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Nine
Agatha
We'd seen each other the last three days straight, but I made dinner today. I loved spending time with him. He was the D to my Ork, and I wanted more. But something weird was in the air, and a pit formed in my stomach. I nudged a stray noodle with my fork, the clink of cutlery against the plate breaking the comfortable silence. Arnold's eyes flitted around the table, his hands fumbling with the edge of a napkin.
"Agatha," he started, and I knew that tone. Serious. Like he was about to dive into the deep end without checking for water. He caught his breath, blue eyes locking onto mine. "Are you gonna keep doing it? The phone stuff with other guys?"
A lump formed in my throat. I swirled my wine glass, watching the red liquid dance but not daring to take a sip. My heart raced, thumping against my chest like it wanted out. This was the moment, wasn't it? The big reveal was that Dorky Agatha had to justify Angel Sinclair's existence.
"Arnold, I..." Words tangled on my tongue. I set the glass down, a little too hard, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "It's what I do."
His face tightened, those sandy strands falling across his forehead as if trying to shield him from the answer he already knew but hoped to never hear. I reached across, my hand hovering over his. I wanted to bridge that gap, to smooth the creases of concern etched between his brows. But my hand dropped to my lap, defeated.
"Does it make you uncomfortable?" My voice was quieter now, barely above a whisper. I could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and expectant.
"Agatha, I just... it's hard." His fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening. "You're with me, but then you're not, you know?"
I nodded, even though part of me wanted to shake him, to scream that Angel was just a persona. That the woman he had dinner with, the one who spilled sauce on her blouse and laughed too loud at bad jokes, she was real. She was right here. But instead, I stayed silent, the remnants of our meal a battleground we weren't prepared to fight on.
I swallowed the last bite of my noodles, the slurp loud in the silence. I wished I had more. Anything to shove in my mouth to avoid how he looked at me right now. The question hung in the air, a dare I couldn't ignore. My eyes snapped to his, surprise flickering before I squashed it down.
"Of course," I said, reaching for the napkin and dabbing at my lips. "It's my career, Arnold."
He leaned back, chair legs protesting with a soft squeak against my kitchen tiles. His face, an open book a moment ago, was now folded into lines I couldn't read. Hurt, maybe. Jealousy? Definitely.
"But why?" He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous tick I'd come to recognize. "Other guys, Agatha. When you're with me?"
I fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth, avoiding the intensity of his blue gaze. The words came out all wrong, too sharp, too defensive.
"Because it's not real. They're just voices on the other end of a line. I've been doing this a long time, Arnold. It's what bought me this place. My things. My freedom."
"Voices," he echoed, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the tabletop. "But they get to hear Angel, the side of you that... I hoped it was just for us. You know... when we got together."
"Arnold, it's different." I wanted him to understand and see beyond the job to the woman who fumbled through dates and tripped over the air when nervous. "With you, it's real. Angel doesn't even exist."
He pushed his chair away from the table, the scrape loud in the quiet apartment. His eyes searched mine, looking for something I wasn't sure I could give.
"Is it?" His voice broke just a little, betraying the hope he'd clung to. "Because right now, it doesn't feel that way."
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling the heat creep up my neck. "You knew what I did for a living when we started this, Arnold." My voice sounded more like a hiss, even to my own ears. "It's just a job. It has nothing to do with us."
His hands hovered above the table as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it. "I know, but hearing you talk..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard. "It makes me feel... jealous."
"Jealous?" My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't how the night was supposed to go. We'd laughed over burnt lasagna, and now this? I knew I should have put myself on vacation and not answered when BigDick69 called. But he was a big payday, and I hadn't worked for almost a week. I thought he'd have been okay with it. I'm not Angel. I'm Agatha. Real. Awkward. Dorky.
"Yeah." He looked down, scuffing his shoe against the leg of the chair. "The thought of other men hearing Angel is uncomfortable."
"Look at me, Arnold." I waited until those blue eyes met mine again. "Those guys, they don't mean anything. It's not real."
"Doesn't change how it feels." He leaned against the back of his chair, arms folded, mirroring my stance. "Doesn't stop the images in my head, Agatha. You being intimate, even if it's just your voice."
"Intimate?" I scoffed, but the word knotted in my stomach. "Arnold, you're making it sound like I'm cheating."
"Am I?" His gaze never wavered, and the question hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
I leaned in, my palms flat on the table. My heart raced, but I needed him to understand. "Look, this is work—strictly business. I clock in, do my thing, and clock out. There's no attachment."
Arnold stood abruptly, his chair skittering back. He towered over me, a storm brewing in his eyes. "But it's intimate, Agatha! Your voice, those words—it's like you're giving a piece of yourself away."
