59. Hope and Other Hazards

We stand there, in the middle of Miranda’s office, arms wrapped around each other, and I can’t catch my breath. 

Sobs wrack my body until I’m sure I won’t have any tears left to cry for the next year, but Miranda doesn’t rush me. Her hands hold me together while I fall apart, stroking my hair and murmuring gentle nonsense against my ear. 

My cheeks are as hot from embarrassment as the tears, but I just can’t stop. I suppose the floodgates have been taking damage for months. Today, with all of the surprises and pain and joy all mixed together, is just the drop that broke the dam. 

“It’s not fair,” I croak out, my breath finally evening out. Well, aside from the occasional hiccup. 

A chuff of air ruffles my hair. 

“There’s a cliche about a great many things being unfair.” Miranda’s voice is low and warm, like the softest velvet brushing the shell of my ear. “But what exactly isn’t fair now, Andrea?” 

I refuse to pull back and let her see the mess of my face, so my answer is muffled in the neckline of her blouse. 

“Here I am, a complete disaster, and you’re as perfectly composed as ever.”

Miranda’s arms tighten around me before loosening and moving to my shoulders. She pushes me back just an inch to look into my eyes. 

“Yes,” she says, tone dry and a glimmer of amusement lighting her eyes. “Because confessing my greatest fears and vulnerabilities is completely in character for me.” 

I break into a smile. Miranda just shakes her head, her own soft smile pulling at the corners of her lips, and turns me around. One hand on my lower back, she guides me toward her private bathroom. 

“We have a lot to discuss,” she says as we cross into the white, tiled room. “And even more to do, but nothing that won’t keep while we clean up your face.” 

I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m blushing again. 

Miranda positions me next to the sink, my back to the mirror. The cool marble of the countertop against my fingers helps my heart slow down a notch. 

Until Miranda runs a cloth under the faucet and moves to stand in front of me. She steps in close, and my breath hitches. She takes my chin in one hand, and moves the warm cloth to my cheek with the other. With gentle, methodical care, she wipes away the tear tracks, and smooths out the lines scrunching my forehead. With each stroke of the soft fabric against my skin, my body releases a bit of tension, until my eyes flutter closed. 

A sudden chill has me peeling one eye open. Miranda has stepped away, but is already coming back, a delicate glass jar in one hand. 

“Crying releases more than emotion,” she cryptically answers my unspoken question. Standing in front of me again, she dips two fingers into the jar and brings them up to my face. I close my eyes again on instinct. 

Miranda’s delicate fingers rub cool, soothing moisturizer into my skin. My cheeks, forehead, nose, chin, and even a barely there swipe against my lips. When her hands slow, settling on the sides of my neck, thumbs idly brushing my jaw, I open my eyes. 

My heart stumbles over a beat. Without a doubt, this is the most intimate moment of my life. 

With that thought, the panic I’ve only just barely escaped starts bubbling back to surface. 

“Miranda,” I breathe, my throat tightening. “I want this, I want you, so bad. You have to know that. But the girls. I can’t–”

Miranda presses a finger against my lips. 

“Just answer me this.” Miranda holds all of my attention with her hands and her eyes. “If Richard weren’t threatening the girls… if there were no crisis pressing in on us — would you still want this? Or is it easier because you believe it can’t truly happen?” 

Tears threaten to fall. Again. My hands move on their own, going to Miranda’s waist, and I have to force myself not to pull her even closer. 

“Nothing about the impossibility of us has been easy.” I pour every ounce of my desperate conviction into my voice. “Over and over, I’ve made myself accept it, but I’ve never been able to stop hoping. I keep trying, but I can’t.”

I look down, trying to find some composure to hold onto it. My fingers press into the fabric of Miranda’s skirt. Finally, I look back up into her eyes. 

“If nothing stood in our way but our jobs, and you said you wanted me, I’d go to HR and turn in my notice. I’d start all over professionally, Miranda, if it meant getting to actually start something with you. Us.”

I only catch a glimpse of Miranda’s entire face softening in something like awe before she’s pressing our foreheads together. Our breath mingles in the meager space between us, and there’s nothing I want more in this moment than to erase that space. 

“Good,” Miranda says, her lips nearly brushing mine. I’m so distracted by the phantom sensation, that it takes me an extra beat to process her next words. 

“I’ll let my lawyers know we’ll be accepting that adjusted schedule.”

When the words finally manage to pierce through the fog in my brain, I jerk in Miranda’s arms. 

