The idea of returning to work the next morning keeps me bundled on the sofa in a state of distress. When I grow tired of the flashing tv lights, I get to my feet, only to pace my cold, dark apartment while Mulan purrs on the sofa. It's not even nine, so I've still got twelve hours until I walk through those doors and face Laurelle's wrath. Unless the client was bluffing, in which case the only thing I'll have left to face is that I didn't close a deal, and under these circumstances, that doesn't seem as bad.

Throat tight, I decide to be productive by cleaning my apartment. The place has grown chaotic since I moved up to seven, with boxes of takeout overflowing in the trash, so now is a better time than any. I dance around the kitchen while scooping up chocolate wrappers and throwing them in the trash can like the next Michael Jordan. I'm somewhere mid-clean when I glance at the window and spot two beaming headlights in the parking lot. A moment passes before the driver kills the engine, and the parking lot falls into darkness.

For a brief, ridiculous moment, I think that it's Milo. My heart even lurches like I want it to be Milo, and I throw the remaining wrappers away before moving toward the window. On closer inspection, the car haphazardly parked in the corner does not belong to Milo. 

I get back to cleaning in an attempt to unwind, but a knock at the door stops me dead. Panic sets in as I slowly cross the living room, glancing at a softly snoring Mulan. Get a cat, he said. Cats are nice. But is that sixteen-pound furball going to protect me from an intruder? Not likely. I inch toward the door and grab the umbrella from its stand. It's not exactly a lethal weapon, but the pointy tip is probably sharp enough to poke an eye out.

I hope.

Turning to the door, I take a deep breath. In the few years or so that I've been stuck in this apartment, not once has anyone knocked on the door, and with that unfamiliar car in the parking lot, my spidey senses are tingling. Eye to the peephole, I search the hallway and don't see a thing, so I open the door a sliver. Even now, after everything, my immediate thought is please be Milo, be Milo, but the figure emerging from the corner of the hallway is most certainly not Milo, it's Lucas.

"What," I say, "the hell. I thought you were an axe murderer."

"Sorry," he says, but he sure doesn't sound it, "I knew if you saw it was me that you might not open the door, so I hid around the corner."

I blink once. Then twice. "Do you know how psychopathic that sounds?"

"Well," he says, scratching his jaw, "now that I've said it out loud, yes."

My first thought isn't what are you doing here, though it really should be. Its, "How did you even get into the building?"

"I buzzed that weird guy from downstairs, and he let me in. Look, can I come in? We need to talk." 

The seriousness in his tone makes me panic. I start to wonder whether the guy from the viewing complained already, but if he has, why would Laurelle send Lucas to my house instead of waiting until morning to fire me? 

"Kennedy?"

I snap to attention, already rehearsing my version of events. "Fine, just for a few minutes." 

He nods and walks in before pausing. It must be strange walking into a place he once called home. For the most part, it looks the same as when he lived here, but he can feel something is off, like when you sleep at a house that isn't yours. Finally, he strides toward the couch and abruptly takes a seat, waking Mulan. She takes one look at him as his hand extends toward her and hotfoots it into my bedroom.

"Is this about...work?" I ask. 

"No," he says gravely, "it's not about work."

Relief floods through me, but I don't sit down. I just tower in front of him, arms folded, and study his face. It's hard to believe that this is the same man whose social media I used to obsessively check. Now when I look at him, I can see past the mask, past the illusions and trickery and fakery; I see him.

"Well, what happened?" I ask. "Are your parents okay?" It must be something serious for him to come here, and when he takes a deep breath, I get ready to offer my condolences.

He gets to his feet, closing the space between us. "I broke off my engagement," he says quietly. "I realized I made a huge mistake leaving you. I thought I could ignore it, but seeing you around the office has made things abundantly clear to me." He pauses dramatically and then, "I want you back, Kennedy." 

