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When he finally talks, he says, “You need to leave now, Ms. Reed.” His back is still facing me. “I have some calls to make.”
I don’t know why, but this hurts worse than him not recognizing me.
Well, I kind of know why. It feels like rejection.
Not that I blame him.
But even if he did recognize me, it’s not like this moment would go any smoother. He’d also feel betrayed. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a Judas. I’ve felt like one since I wrote the damn thing and put it into Claudia’s eager hands. She entrusted this story to me, the youngest journalist in my section, so I wasn’t going to let her down. Especially since my last two articles were, as she put it, uninspired. Not that I can argue; I’ve been in a funk. But she’s a three-strikes-and-you’re-out kind of boss and this is my last opportunity to impress her. To save my career. And I couldn’t let good sex on a drunken night get in the way of that. I just couldn’t. So, maybe it’s better for us both that our tryst is lost in the dark abyss of his alcohol-induced amnesia.
You know it’s more than the sex, my thoughts remind me. That’s why you’re here in the first place.
That’s why you feel like a Judas.
I ignore them. Get up to leave as he asked.
Before I leave the room, I turn, and my red-painted lips part to tell him I’m sorry. But I know it will fall flat and empty on the floor between us. And feel a little strange, given he doesn’t remember me. So, I decide against it and promptly get the hell out of there.
