10. Alex

Chapter 10

Alex

Dad told me that Grace had a surprise. Eavesdropping on her team meeting had been an unexpected joy … although now that she was speed walking down the corridor, I wondered if I'd pushed too hard.

She flicked her badge to her office without looking back, opened a nondescript door, and stepped into the darkness.

Moments later, her face was illuminated by a wall-mounted screen, bathed in an inviting glow. In the corner, a thick tube glowed purple, a floor-to-ceiling lava lamp pulsing with floating beads. My palm grazed over the smooth tube, mesmerized as the lights shifted through the color spectrum, shoulders relaxing as the spheres rose. Gentle orchestral music played from hidden speakers. Fuzzy pillows were strewn around the floor, and a small tent was strung with fairy lights on top of a plush carpet.

My eyes wandered to the corner, where Grace hung inside a pod swing dangling weightlessly from the ceiling. Her legs curled up into the fabric as the chair twisted , her face serene. "Welcome to the Clarke Family Sensory Room."

I looked around the room again with fresh eyes as she explained, "The hospital can be overstimulating: bright lights, loud monitors, doctors poking and prodding. This helps kids calm those inputs."

I didn't want to tell her that I'd read up on what a sensory room was when Dad told me they were donating because I couldn't understand why somebody would give a hospital money for blinking lights.

When I met Grace, I understood: Dad's donation wasn't because he gave a shit about sensory processing, only because it mattered to Grace … but I didn't understand why she cared.

After Grace left Carol's house two days ago, I'd gone down a rabbit hole of what the hell ‘somatic therapy' was, reading theory about how external stimulation changes our mood and stress levels … but I still couldn't explain it.

Now I understood. My body was relaxing in a way I couldn't express.

"This is the room Dad was dedicating?"

"Since you technically cut the ribbon, you get the inaugural tour."

I winced at my overtired outburst. "Dad hasn't seen it?"

"Not yet. I told the occupational therapists that your family gets to visit first."

A protective surge rose for the space she was defending: The Clarke Family Sensory Room. My family's room.

"So nobody has been in here since Dad …"

Guilt crossed her face. "I came here. After you and I spoke the first time."

She'd snapped at me on the first phone call, but when she called back … "It must have helped because you seemed calmer."

"Thanks to Connor." Her fingers covered her lips, beating herself up for slipping.

Connor was a vault. How had she convinced him to cave? "What did he do?"

"He coached me on how to talk to you." When my scowl deepened, she jumped to his defense. "It's not his fault. I told him about the ribbon cutting, how stressed I was with the mayor's speech, and your dad — I'd seen him shaking, but he said it was nerves. When he collapsed, the doctors rushed the stage and your sister pressed her phone into my hands before …" She blinked back tears.

My stomach lurched. I'd been so absorbed in the disruption that I hadn't considered what Grace had been going through. She'd been struggling to hold it together, but she sounded professional. I'd been caught off guard and took it out on her when she'd been trying to do her job.

No, not her job. A favor to Mallory. Amidst the chaos, my sister thought to update me. If the roles were reversed, would I have considered her?

Grace was caught in the crossfire. I'd shot the messenger.

And she retreated into this room to recover after I bit her head off.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, you didn't deserve that," I murmured, placing my hand on top of hers, gripping the smooth fabric of her swing. I felt my heartbeat in my fingertips, her pulse beneath my palm. Both racing.

She pulled her hand away and stood, the swing swiveling at her sudden absence as she she crossed the room to press the controls. She'd shown me the room and was ready to move on.

But I didn't want to leave yet.

The room wasn't the only reason … but the excuse was good enough.

"There's something I don't understand," I said, grasping at straws. I felt like that little girl, Ruby, when I was Santa and she wanted attention, blurting out that I had pretty eyes. But I couldn't tell Grace that … even though it was true. "I read about that pressure thing, but it didn't make sense."

Her cautious expression gauged my sincerity. "Proprioceptive input?"