His words hang in the silence between us. When I don't say anything, he looks at me like he's waiting for an answer, but it doesn't come. Instead, I laugh. I laugh until my insides hurt, and then I laugh some more. When his eyebrows furrow and his mouth starts to twist, I laugh even harder.

"I'm being serious," he says, and it sets me off again.

"I know," I say between gasps, "that's what makes it funnier." This is it, I realize, the cosmic intervention I'd been praying for. Thank you, mother nature, I will never question your choices again. Throughout this, Lucas is silent and stoic until I finally calm down, wiping the tears from my eyes. "Look," I say, my voice hoarse from laughing, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than ever get back together with you." 

His expression closes down as he steps forward. "We kissed, Kennedy." 

"You kissed me," I say. "There's a difference." 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Look, I know you're only saying this because you're still hurt." He reaches out now, tucking my hair back. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking letting you go."

For a good three seconds, I don't move or breathe or even think, because my body has switched itself off. I don't know what the hell I was thinking letting you go. They are words I would have jumped at a few months ago, but now as he stands here, confessing his love, I feel nothing.

"Letting me go was the only good thing you've ever done." Watching his face fall doesn't offer the relief that I thought it would. Instead, as I watch him, I feel sorry for him. "Look, I'm sorry if you thought we'd have some big happy reunion now that I'm on seven, but you were wrong. We're coworkers, Lucas, nothing more, and if you ever turn up at my door unannounced, I'll call the cops." I walk toward the door as he stands there looking all hurt.

"Just tell me the truth," he says, "and then I'll go. Is it because you love that other guy?"

He says other guy like he doesn't know Milo's name, which annoys me more than anything. "No," I say, opening the door, "it's because I love myself. Bye, Lucas."

Reluctantly, he steps past me and into the hallway. As soon as he's over the threshold, I slam shut the door and press my back against the wood as I take a deep breath. Not because I'm surprised or confused but relieved; the Lucas chapter is closed for good.

Still, getting to sleep after his arrival is pretty much impossible. I wake up at four – not that I ever fell asleep – and instead of staring at the cracks in the ceiling, get up and get ready like I'm preparing to stand in front of a firing squad, which is ridiculous. This job never used to cause this much anxiety, but somewhere along the way, I've become trapped in this cycle of dreading my job, and there doesn't seem to be a way out.

The coffee I grab on the way to work perks me up a bit. I sip it on the subway as I watch the commuters breaking one of New York's unspoken rules. I'd learned the hard way during my first week in New York not to stare on the subway, but it's the distraction I need to not think about Laurelle and how she will flay me alive.

Opposite, an older woman in her late seventies is reading a book. It's one of those self-help books by some unknown author titled Life After Death: How to Live After Losing Your Partner. She must feel me staring because she looks up and says, "My husband died from cancer. Figured when I saw this book, it was a bunch of hoity-toity, but it's not bad."

"I'm so sorry." I quickly look away now that I've been caught staring and sip on my coffee.

"I'm off to get my hair done before a broadway show later," she says. "We were supposed to go together." Her crinkled eyes grow that little bit brighter as they take on a far-off look. "We booked the tickets months ago. He loved musicals. I promised that if he wasn't around, I'd still go and see it, so that's what I'm doing."

I force a smile, but inside, my heart is breaking for her. "That's beautiful. I hope you have an amazing time."

She smiles and looks at her book again as we go back to being silent. But now, I can't stop thinking about how short life is and how brave she must be to live after such a great loss. And it makes me think: if someone in her shoes can be this strong, I can be too. Laurelle and her wrath be damned.

As soon as I get to the safety of my office, I close the door behind me and slip in front of my computer, scrambling to check my emails. I half expect to find an angry firing from Laurelle, but as I skim my overflowing inbox, there isn't one. I finish reading my emails, surprised to find the younger couple I'd shown around yesterday wants to close on the property. I contact them immediately, then sit back and look to the heavens in gratitude. One less thing to worry about.

