Part Two — What We Left Unsaid

“Do you really need to ask me that?”

“You can refuse to answer.”

“Why are you asking?”

Why was I? What difference would the answer make now? What if she admitted that she had loved me—or that she still did?

“Because there are things we never clarified,” I said. “Every time we met after you resigned, we avoided them. Maybe we were afraid. Maybe we knew nothing good could come from talking about them.”

She lowered her eyes.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” I added. “Perhaps I only imagined that something important had happened between us.”

“What was your question again?”

“Did you really love me?”

“Of course I do—I mean, I did. Did.”

I could not suppress a smile.

“What are you grinning at?”

“So it’s did, not do.”

“You heard me.”

“Meaning you don’t love me anymore?”

“You are unbelievable, Marco. Some questions are better left unanswered.”

I let the silence answer for her.

“I’m happy when I see photographs of you and Anna,” she said. “You look happy together.”

“So you check my Facebook page.”

“Don’t you check mine?”

I admitted that I did. Then I asked what she had wanted to ask me.

“You already know,” she said. “But I want an honest answer.”

“Which question—did I love you then, or do I still love you now?”

She smiled. “Both.”

“Do you really need to ask me that?”

She laughed at hearing her own words returned to her.

“I loved you then, Kath.”

“And now?”

“Some questions are better left unanswered.”

“I can read between the lines, Marco.”

“So can I.”

When she left briefly to use the bathroom, memories crowded into the silence. We had once spent nearly every working day together. At first, while she was my intern, we had been strictly professional. Then our conversations became personal. I told her about my difficulties with Anna; she told me about Jay, who was then still courting her.

One night, while we were working overtime, I held her hand and kissed her. The kiss lasted longer than either of us could excuse. After that, affection became part of our secret routine. Sometimes a kiss welcomed one of us into the office. Sometimes I whispered that I missed her or loved her. At night, behind a closed door, we kissed until restraint was the only thing keeping us from going further.

Kath never allowed us to cross that final boundary. She never once said she loved me. And because Anna worked in the next office, we made certain no colleague noticed anything unusual.

Kath returned to the call and settled on a sofa. She wore shorts and a thin shirt, and when she reclined I had to remind myself not to stare.

The years had altered her less than I expected. There were faint lines around her eyes now, but they made her beauty feel lived in rather than diminished. She had become a mother, a wife, and a woman who spoke with greater certainty than the young intern I remembered. Yet when she smiled at something foolish I said, I could still see the twenty-something woman who used to enter my office carrying two cups of coffee and pretend not to notice that I had been waiting for her.

The memory pleased me, but it also carried a fact I preferred not to examine: back then I had been her supervisor. My recommendation had helped determine whether she would be hired. I had told myself that her affection was freely given—and perhaps it was—but I had never asked what my authority might have meant to a young woman beginning her career. It was easier to remember the kisses than the imbalance surrounding them.

“Careful, Marco. Your eyes might fall out.”

“You’ve attracted me for a long time.”

“There goes the charmer again.”

“You’re still very attractive.”

“I know.”

We laughed, but the ease did not last.

“I have another question,” she said. “Do you know someone named Mayette?”

TO BE CONTINUED