I nodded, glad she pronounced it because I couldn't. "How does it work?"

Her feet shifted, gaze locked on the lava lamp tube.

"Close your eyes," she said, and after a moment's hesitation, I did. "Now touch your elbow, then your nose." I did. "Your muscles, joints, and tendons have receptors that tell you where you are in space."

Her fingertips grazed the fabric over my bicep. "It's different than touch inputs on your skin. Proprioceptive issues can cause you to lose your balance or not understand your strength. Your sister, for example," I peaked open an eyelid to glimpse the soft smile on her face, "is always seeking more sensation. Teaching yoga is perfect for her: always touching, moving her body, listening to music, and wearing tight clothes … although she'd say that's because they make her butt look great." I held back a chuckle at my ridiculous sister. "Some people seek sensory inputs, some avoid them. For some people, it depends on the sensory type."

The rainbow light cast a soft glow on her cheeks. "When we met, you winced when I touched your hand. "

"You surprised me." I reached for her hand, interlacing our fingers to reassure her it was okay.

"I realized when you didn't let go. You needed the pressure since the lights and noises in your dad's room bother you."

I thought she was trying to comfort me, but was she evaluating me?

"The itchy polyester of the Santa suit triggered you, but your mints and wool sweater are calming." She ran her free hand along my arm and lingered at my elbow. She was so close that my palm rose to trail the fabric of her soft dress along her waist. Her head tipped back and her lips parted.

My mind fixated on one sense: taste, remembering her peppermint lips tingling under the mistletoe. My head dipped closer.

Her eyes widened, her shoulders froze before her firm hand pressed my chest away. "Stop it, Alex. I'm not Mrs. Claus, there are no kids here to entertain. You don't have to pretend you want to …"

She stepped back, her arm keeping distance between us. I let my hands fall at my sides. "You think I'm pretending?"

"I work here, Alex. You're a patient's son. It's one thing when we're in costume, playacting. That's all that was. So stop flirting and implying to my coworkers that we're more than friends. If anybody even thought we were acting inappropriately, I could get it trouble." She stepped farther away, pressing the control panel buttons with considerable force. "What would happen at your law firm if a rumor started about a woman? It would ruin her career, right?"

Victoria had been so careful when we'd been dating and working together: being perceived as anything more than coworkers could impact her partnership promotion. We stuck to firm handshakes in the office, and that distance had carried into our private lives. It wasn't the primary reason we broke up, but it certainly hadn't helped.

"And anyway, if …" Grace ran her palm over her leg, glancing at me over her shoulder, "there's something you should —"

My fucking phone rang. My personal phone, not my work phone.

I scowled, ready to silence it. Grace said, "You should answer that, it might be about your dad. "

When I fumbled it out of my pocket, it flashed Victoria Blackstone's name and contact photo: strawberry blonde hair, gray eyes, and a forced smile. I grunted in annoyance and Grace's shoulders stiffened.

"What?" I snapped. The relaxing music stopped abruptly.

"Where are you?" Victoria asked, her curt tone matching mine.

"At the hospital."

Victoria's voice softened. "How is he?"

"Better," I sighed. "He got discharged yesterday, he's at PT now."

"Knowing Bruce, he'll be on the back nine by summer," she said. Four years ago, when we were dating, she came home for my parent's 30th wedding anniversary party. Even after we broke up, when Mom and Dad visited San Francisco, they always took us both out to dinner. Dad shared his best lawyer jokes, Victoria pretended to laugh, and they all talked shop about real estate. "Does that mean you're coming home soon?"

Home , she said, meaning San Francisco. More accurately, her two-bedroom condo in Dogpatch that I'd moved out of three years ago, though she harbored hopes that I'd move back in.

But a week in my parents' house reminded me: This had been my home first.

"Now that he's home, he'll need me even more."

She released a tired sigh. "When will you be back on your computer?"

