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I arrive on the office floor. The overnight emergency lights are dim, the cleaners have left a while ago.
I notice Leah’s office light on and make my way forward, unsure of what I’m going to find. I draw up short at the pain-filled sobs escaping the semi-opened door. Indecision wars in my gut, but Caleb’s words echo in my mind.
Let me know how she is.
Leah’s legs are visible, and I know she’s sitting on the sofa in the corner of her office. Stepping up to the door, I rap my knuckles against the wood.
“Leah?”
“Gabriel.”
A soft gasp comes from within, followed by rustling. I step around the door and into the room. Leah sits hunched over, black makeup runs, cutting tracks down her cheeks. Her hand comes up and swipes at the lines, smearing them sidewards. I walk over to her desk and grab the box of tissues she always has there, handing them over.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling one out. She wipes her face, making little difference to the disaster that is her makeup. I watch as she wrings the poor tissue in her hands, twisting and pulling.
“What are you doing back?” she asks, trying her best to put on her most professional tone, deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room.
“I was at Tristan’s,” I admit.
Leah’s head drops, her face crumpling. She draws in a shuddering breath. “Oh.”
An awkward silence descends.
After a moment, she looks up, offering me a wan smile. “That’s embarrassing. But I’m fine, honestly.”
I drop into the chair opposite Leah’s desk, swivelling it to face her. “When my sisters say they’re fine, it usually means they’re anything but. After what I’ve just seen, I’d say you fall into that category.”
Leah gives a little snort.
“And if I want to be alone?” Leah asks, raising her puffy, bloodshot eyes to mine.
“I’ll grant your wish. But if you need to talk, I’m a surprisingly good listener.” I stand up. “I’m going to make us both a drink. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea. If I drink your coffee at this time of night, I’ll never sleep.”
Leah’s lips twitch. It’s true, I do like my coffee strong.
“Tea it is,” I say, leaving her alone.
I take my time making our drinks. By the time I return to Leah’s office, she’s washed her face and changed back into her work clothes. Her hair once again scraped up.
I place her drink on the table.
“Thanks,” she says, picking it up and cradling it in her hands.
I return to my seat and wait.
Leah pauses.
“Vince and I broke up just over two months ago. As you can probably guess, he met someone else.”
Her voice is monotone, and my stomach clenches. I think back over the past two months for any signs of this traumatic event. I knew something was wrong. But this—a broken engagement? How could I miss something this big in one of my employee’s lives, especially Leah’s? We work together side by side every day.
As if sensing my unspoken question. “Don’t look so horrified. The fact you haven’t picked up on it. I’m glad. This is my sanctuary. Work is work. My private life is for home.”
I baulk at the words I’ve used many times over the years. The fact that I used the office to escape my heartbreak does not mean I expect everyone else to adhere to my screwed-up ways.
“You didn’t have to.”
