for a moment before he said. "Look, I'm in town for a couple nights. Let's talk. Maybe do more. I'm sure there are a million things you want to say to my face, and I'm going to be honest—there's about a million things I've wanted to do with you for the past three years. Itches nobody else has ever been able to scratch, babe. I'm guessing it's the same with you."

I fell silent again and folded my lips over my teeth. Trevor always knew how to push my buttons. Hell, he practically invented all my buttons.

"Friday night. Let's do something. It'll be my treat."

I closed my eyes before I heard myself saying, "Fine."

"I'll text you," he promised. "Can't wait."

The call ended and I realized my hand was gripping the armrest of my office chair. My heart raced, setting my entire body on edge. I shook my head and briefly consider dipping into my vodka stores.

Once I was able to breathe again, I opened my laptop and Marcus's email was staring me in the face. As soon as I saw it, my chest tightened once more. I paused with my hand hovering over my keyboard, wondering if I should let him know about Trevor.

After a beat, I shook my head. Marcus and I came to an agreement—we could see other people. And if he wasn't going to be okay with it, he never should have agreed to it.

Hi Marcus,

Thanks for reaching out, and my apologies for any confusion. I'll be back onsite tomorrow and we can discuss a follow-up then. My preference is in-person but would be open to a video call as well.

I have availability tomorrow and Thursday. Unfortunately, I have a conflict on Friday.

Kind regards,

Cassandra Pierson

Due Diligence Analyst, M&A – Financial Services

Within seconds, another email from Marcus appeared in my inbox. It read: What's happening on Friday?

I could picture him sitting at his laptop, his expression neutral and his fingers flying over the keys as usual. He was probably in plain sight of most of the staff at that very moment, and they probably thought he was hard at work. On the contrary, he was trying to get laid—and I was the only one who knew it.

I responded: Per my previous email, I have a conflict.

Again, he answered in seconds with: Cancel it.

I didn't bother addressing his request. I simply responded with: Saturday.