"About an hour." I glanced at the gold Patek Philippe watch she gave me as an apology gift, but I couldn't read those complicated clocks in the dark. "What happened?"

"Regulatory compliance gap," she said.

"Fuck, can't those sissies do anything right?" I squinted as the bright overhead lights came on.

"Hamilton emailed you two hours ago," she said. Shit, Hamilton was an equity partner, if he caught my delay, I looked negligent.

I started to snap at Victoria in annoyance, but paused. She was the messenger. This call was a professional courtesy. None of the other senior associates were reaching out to warn me; those vultures hoped I would fail so they'd have a better chance at the partnership spot with my name on it.

I bit back my angry retort and instead asked, "Are you taking care of it? "

"I would, but I also found unclear renewal conditions in the Brooklyn lease." I paced, knocking into the small tent. Grace's heeled boots echoed, leaving the sensory room. "Alexander, I can't keep plugging these holes."

Her exhausted tone told me what she would never say: Victoria, who never admitted weakness, was struggling without me.

She'd been sitting next to me last week when I'd been called out about Dad. I'd gone back into the conference room and she'd recognized I was distracted, pinged my computer for an update, staying professional in the conversation but messaging me privately with articles about cardiac survival rates. When Grace called back, Victoria came to my office to listen because I valued her opinion.

After I hung up, Victoria said, "If you decide to go home, I could …"

Her cool gray eyes met mine. She wet her bottom lip as if tasting the offer on the tip of her tongue: She could come with me. Lately, she'd been hinting that we could give our relationship another try, implying that once we both got promoted to firm partners, nobody could accuse her of sleeping her way to the top.

She'd even started matching her dresses to my ties again, the little touch of intimacy she'd allowed herself.

"You could what, Victoria?" My voice was raspy and raw.

"I could …" I wondered if she wanted me to ask her to come, to extend the bridge. It would have been nice not to be alone. At the very least, she'd call my mom, share flight information, deal with that shit.

But it would have meant more. If she got on that plane, it would be a public declaration that we were together, that my family would someday be hers. It would re-open negotiations about living together, getting married, and starting a family. She wanted the first two, I wanted the last one. When we first started dating, I asked hypothetical questions like, 'How many kids would you want?' with the hope that she'd share a big number. She tabled the discussion for when our careers were established.

So I learned to stop asking. Or hoping.

Now our careers were on the cusp of advancement. If I wanted to progress into an equity partnership, I'd need more than just legal skills, I'd need a strong network for business development and financial resources to invest in the firm. Marrying Victoria would give me both. It would be the right move for my career .

Asking her to come home would be a step towards that future. Our eyes met as her unspoken offer hung between us like San Francisco's famous fog …

The emotion cleared from her face. "I could remind them that you'll only be four hours from Brooklyn if they need boots on the ground at the target company."

Decision made. She couldn't risk her promotion, not without a promise I wasn't willing to make.

I hid my mix of disappointment and relief at her rescinded non-offer with a cocky grin. "You're brilliant, you know that?" I hit the intercom on my desk. "Connor, book me the next flight."

I'd left her to do her job and most of mine … and we were both struggling.

"I'm doing the best I can." The door creaked open and light spilled in from the adjoined office. "I'll review the compliance audit at home."

My calm had been replaced by guilt and dread.

If I hadn't come home, I might have regretted it … but now I was failing at my job, which meant more to me than anything. Didn't it?

Through the doorway between the sensory room and Grace's office, she was pulling on her winter jacket, tying her caramel hair into a ponytail, and replacing her boots with sneakers. Her movements were brash like she was pissed, but I didn't understand why. She told me to take the call. I was trying to do my job, just like her.

After I picked up Dad from PT, I had hours ahead of me drafting corrective policies to fix the mistakes those idiots kept fucking up.

I should go into Grace's office and finish our conversation, find out what she'd been ready to tell me. Then I should leave through her office instead of going out the hallway without saying goodbye.

But I didn't.