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“Two months till the first veteran trauma patients will trial Reconstruxion's immersive therapy software.” He taps the timeline on the whiteboard. “Not bad progress for this ragtag crew you pulled together, brother.”
The doorbell rings, and more programmers file in wielding monitors and trailing charger cords. My spirit soars realizing Walt no longer controls the reins, or me. I can finally do things on my own terms.
Grasping my phone, I slip into the library. The app tracker blinks reassuringly, Maddie's icon hovers safely over her apartment's location uptown.
I know she would scorn me if she found out that, unbeknownst to her, I’m tracking her phone’s location. And to be honest, I do feel a bit creepy about it. But after the incident with Preston, paranoia gnaws at me.
I hit her number, imagining her curled on her couch.
Her phone goes straight to voicemail yet again. I have been trying to reach her for two weeks now, but she clearly doesn’t want to speak to me.
Only after I released the one-million-dollar payment from escrow, did she send a short text letting me know she received it and thanking me.
Well, what did you expect, genius? That she would run back to you? It was a business transaction, and she held up her side of the bargain impeccably.
I wander out to the living room. Amanda is showing Chad and Cade the images for the Facebook ad campaign.
“Hey, Amanda, have you heard from Maddie at all?” I interrupt them. “I've been trying to get in touch with her, but I think she's screening my calls.”
Amanda shakes her head. “No, I haven't spoken to her since she quit her job at Whitmore Tech right after you left. I thought you broke up?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling frustrated. “Things got messy with Walt, and then the incident with Preston didn’t exactly help. I thought letting her put some distance between us was the right call.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “But she would be a godsend right now, don’t you think?”
Amanda raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh yes, definitely. We could use some of her unconventional ideas. But if you want my humble opinion, I don’t think you’ll have much luck.” She gives me an apologetic glance. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, buddy.”
Cade looks up from his laptop with a sympathetic smile. “Well, she’s not far. Go and see if you can change her mind.”
“Who knows, maybe she has come around after some time and space,” Amanda chimes in, while Chad nods reassuringly. “If you do manage to get in touch, I'm happy to talk to her and try to convince her that Reconstruxion is the perfect next step.”
Determined, I throw on my coat and head uptown. While the cab crawls through the heavy afternoon traffic on the FDR, butterflies swarm in my stomach. I rub my palms against my jeans, trying to ignore the jitters.
Because if I’m honest with myself, asking her to come work on Reconstruxion is just a lame excuse. As the cab slowly inches uptown, I'm forced to confront the true reason I’m so desperate to see Maddie.
I want her back in my life for good.
While we were pretending to be engaged, it was easy to lie to myself. I kept her at arm’s length even while I pulled her close. But now that we are done and she is avoiding me, the realization sets in that I can't stand being without her.
I think back on the progress I've made recently with the VR therapy for my PTSD. Diligent, daily exposure to simulation exercises has been transformative. I don't remember the last time I had a nightmare. The software seems to be rewiring my trauma responses.
Maybe, just maybe, it would be possible for Maddie and me to try again for real. With my symptoms more manageable now, perhaps we could have a shot at an actual, functioning relationship.
But a moment later, doubt creeps back in. I treated Maddie unfairly. My constant mixed signals couldn’t have been easy to interpret. She has every right to want me permanently out of her life after the hot and cold treatment I have been giving her. If I ask her for another chance, she’ll probably slam the door in my face.
Still, even just a sliver of hope propels me forward. I have to try and see if there’s any chance we might start over. Without the fake relationship pressure and without my father’s expectations. Losing her for good without even attempting to make amends would haunt me forever.
The cab rolls to a stop outside of her simple elevator building on 77th Street. I exit the car and pause on the sidewalk, looking up and remembering being here months ago. A brisk November wind rustles through gently swaying branches, their empty limbs hinting at winter's steady approach. Dull sunlight filters weakly between buildings, casting the sparse remaining foliage in gold and amber hues across this sleepy Upper East Side block. Residents passing on the sidewalk pull coats tighter and tug scarves up higher to brace against the chill creeping in with the fading daylight.
Steeling my nerves, I hit the intercom with more force than necessary, my pulse thundering in my ears as I await a response.
Finally, a hesitant voice answers, “Hello?”
It's Grace. My heart sinks a bit.
“Hey, it's Jack. Can I come up to talk for a minute?”
A tense pause follows before she replies uncertainly, “I suppose.”
The door buzzes open, and I almost run through the clean lobby, taking the steps two at a time and wondering if coming here was a mistake. Before I can turn back, I'm knocking at apartment 2B.
