The Afterparty

Mara smoothed her dress, fingers trembling slightly. The hotel rooftop. Sixth floor. His voice on the phone: 'Room 607. Five minutes. Please.'

She shouldn't come. That was the truth of it, the only truth that mattered anymore. But she'd already said yes, and wasn't that always her problem?

The betting pool had started three weeks ago — an office death watch, really. How long until Bennett cracked? Until the startup's wunderkind CEO finally imploded under the weight of his own hubris? Mara had put fifty dollars on 'before Q3 earnings.' Her cubicle mate, Jenna, had wagered on 'public meltdown at a conference.'

The elevator dinged.

'You came.' Bennett stood in the doorway, shirt untucked, tie loosened. He looked like someone had punched him in the chest. 'I didn't think you would.'

'The pool closes tomorrow,' she said. 'I wanted to see if you'd make it.'

He laughed, bitter and short. 'Is that what we are now? Just a wager?'

'We were never just anything.' She should leave. This was the thought that had been looping through her head for six months — through late nights at the office, through whiskey-scented conversations, through that single catastrophic night in October when 'friend' had stopped being a word that could contain them.

'The board voted today,' he said. 'I'm out.'

The air-conditioning hummed. Somewhere below, the city breathed.

'Mara?'

'You have your hat,' she said softly.

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that night. 'What?'

'You have your hat. The baseball cap. You wear it to the pool hall every Thursday. You told me once — you said you go there to think. To be alone.' She stepped closer. 'So go there. Be alone. Figure out who you are when you're not the CEO anymore.'

'The pool hall,' he repeated. 'You remembered that.'

'I remember everything.' She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. 'That's the problem.'

His hand covered hers. For a moment, they stood there — two people who had crossed every line except the one that mattered most.

'You won the pool,' he said. 'Before Q3 earnings. You were right.'

'I never wanted to be.'

She pulled away first. She always did.

'Go to the pool hall, Bennett. Put on your hat. Don't call me again.'

The elevator ride down took forever. Her phone buzzed in her purse — Jenna, probably, wanting to know if she'd won. Fifty dollars. That's what it came down to in the end.

Some losses, she thought as she stepped into the night, cost more than others.