42. The F-Word

I wait at the elevator doors, my toe tapping in time with my pounding heart. 

Here we go. Again.

A week ago, I stood in this exact spot, waiting for Miranda’s elevator to ding, after sharing a fantastic Sunday together. A week ago, I was filled with hope I didn’t even realize I had until it was frozen solid and shattered. Today, I’m squashing down my puddle of hope, like if I hide it deep enough, it’ll escape unscathed. 

Next to me, Nigel slides his glasses off and polishes them with a handkerchief. 

“Really, Six,” he sighs. “You can’t think that a weekend would change anything.”

“But maybe it did,” I insist. Nigel rolls his eyes.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, kid.” Nigel slides his glasses back onto his nose. “Listen, it’s really not so bad being on the outs with Her Majesty. We could form a club or something.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’re not on the outs.”

“Oh?” he turns to me, eyebrows raised. “Then what would you call Paris?”

Seriously?

“Nigel,” I say, eyes wide. “Really, that was months ago, and it wasn’t even abo–”

The elevator dings, and my spine goes ramrod straight. Every other thought I have shuts off, like someone switched a flip, and my entire being is focused on the doors. This is it. The answer. I squeeze my tablet tighter to my chest.

The elevator doors slide open, and there she is: exquisite. She reaches up and snaps her sunglasses off. For a terrifying second that makes my chest squeeze so much I’m sure I’m having a heartattack, Miranda’s face stays icily neutral. 

Oh god, not again, not again, please not aga–

Then, the smallest shift in the corners of her lips. 

The subtlest relaxing of her eyes. 

The relief hits me like a solid clap on the back, but I’m careful-so, so careful-not to let it show. Instead, I get right to work. 

“Good morning, Miranda,” I say a little too brightly, stepping up to her side, holding out the coffee cup. “Phillip Lim’s flights were delayed, so I moved the meeting with Tory Burch to his slot. There are also some Gala details that need your approval, they’re waiting on your desk.”

And we’re off, back in the chaotic swing of things. Following Miranda around the corner, I catch a glimpse of Nigel. He’s staring after us, and as our eyes meet, something flickers across his face—resentment, maybe, or something closer to loneliness—before he smooths it back into his usual wicked grin.

I make a mental note to talk to Nigel. Drinks, or dinner, something more than a few minutes at my desk or his. Clearly, we need to talk about Paris. 

The thud of Miranda’s coat and bag on Lark’s desk snaps me back into the moment. Lark hasn’t yet mastered the trick of catching them, but she is pretty quick at scrambling to put them away. I catch her eye as I follow Miranda into her office, and she shoots me a tentative thumbs up.

Are we back to normal now? 

I smile and nod back. 

I think so, yeah. 

At least, as normal as anything ever is here. 

Really, only time and Miranda will tell. 

***

I am so back! 

I’m practically giddy, skipping along the sidewalk up to Miranda’s townhouse, The Book cradled in my arms. I didn’t realize how awful last week was, trying to work in the face of Miranda’s blizzard, which is wild because I was really freaking miserable. But now? Having what I had with her and Patricia yesterday, and being able to kick ass at work today? It’s incredible. 

And the best part? 

Miranda was normal. Not freezing me out, not sitting in her office in silence or staring out at nothing, just being her usual sharp, demanding, perfectionist self. And I was right at her side. 

We really do make a good team, I realize, locking the front door behind me. I shouldn’t let myself feel so sure, but I can’t help it. Today was really, really good. 

I make my way to the den, pleased to see two mugs of coffee set out on the table. My smile falters as I take in Miranda. 

Turned in her chair to face out the window, legs crossed, one arm hugging herself, the other propped on the armrest, tapping the arm of the glasses against her lips. The posture of a woman lost in thought. 

My gaze snags on her lips, and motion of the glasses tapping against them lulling me into a sort of hypnosis. 

Those lips. What would it be like to–?

Miranda turns her head, snapping me back to reality. She does a pointed glance from my face, to The Book, and back, with a raised eyebrow. 

Right! The Book. 

I rush forward, trying not to trip over my own feet. They must still be waking up from the hypnosis, because I feel like I’m being held upright with jello for legs. Miranda takes The Book from me without a comment on my clumsiness, and I take a seat. Jello legs can’t hurt me if I’m sitting down. 

Miranda doesn’t open The Book, just slides a manicured finger up and down the spine. The coils make a satisfying sound as her nail drags across them. 

