Chapter Text
Andy tugs at the bottom drawer of her desk while Nigel asks whether she still has the Runway archive drive, the one containing the vendor files Elias-Clarke never transferred to its new system. The drawer sticks halfway. It has always stuck, which is why Andy barely uses it and why, when it finally gives, she almost punches herself in the face when her grip slips from the handle.
“Did you find it?”
“Hang on.” Andy sets the phone on her desk and puts Nigel on speaker. Her fingers push aside notebooks yellowing at the edges, dead pens, an Olympus recorder, old press badges, and the desiccated remnants of an Altoid before wrapping around a USB drive. “I got it.”
“Thank god. Send it over.”
She pulls the drive free. Something clacks against the wood and tumbles into view. Red, matte, pristine among the drawer’s mildewy remains as if someone has handled it recently, although Andy knows she hasn’t laid eyes on it since—
“Andy?”
“Yeah.” Andy tears her gaze away. “I’m on it.”
She plugs in the drive, finds the necessary file, and sends it. Nigel keeps talking while she watches the progress bar crawl forward, listening to him name disasters that might still multiply if the production office doesn’t start answering his emails soon. The attached file finally leaves with a chime.
“That should stop the bleeding for now. I owe you.”
“If you need anything else, I’ll be here.” Andy leans back, pushing off the floor with her toes until the chair turns in a slow circle. The bottom drawer stays open. She keeps her eyes trained on the walls.
Paper shuffles at the other end. A swift tap of a keyboard, a click, then Nigel exhales. “Everything okay?”
Andy stops, facing the windows, her reflection in the dark glass staring back at her. Sallow, pale; exactly as she feels, half empty and numb. “‘Course. Why do you ask?”
Nigel says nothing. He should know better by now than to ask, really. He seems to have reached the same conclusion because all he does next is sigh again. It’s probably not meant for her to hear, but she hears it anyway, and her grip tightens around the phone.
“Keep your lines open. I’ll be in touch.”
“Okey-dokey.”
The line clicks. Andy lowers the phone. In the silence that follows, her presence closes around Andy until she trembles with the effort of keeping her hand still, of not calling Nigel again, anyone, so she won’t have to sit alone in the quiet of her study while the case waits in the drawer.
Her attention lifts back to her reflection. The door opens behind her, spilling light into the darkened room. Color washes warm over the grey rug, the grey walls, the rows of grey books, and Andy’s bloodless skin. In the glass, her silhouette stands inside the orange rectangle of the doorway, achingly familiar, the one shape Andy could easily identify in a city cut in shadow.
She blinks and the light vanishes. The door remains closed.
Andy swallows the lump in her throat. The memory presses against the inside of her skull, and every word they exchanged spills through her like a glass of red knocked across table linen.
“Whoa.”
“Eloquent as always.”
“You wear—”
“Yes, and I will not be taking any comments about them. Especially not from you, since this is your fault.”
“Well, in that case, thank you, me. You should wear them more often.”
“Shut up, Andy.”
“Please?”
“This is not a negotiation. Get back to work.”
Andy squeezes her eyes shut. Stop it. She draws a breath, ignores the way her heart rattles against her ribs, and tries to step over the spreading color before it stains everything again. She pushes herself out of the chair and stands with her eyes still closed, fingers spreading before they curl into loose fists at her sides.
The wine doesn’t recede. It pools in the open drawer, red and unwelcome, proof of a time when happiness had become so ordinary that Andy had mistaken it for permanence. A thread tugs her body one step toward it.
Wait. No.
Another.
Not again.
And another.
Whoever is at the end of that thread needs to stop. She can’t—
And another.
Please.
She cradles the case in shaking fingers. Her thumb finds the hinge and lifts the lid, moving slowly as to avoid shattering whatever is left of her.
“Where did you hide my contacts this time?”
“I am very offended you think I have anything to do with that.”
“You have met yourself, haven’t you? Andy, I’m serious. Milan will enter the call in five minutes, and if I’m late again because of you, there will be no tongue thing tonight.”
“If you ask me, I’m doing Milan a huge favor.”
“Andy.”
“Fine.”
Rose gold frames rest against the velvet. Andy bought them because the website called it Shiny Gold Grandpa, a phrase that made her laugh for a full minute while blue eyes stared at her, incredulous over the laptop that Andy turned her way to show where she purchased the gift.
“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”
“You find it hilarious too. Right? Admit it. I can see you trying not to smile.”
“You’re mistaking an ordinary facial tic for amusement. This better not—don’t come any closer—this better not be the extent of your so-called anniversary gift.”
“Would you look at that? You finally said it.”
“Cough up the rest of it or perish.”
“I love you.”
“Nice try. Unhand me.”
“Jeez. Okay, okay, I get it. I can return them tomorrow.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Andy traces the metal with a fingertip, careful not to smudge the lenses. She closes the case and runs her thumb over its smooth finish. After setting it atop the notebooks, she pushes the drawer shut with her foot, powers off her laptop, and leaves the room.
She holds the glasses close to her chest.