Against the odds, I get through the rest of my day unscathed, answering emails and contacting clients while keeping one on the door. With no word from Laurelle, I think I've escaped her almighty wrath when a minion pops up in my archway.

"Laurelle would like to see you," she says.

"Of course she does." I get to my feet, then follow the minion to the end of the hallway. With a knock on the door, I wait to be called in before walking into her office.

"Close the door," Laurelle says.

I do as I'm told and fall into the seat opposite, waiting for her to look up. When a few minutes pass, I tap my in-desperate-need-of-a-paint-job nails on the desk. "Did you want to speak with me?"

"Yes." She looks up now, eyebrows furrowed as she gives me a death stare. Not good. "I got a phone call this morning from a very unhappy client. Would you like to explain what happened?"

The old me might have stuttered and stumbled to sugarcoat my words, but not this time. "He wanted to go to a bar, and I declined." Before she starts to speak, I put my hand up. "I remembered what you said, but going to a bar with a client is not a part of my job role. My job is to sell houses."

She stares back at me. "To sell those houses, you have to liaise with clients."

"Not like that," I say. "Not in a way that jeopardizes my beliefs."

If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. In fact, her expression remains the perfect mask of indifference. "Did anyone make any offers?"

"Yes," I say, "a young couple closed the deal this morning."

She nods, then returns to her screen as though I'm not here. "You can go now."

That's it, no dressing down, no scolding me for not going to dinner, not even a well done for my sale, nothing but an abrupt dismissal that makes me feel overworked and underappreciated. I get to my feet, making it all the way to the door before stopping. The smart thing to do would be to count my blessings and get back to work, but something burns and bubbles beneath my skin that grows impossible to ignore. Turning around, I face Laurelle and wait for her to acknowledge me.

"Did you need something?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, my voice even, "I'd like to resign effective immediately."

For once, I've rendered her speechless. Her mouth opens, then shuts again like a gasping fish. "Okay," she says slowly. "I'm going to give you a day to think about this. Go home, relax, and come back tomorrow."

"No," I say, voice louder, " I don't think you understand. I would like to resign immediately. I'll be clearing out my desk momentarily."

She gets up, ignoring the pinging of her inbox, and walks around the table until she's standing right in front of me. "You know I don't give second chances. If this is your decision, there will be no turning back."

I nod. "I'd like to take this moment to say thank you for the opportunity to work on seven and for allowing me to be a part of such a successful company. I've learned a lot from you, and I'm extremely grateful."

She doesn't say anything, but the strangest look seems to cross her expression, and if I didn't know better, I'd think it was admiration. "It takes guts to walk away from something you've known for so long," she says, sitting back down. "I'll accept your resignation without a notice period. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Thank you," I say, and when I turn is when I finally breathe.

The walk back to my office is hazy. I vaguely recall collecting what I can carry and throwing away what I can't. When I'm all packed up, I move toward the same view of Manhattan I'd fallen in love with and stare at the people below.

It's not like this is entirely impulsive. I have some savings stored up – enough to last me the next few months at least – and if push came to shove, I know my parents would help me if things got dire. Even so, the thought of leaving this job behind, its security, is terrifying. I keep thinking, what if I never find another job again? What if I lose my apartment? What if I've made a mistake? But I can't keep living in fear any longer. I can't keep choosing safety over happiness. One thing I've learned in these past few months is that happiness is fleeting; you need to embrace it where you can.

With one final look, I pick up my things and make my way to the elevator. I bypass the coffee machine I'd once marveled over and the same plush sofas where Milo and I sat. It seems like a lifetime ago that we'd both found ourselves up here on seven, but instead of feeling sad about how much has changed, I'm hit with a spark of hope.

I don't know what awaits me once I walk out that door, but I do know that good things happen whenever you least expect them. My breakup with Luke, my first kiss with Milo. They set me on a different trajectory, propelled me toward a future I hadn't yet planned for, and even though I hadn't quite realized it at the time, they've helped make me stronger; I'm hoping this moment will too.

A/N

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