The Last Orange at Sunset

Maya stood on the balcony of the twenty-third floor, her palm sweating against the cold glass of champagne she'd been nursing for forty-five minutes. Below, the corporate gala swirled with desperate laughter and expensive cologne, but up here, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic on the freeway.

He found her there. Richard. The man who'd destroyed her quarterly report, stolen her promotion, and now, apparently, her ability to breathe properly in confined spaces.

"Hiding?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Regrouping," she said, refusing to turn.

He moved closer, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the same watered-down whiskey they'd shared three months ago in that awful hotel bar in Chicago when he'd told her his marriage was ending. She'd believed him then. She'd believed a lot of things then.

"I saw your cat," he said.

Maya turned. "What?"

"On Instagram. The orange one. What's his name?"

"Barnaby," she said, startled. "You remember his name?"

"I remember everything, Maya." He stepped into her space, and suddenly the air between them felt thick with everything unsaid. "I remember how you take your coffee. I remember you hate the word 'moist.' I remember that you cry during airline commercials."

"You're married, Richard."

"I'm getting divorced."

"You said that three months ago."

"I meant it three months ago." His hand moved to her face, his thumb tracing her jawline, and God help her, she leaned into it. "The papers were filed last week."

Below them, a waiter dropped a tray. The shatter of glass echoed up like gunshots.

Maya pulled away. "I can't do this again. I can't be the person who believes—"

"Then don't believe," he said quietly. "Just be here. With me. Right now."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and imperfect. An orange. A single, slightly bruised orange from the complimentary fruit bowl in the hotel lobby.

"I stole this for you," he said. "Because you said you were hungry. Because I noticed you haven't eaten all night."

Maya looked at him—really looked at him—and saw something she'd missed before. Not a colleague. Not a complication. A man who remembered her cat's name. Who stole fruit for her.

"You're an idiot," she said, but her voice was breaking.

"I know," he said, and peeled the orange with fingers that shook slightly. The citrus scent cut through the balcony air, sharp and bright and impossibly hopeful. "So are you still hungry?"

She took a segment. It was tart and perfect and maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something terrible and wonderful.

"Starving," she said.