Suddenly the idea of seeing Quinn again filled me with dread. My heart skipped two beats when I remembered my upcoming trip to Las Vegas.

“Will, uh-” I cleared my throat and wiped my hands on my napkin, “Will Mr. Sullivan be in Las Vegas? At the client meeting?”

Steven, back to eating his sushi, shook his head. “Yes, as I told you before, the Boss vets all new clients for the private accounts. He’ll fly over with us, God help us all.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a moment. In preparation for the Vegas meeting I’d been drafting proposals for the mysterious ‘Boss’ without comprehending that Quinn was the ‘Boss.’ In fact, I’d even told Quinn about one of my ideas when he interrupted my lunch at Smith’s last week. I felt like I was going to be sick. I croaked, “We’re all taking the same flight?”

“We’re all taking the company plane.” Steven’s voice was so nonchalant he might have said instead: “Wednesday is the day I cut my toenails.”

I blurted out: “There is a company plane?”

“Yes.”

My heart rate increased at the thought of spending four hours in an enclosed space with Quinn. “And we’ll all fly together? With him?”

“Yes.”

“But-” I searched the table as though it might provide me with answers and tried to squelch the panic from my voice, “But what if I want to fly on a commercial flight?”

Steven raised a single eyebrow at me, “And why would you want to do that?”

I huffed, not wanting to tell the truth but recognizing the strangeness of my statement. I could only think of one excuse: “I- I have frequent flyer miles.”

Steven’s thin lips curved into a broad grin then he abruptly laughed so hard tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. I could feel myself turning from red to eggplant purple with embarrassment. His laughter was, however, contagious and I managed a self-depreciating half-hearted chuckle.

“Oh, Janie, you are a peach.” I think he meant it as a compliment but I only heard: you are a fuzzy fruit. “You won’t mind forfeiting some frequent flyer miles, I promise. It’s a pretty stress free way to travel. And, on the way, we’ll be briefing the Boss and talking over strategy, so there is actually a good work-related reason to travel together. He’s not so bad if you stick to business topics.”

I didn’t know how stress free it would be; I already felt pretty stressed out about it. “Who else will be on the plane?”

Steven wiped at his tears of hilarity and gave me an open smile. “Well, you and me, Carlos, Olivia, and the Boss- you know, Quinn Sullivan.”

I glared at Steven, “Thank you. I get it now.”

He gave me a sweet smile, “Just making sure.”

I suddenly had a headache.

That night I cancelled my tutoring session on the south side and I called Jon.

I didn’t call Jon last Sunday like I promised. At first it was an oversight but, after talking to Kat during our bathroom pow-wow on Tuesday, I’d been purposefully avoiding him. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t certain he’d been the reason I lost my job and I didn’t want it to be true.

However, for some reason, now I really wanted to see him. Elizabeth didn’t say anything about my abrupt decision but she gave me plenty of disapproving stares before I left the apartment and, as I pulled on my boots, said, “Isn’t Quinn calling you tonight from New York?”

A sharp pang reverberated in my chest, her words finding an unintended target: I missed Quinn and I wanted to talk to him. I missed talking to him, seeing him, touching him. Despite my confusion after he left on Sunday I’d been looking forward to his call all week. I swallowed the knot in my throat and set my jaw.

I currently had no plans to tell Elizabeth that Quinn was my boss’ boss. I needed to process it first, decide what it meant. Right now, in my current mindset, it meant that Quinn and I were already over.

In response to her passive-aggressive query I shrugged my shoulders and stood to leave.

She lifted her chin toward my cell, “You’re not taking that?”

I shook my head, “Nope.” and pulled on my coat.

She crossed her arms over her chest, her glare heavy on my retreating back, “Well, if he calls I’ll just let him know you’re out with your friend.”

I paused at the door, taking a deep breath, then calling over my shoulder as I shut it behind me, “Don’t wait up.”

I thought I heard her growl as I walked down the hall but couldn’t be certain.

