Battle of the Sexes

Chapter Eight

"Are you leaving when I take the CEO position?"

"Go to hell," she challenges, getting to her feet.

Instead of leaving, I make my way farther inside the room. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make this anymore ..."

"Awkward?"

"You think this is awkward?'

"Of course, I think this is awkward," she protests. "For whatever reason you show up at a bar I'm at with my friend and end up helping me home. While that's all gentlemanly of you, it's, once again, a little embarrassing."

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Really?"

"Yes, fucking really," I say, looking at her like she's crazy. "I was supposed to meet Shepler at the bar, in case you were wondering. That fell through. But when I saw you there, I couldn't leave without talking to you. It was kismet."

She rolls her eyes.

"Hold up," I say, my hands coming in front of me. "You just said 'once again.'"

"What?"

"You said it's 'once again' embarrassing."

"So?"

It all starts clicking together. She lifts her chin as I start drawing parallels between situations spread out over a decade.

"Just forget about it," she says quietly, picking up a pen. "We both have a presentation to prepare for."

"Amity, listen to me—"

"No."

"I'm going to say what I have to say and you'll either hear it or you won't."

"Want me to call security?"

"Go ahead," I laugh. "Do you forget who the President of this company is?"

"I hate you," she spews.

"While I'm very aware your mouth says that, I'm also just as aware you don't believe it."

She storms around her desk, pen in hand. She jabs the end in the center of my chest. "You are the most arrogant, self-centered, self-indulgent—"

"Man that's ever not taken advantage of you?"

We stand chest-to-chest, our breathing ragged. I reach out and brush a lock of hair out of her face. She flinches as the pad of my thumb swipes against her cheek but doesn't move.

"Touch me again. I dare you," she warns.

Bending down so we're at eye level, I grin. "I don't take dares anymore."

Her pupils dilate enough to confirm my suspicion.

"Every time I've thought of you over the last fifteen years, I've kicked myself for taking you into the closet that night," I admit.

"I'm sure you do."

"I do. Want to know why?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I'm going to tell you anyway, sweetheart."

She starts to object to the term of endearment, but I lay my finger over her lips to quiet her. She's so shocked at my audacity that she doesn't speak.

"I've wished time and time again I could have kissed you without all of our friends waiting outside the door. I've wished it was somewhere quiet, somewhere else where I could've told you afterwards how pretty you looked and how I thought your yellow fingernail polish reminded me of your hair in the sunlight at the beach."

I drop my finger and watch her suck in a quick, surprised breath.

"I know I was an asshole. I betrayed you that night in a way, and I didn't even realize it until I looked for you later and you were gone."

She surprises me by not looking away, not turning around. She stands her ground and looks me in the eye. "Did you know that, when I left, the other girls were in a corner giggling at me? Those girls that I thought were my friends were laughing that I came out of that closet with red cheeks like I was star-struck."

"I'm sorry, Amity."

"You should be," I fire back. "I had to listen to you and Marcus talk about me like I was some kind of gag-reel. Like, 'Oh, I managed to get through leading on my friend.'"

"We were stupid, idiotic boys. What do you want me to say? I'll raise my sons someday to be a better man than I was at that age. I can't fix it. I can't take it back or God knows I would."

"As stupid as this sounds, that night has been a monkey on my back for a very long time. It was my first kiss, my first encounter with a boy that wasn't me and you eating brownies in our blanket fort, and you ruined that for me. Every time a man asks me on a date or I think someone is looking at me, I get this complex. My head starts going through a hundred different ways of wondering if they're making fun of me or if they're thinking I have food on my face or whatever it is. That's something I've dealt with while you've barreled your way through Manhattan."

"Half of Manhattan," I wink, trying to lighten the conversation. She doesn't react. "Look, I should've called you and apologized then. Knowing this has affected you all these years makes me feel like shit. I'm take full responsibility." I pause, waiting for her eyes to meet mine. "I'm truly sorry I hurt you."

Searching my eyes, she clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "Fine," she says, turning on her heel and walking back to her desk. "Apology accepted."

She sits in her chair, picking up the discarded pen from earlier, and goes back to work.

"Amity?" I say after standing in place, searching for a reaction for a few minutes.

She looks up from the paper in her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry, Carver. You can go now."

My mouth hangs open and I sort of chuckle. "Fine," I say because I have nothing else to go on. "Have a good afternoon, Ms. Gallum."

She doesn't humor me with a response.