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Seeing the clock strike noon, I push away from my desk. As I slip my laptop into my computer bag, another Post-It note slips out and I bend to retrieve it.

It’s a doodle of a stick figure, smiling while holding a spoon next to a half-eaten elephant.

It’s disturbing, particularly as the stick figure seems so happy about it.

I grin.

“Wanna come grab some Thai with me?” Lyla says, moving for the door. “I’m meeting with Ryan. You could join us.”

When I look up I see the genuine concern in her eyes.

“No, that’s okay,” I say, smiling slightly at the Post-It before giving it a spot next to the growing collection on my desk. “Best he doesn’t remember me and you have to explain yourself,” I say, imagining her manager seeing me stroll up with her to the table.

“Oh, he’d just turn it into some compliment about my ingenuity or other,” she says, waving a hand at the thought. “And besides, he’s bound to run into you with me sometime.”

“How about when you’re officially on tour.” Because to be honest, the moment she signed with Ryan, things have started to happen pretty quickly. She’s already had four bookings. Locally, but still. Four. With real money. And lunches with bubble tea on him. “Then we can reveal the big surprise.”

“Fine,” she says, clearly grinning at the idea of being on tour. “But I’m coming back with eggrolls.”

Picking up my half-drunk, lukewarm coffee in the green mug, I move toward the hall, laptop bag over my shoulder. I no longer expect Sam to show up in the ARC room’s hidden chamber. He’s avoided me so far; I’ve come to realize nothing is going to change.

I shuffle down the hallway, giving friendly smiles to everybody heading off in separate directions for lunch as I do.

Will’s office at the end of the hall is open, a rare sight. He’s been gone a lot the past two weeks, more often than usual, always leaving with no warning and no information about his return. Sending emails to everyone just as much as he would in office, keeping us all on our toes. Maybe that’s just how it’s going to be with him. He’s going to be out of the office, corresponding through clipped emails forever.

My foot hesitates at the bottom step, and I brave a glance through his door.

He’s typing away at his computer, his eyes focused and intense as he stares at the computer through his rectangular glasses. And for a moment I feel that twinge of lost hope and longing.

But then his eyes flicker, and he spots me.

And for one long moment, as people pass by, our eyes lock on each other.

A ghost of a smile passes my lips.

Sure enough, he looks like he’s about to stand, to come over. His phone rings. He ignores it, and for a wonderful second I feel my hopes rise. But then his eyes dart to the number. And, with an exhale and an apologetically bleak smile my way, he turns and takes the call.

I hesitate a moment longer, but as his words string on and on without any hint of ending, I move up the stairs.

And while I would normally let that thought linger through the day, I can’t help noticing, as my feet pad past bookshelves among bookshelves, the little glow at the end of the room. For the first time the filing cabinet is wide open, revealing the little cove inside.

Hurrying, protectively even, I step into the room, my thoughts pressing me on.

Did someone else discover it?

Why is it unprotected?

But as I quickly assess the empty room and shut the door behind me and feel my pulse start to slow, I notice the note in the center of the floor. I move to the rug, pick up the piece of paper. All it says is: Did you get an offer on the manuscript?

I flip it over, but nothing.

Hastily, I scribble an answer. No. They turned it down. But even so, I can’t tell you how much your help has meant to me. Thank you again. Truly. And . . . welcome back.

For half a minute I think about leaving more, writing more, asking how he’s feeling about everything and trying to open up the conversation again. But then I still myself. Remind myself of the first rule he made: stick to the point.

And so I do.

I hope my response is emotionless enough, and as far away from the topic of our relationship enough, to beg him farther into the start of a new conversation. Though where this conversation would go, I don’t know. But does it matter? Not really. I’m just glad he’s back.