A Remarkably Selective Memory

I arrived at the office on Monday carrying coffee strong enough to count as a personality.

Caroline took one look at me and closed the door to her office.

"Do we need to change the handover schedule?"

"No. I just slept badly."

"Grant asked whether you'd be coming to see him. I told him you were preparing the supplier notes he requested."

"He has discovered that paperwork can be used as a mating call."

Her expression became extremely professional.

"I don't need details."

"Neither do I. That's why I'm leaving."

She let me have a quiet minute and half her emergency chocolate before we went through the transition list.

There was a strange relief in discussing something solvable. I could identify every recurring task, assign an owner, and write down the passwords in the appropriate secure system. If only there had been a similar form for recovering three years of romantic optimism.

At eleven, I took the briefing to the hospital.

Owen was leaving as I arrived. He looked at the folder under my arm, then at my face.

"About last night," he said.

"We're fine. Please never describe the order in which you and your brother noticed me again."

He managed a sheepish smile. "Understood."

"And don't let him send you to collect me. I can call my own car."

"I wanted to see you. That was my choice."

I believed him, which made the whole thing slightly sadder and no more attractive.

"Then next time, ask whether I want company."

He nodded and stepped aside.

Grant sat propped against the pillows, freshly shaved. His phone lay faceup on the blanket. On it was a paused frame of me onstage.

He turned the screen off.

"You look tired."

"You look sufficiently recovered to read email. Wonderful news for everybody."

I set the folder down and pulled the visitor's chair away from the bed before sitting.

His eyes followed the movement.

"Is something wrong?"

I opened the briefing. "The supplier accepted the revised delivery window. Caroline wants approval on the additional freight allocation. The options are on page two."

Grant read. I watched the second hand on the wall clock and tried not to remember Friday.

He had walked me to my car after dinner. We hadn't kissed. He had touched the back of my neck and said he wanted to take this seriously.

I had gone home smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

That was the