“What?” I pull back and look incredulously into her eyes. “Miranda, no, you can’t–”

Miranda rolls her eyes and takes me by the hand. 

“I can,” she says, dragging me out of the bathroom. “And I will.” She glances back at me over her shoulder. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t have a plan by now, did you? Well, a few plans. Just in case.”

She winks at me - winks! - and leads me, nearly stumbling over my feet in shock, back into her office. 

After a brief detour to her desk, where Miranda plucks the paper she’d been scribbling on while I’d been trying to quit, we settle on the small, cream sofa in the corner of the room. I settle into the cushions, and Miranda twists so that her body is facing mine, her knees resting against mine. She holds the paper out to me, and I take it, letting our fingers brush. Just because I can. 

The scrawl on the paper is chaotic, furious, but organized, and ultimately quite simple. Though equally insane. 

Sign the adjusted schedule. 

Demand hand over of all photos. 

Set court dates for six months from now. 

Establish narrative. 

“Miranda,” I say, looking up from her plan. “There has to be a way around sending the girls to Richard. We can’t do that to them.” 

Miranda leans back, one arm resting on the arm of the sofa. 

“I’d rather not subject them to him and that woman for longer than absolutely necessary, but what is the alternative? Andrea, you said it yourself. If we don’t sign, the photos come out, and we start off with a major disadvantage.” 

I tentatively place my hand on hers. 

“We can deal with a disadvantage, can’t we?” 

Miranda sighs, twining her fingers around mine. 

“We can,” she concedes. “Though I’d rather we endure a few months of separation for an outcome more guaranteed in our favor. The surest path to victory is if we can control the narrative from the start.”

I look down at our hands, her red nails stark against my skin, her thumb rubbing mindlessly against my knuckles. 

“What if we let the girls decide?” I hedge. “If we lay the cards out on the table, and they know the risks and the stakes, they can make an informed decision.” 

I flick my eyes up to meet Miranda’s, a smirk taking over my lips. 

“Knowing those spitfires, they’ll probably want to dive headfirst into the plan, anyway.”

Miranda’s grin matches my own. 

“They do go looking for trouble, don’t they?” There’s nothing but pride in her eyes, though it softens when she takes in my suggestion. 

“We have some time,” she says. “The fool gave us twenty-four hours. We’ll ask the girls at breakfast.” She squeezes my hand in hers. “And if they truly can’t stand the idea of suffering with Richard for that long, we’ll simply have to make do. It really doesn’t change the plan, in the long run.”

I tilt my head. 

“Yeah, that was the vaguest part of your notes. What narrative will we be establishing?”

Miranda looks down this time. 

“I see no point in pretending to be anything other than what we are,” she says to our hands. “After all, what is more inspiring than a seemingly impossible romance?” 

When her face lifts, it’s serious, all traces of laughter gone. 

“You have to be sure, Andrea. It only works if you’re sure. And–” she inhales deeply through her nose. “And I don’t think I could bear it if you changed your mind. I know it’s not fair to ask so much, to demand that sort of commitment. I know there’s no accounting for the future, but I can’t–”

I shift on the couch, turning more fully toward her. I bring my hand not clutched in hers to her face, cradling her cheek. My thumb brushes over the corner of her lips. 

“I’m not starstruck, Miranda.” I keep my voice serious, despite the tumultuous joy swirling through my body. “I’ve been glued to your side for over a year now. I know you’re not perfect. I’ve seen you eviscerate people, move them like chess pieces, and toss them aside. Hell, I’ve been on the wrong side of your temper more than a few times. Yet I’m still here, and not because I can’t leave. At first, I wanted you despite those flaws. You’re so impressive, how could I not? Now …” I can no longer hold back my smile. “I want you because of your flaws.” 

Miranda arches an eyebrow. I just shrug. 

“You wouldn’t be the woman you are without them.” 

Miranda’s disbelief goes from haughty to awed. 

“You are impossible,” she says, pressing her cheek into my palm, her voice so low it’s nearly a whisper. “Do you know that?” 

“I have to be,” I whisper back. “To keep up with you.” 

We sit like that for a moment, eyes locked together. The world feels frozen, though the ticking of the clock reminds me that it’s not. Finally, Miranda stands, one hand reaching out for mine. 

“Come, Andrea.” I place my hand in hers and let her pull me up from the sofa. “Whatever the girls decide, the plan remains the same.”

“Which means?” I ask as we head out of her office. 

“We need to talk to Stacey in HR.” 

I can’t believe I’m grinning at the thought of talking to HR, but here I am. Here we are.