As I left the building and walked toward the el platform I was acutely aware of the two guards behind me. I wondered if they were in frequent communication with Quinn. I wondered whether they would tell him what I was up to, who I was meeting. The thought made my stomach turn a little sour. I didn’t like the sensation of being leashed. The cell phone felt like an albatross around my neck and I’d only had it a week. The guards also were starting to grate on my nerves.

With a literal shrug of my shoulders I tried to shrug off the mounting irritation and redoubled my efforts to focus on the task in front of me. I walked faster.

Jon and I met at one of our, previously, regular haunts. It was an Italian restaurant on the North side with tall burgundy leather booths, dim lighting, and really good fried cheese. I didn’t return his embrace when I entered, my arms hung limp at my sides, and I felt no nostalgia when the heady tomato, wine, and sausage aroma wafted over me. But, I did allow him to lead me to our normal table. We placed our drink orders, I wanted only water but Jon ordered a bottle of expensive Sangiovese and two glasses.

No sooner did our waiter leave did I say: “Why did you cheat on me?”

It wasn’t the question I meant to ask. In fact, I didn’t really care about the answer. I was just stalling before confronting him with Kat’s evidence about his father’s role in my job loss. Also, for some reason, I was craving drama. I wanted to yell at someone.

“Janie…” Jon sighed, his head dropped, his shoulders slumped. “It was a mistake. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Jon, I’d like to know.”

“This is going to sound crazy. You have to-” he reached out like he was going to grab my hands but then seemed to think better of it, “I’ll tell you but you have to promise me that you’ll stay- you’ll stay and talk to me after.”

“I asked, didn’t I? I want to know, I want to talk about it.” I winced at my own lie. I really just wanted to yell at him for being a liar and a manipulator.

“But you might not stay after I tell you why I- just, you just have to promise me you’re not going to shut me out after. I don’t think I could live with that.”

I pursed my lips and scowled, “Fine, I promise. I promise I will continue to talk to you after you tell me. Would you feel better if I attached a timeframe to the promise? Like I promise I’ll stay and speak to you for no less than one hour after you tell me?”

“Honestly, yes. It would make me feel better.” He looked relieved and a little desperate.

I blinked at him, incredulous but promised anyway: “Ok, I promise to stay and talk to you for the period of one hour after you tell me.”

He sighed again, nodding, and looked like he was going to be sick. He swallowed. He affixed his gaze to a spot on the table and began. His voice was so quiet I had to lean forward to hear him; “You have to understand, I’ve loved you from the very first moment I saw you. I just knew you were it for me. Do you remember?” He smiled sadly, still looking at the table, “You were arguing with our professor on the first day about using linear equations as an approximation of non-linear equations. You were so angry-”

“I wasn’t angry.”

He glanced at me, his green eyes, still somewhat sad, glittering with amusement, “Not every equation is solvable. If we didn’t use linear equations as estimates we would be left with chaos.”

I smiled in return and shook my head, “Na-ah. We’re not talking about this now. Besides, I don’t get angry. I was annoyed.”

The shadow of amusement faded from his expression; “But, it’s relevant. What you just said, you just said that you don’t get angry. This is true, you don’t. All these years we’ve been together I’ve never seen you more than one standard deviation from baseline. You’re never excited. I’ve never even seen you embarrassed. Even when you drank too much that one time when we were in the Hamptons, you were so calm. If you hadn’t thrown up I wouldn’t have been able to tell you were drunk.”

“I still don’t see the relevance.”

He cleared his throat, staring at the table again, “I did it to be closer to you.”

I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t I leaned further forward and folded my hands on the table, prompting him, “What? What do you mean you did it to be closer to me?”

He took a deep breath then met my gaze, his olive green eyes were ripe with sadness and regret and a touch of accusation, “I did it to be closer to you. Sometimes you are so-” his hand on the table balled into a fist, “so distant, almost apathetic about me, about us. It’s like you don’t care whether or not I’m there. Do you know how that makes me feel? I love you so- so much. I burn for you. I ache for you.” He reached across the table and gripped my hand, the force of the action startled me, “I just want you to feel something, just one tenth of what I feel. I can’t stop thinking about you and- damn it Janie-”