Chapter 10: All Hands

I told Anson about the screenshot in the elevator at eight fifty on Monday morning.

I held out my phone, and he read it in two seconds.

"Don't," he said.

"I haven't said anything."

"You're about to do something stupid."

"Probably."

The doors opened on the ninth floor.

He caught my wrist before I stepped out.

"She wants you to break it off. Let her think you did. We'll figure it out."

"And she sends it anyway in a week, when it'll hurt more."

"Callie."

"Six years, Anson."

I looked at his hand on my arm, long fingers and bitten nails.

"You don't have to fix it. I do."

"It's mine too," he said. "I let it grow."

"Then let me be the one who says it out loud."

He searched my face for a long moment.

He let go.

At nine thirty the whole agency crowded into the big conference room for the Monday all-hands.

A hundred and twenty people on folding chairs, along the glass walls, on the floor by the windows.

The managing director stood at the head of the room with her tablet, going through the quarter's numbers.

When she got to the end she looked up.

"Anything else?"

I stood.

My knees weren't entirely working.

"I have something," I said.

The room turned.

I saw the faces I had worked beside for six years.

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