Every survival instinct I possess is telling me to keep my mouth shut. Don’t ask. Let her break the silence. It’s too soon after The Great Thaw to push things. Don’t risk it. 

My survival instincts sound a bit like Nigel. 

I should stay silent. It’s the safer option. I just got this–her–back, and I still don’t know what triggered last week’s freeze out. I can’t risk it, not so soon. 

I shouldn’t. 

But sitting here watching Miranda stare out the window, absently stroking the spine of The Book, I feel too helpless. Too useless. 

And I know, I have this ridiculous crush, and there’s no alternate timeline or universe where it could ever be more than just a ridiculous crush, but maybe we could be … friends. I mean, the trip to the movies and lunch with the girls was friendly. And then yesterday, a day together with no work and no girls, we’d hung out. Miranda could have sent me home at any time, but she kept me around until after dinner, when I really did need to go, or risk one or both of us not getting enough sleep before starting another hectic week. 

So yeah. Maybe Miranda and I can be friends. Gosh, it feels taboo just thinking it. And I think I just had a heart palpitation.  

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, I’m not doing this. No f-word with Miranda–FRIENDSHIP! I definitely mean no friendship with Miranda, not another, different, totally inappropriate and not to mention impossible f-word. Yeah, no. I can’t do this. I’m not going to do this. I’m going to sit here, and quietly sip my coffee until she says something, or tells me to go. 

I reach for my coffee, plans firmly in place. But as I reach for it, I see Miranda’s nostrils flare. Just a little bit, and only for a millisecond before they relax again. She’s still staring at the window. 

“What’s wrong?”

Damn it. I want to kick myself. This is a stupid idea. It wasn’t even an idea, I was just looking at her, staring is more like it, the slight pursing of her lips captivating me, and then the words just left my mouth. As if I didn’t just decide that I was going to listen to my survival instincts for once. 

It bears repeating: damn it. 

Miranda startles, just barely, and shifts her gaze to meet mine. 

There’s a pause. No, the pause. The one I’m learning to anticipate and fear. The one where some inscrutable calculator in Miranda’s mind does the math and decides whether she’s going to blow up, freeze me out, or let me in. 

“The girls got back this afternoon,” Miranda says. She turns her body away from the window to face me, and leans back in her chair, as if getting comfortable. 

Well. I guess x equals letting me in. This time, at least. 

“Are they … okay?” It’s all I can think to ask, because really, what else am I supposed to say? Though I’m pretty sure I know the answer. 

Miranda’s laugh is laced with disdain. “Every day that Richard delays proceedings, the girls are less and less ‘okay.’ They walked in the door this evening, gave me hugs, were pleasant during dinner, and did their homework without complaint, but their eyes … that spark is fading. Each time they come back, it’s that much dimmer.” 

Miranda runs a frustrated hand through her hair. I try not to show my shock. 

“I don’t want this for them,” Miranda continues. “It was bad, with Stephen. They knew it. They heard every word of every fight, though God knows I tried to shield them from it. They weren’t happy, but they still had that spark. They fought back, acted out. Their behavior was appalling, to say the least but …” 

Miranda trails off. I’m not sure I like this new habit of hers. It sends me into a mild panic every time she does it. But I’ll deal with it if it means she’s talking to me–really talking to me. 

“Why is Dic–Richard delaying things? He was the one who filed for custody, wouldn’t he want things finalized?”

Miranda just shakes her head, her mouth twisted in disgust. 

“No doubt he has some plan in the works to give himself an advantage. God knows what he could possibly come up with to claim the girls are better off with him and that woman, but I’m certain he’s trying.” 

I want to reach out. Take her hand. My finger spasm around the coffee mug as I hold myself back. Holding hands is probably reserved for life and death situations, anyway, like when her dog eats half a tray of brownies and a team of vet technicians are in the other room pumping her stomach. Instead, I say softly, 

“You’re going to win.” 

Miranda meets my eyes, and I marvel at how blue they are. Like a pool of water I could dive into and get lost in if I dare. Like the puddle of hope in my chest. 

A sad, yet determined smile curves her lips, barely visible. 

“I know,” she says. “I have to.”

I hold onto her determination as she finally opens The Book and we get to work. The girls are holding on. Miranda is fighting her damnedest for them. There’s not much I can do, but I’ll keep fighting, too.