Chapter 64 Guard your Identity
The ringing stops, then I hear a quiet inhale on the other end. He’s there. And as always, he waits for me to speak first.
“Hi,” I say.
There’s a soft chuckle, low and warm. “Hi.”
A beat, then he says, “Yes, I took my medication. And no, I did not sprint out the moment you left to dramatically return to teaching. You may stand down.”
Despite myself, I smile. It happens automatically. Like some reflex coded into me.
“Reassuring,” I murmur.
“Well, I aim to provide reassurance in uncertain times,” he says lightly. “Also, I didn’t attempt to reorganize the entire apartment or buy more plants.”
“Impressive restraint.”
“I know, I'm growing as a person.”
His voice does something to me. It’s not just the sound of it. It’s the cadence, the softness around the edges. The faint scratch of fatigue beneath it. It settles into me like gravity recalibrating. Everything about him, even the way he says my name, always feels engineered to pull at me. As if the universe decided I required a counterweight and placed him carefully in my path.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“Reading what?”
“I may have accidentally subscribed to a weekly newsletter dedicated entirely to strange and mildly alarming factual discoveries.”
“Accidentally?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No comment.”
There's some shifting, like he's readjusting his position. “Can you believe,” he continues, “there was a company that tried to sell bottled ‘raw water’ for sixty dollars? And it sold out. I think we as a species deserve extinction.”
I stand slowly, turning toward my desk. The box is still there. The pen, the smallest thing inside, rests near the top. I reach in and take it out, placing it back on the desk where it used to sit.
“I also have a weird fact,” I say.
“Enlighten me.”
My hand dips back into the box. My fingers brush the edge of the photograph. I pull it out and glance at it.
“There’s a museum dedicated to failure,” I tell him. “Failed inventions. Failed business ventures. Prototypes that never worked. Products that were launched and collapsed spectacularly.”
A pause.
“They display them like artifacts. Documented ambition. Curated disappointment.” I run my thumb along the edge of the frame. “I’m considering offering myself up as part of the exhibit.”
There’s silence on the other end. Not empty, just attentive. “Michael,” he says quietly. The concern in his tone slips past all my defenses.
“What’s wrong?”
I smile, but there’s no humor in it. I place the photograph carefully back on the desk.
“I got a new assignment today. It’s with this author. Her name's Vivienne Hansen....”
There’s a sharp inhale.
“Shut up,” he breathes. “Are you serious?”
I lean back against the desk, staring at the ceiling.
“Yes.”
“She’s....My God! she’s enormous. That’s—” He stops himself. “That’s huge.”
“Do you know her?”
There’s an audible pause, then an exaggerated inhale. “Do I know her?”
I can hear the offense forming. “She redefined what contemporary storytelling could be before most people even noticed her. Her second novel was shortlisted for the Booker. Her essays on institutional power basically dismantled three universities and a small government. Of course I know her, she's magnificent.”
I huff a small breath of laughter.
“She’s writing another potential bestseller,” I tell him. “And I’ve been entrusted with the honor of steering it toward its inevitable cultural domination.”
“That’s not how people describe good news.”
I let my eyes dart across the office.
“You don’t sound excited,” he adds. There’s no accusation in it, just observation. “Do you still feel unmoved? Unmotivated by everything?”
“Not everything,” I correct. “There’s one exception.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s warm....he understands. I sit back down in the chair, elbows on my knees, phone pressed close. Then I tell him, “I came in to resign, for real this time. But I couldn't do it.”
The words settle between us, he doesn’t react immediately.
“Why not?” he asks after a moment.
I stare at the floor.
“I wish I knew,” I confess. “I wish I could explain it in a way that makes sense. But I can’t.....My father came back.”
I stop there. Even saying it shifts something inside me, tightens it. “I saw him and....” I trail off, shaking my head slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”
There’s a small, almost frustrated exhale on the other end. “You have a bad habit of saying that. Especially about things that matter the most.”
I don’t respond because he’s right.
“You never talk about him,” he continues, softer now. “What’s he like?”
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of the tension coiled along my spine. Even thinking about him makes my body react.
“He’s...” I begin but then hesitate. “He’s a businessman.”
Ryan scoffs lightly. “That’s a job description, not a personality.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “He lives for investments. He believes everything must yield profit. Tangible return. If something doesn’t appreciate in value, it’s restructured....Or abandoned.”
My voice is steady, but it feels distant, I continue either way. “Underperforming assets are declared inefficient and wasteful. A drain on resources. And inefficiency,” I add quietly, “...is unacceptable.”
Ryan doesn’t interrupt. The words taste like something I’ve swallowed too many times. There’s a prolonged pause. Then, softly, he says, “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you need me to send over a box of pencils for you to sharpen?”
I blink. For a second, I don’t understand. Then it lands and I let out a laugh that surprises me. It breaks out of me in a short burst, and then another. It pulls at something buried. It digs up something heavy and immovable that lodges in my throat. I blink it away quickly and turn my face toward the window. The glass reflects a version of me I don’t entirely recognize.
“I don’t understand why I can’t just do it. Just resign and move on.”
There’s no judgment in his reply. “Unfortunately, you’re the only one who can answer that.”
“I wanted to make more time for you, ” I confess, and I feel exposed saying it. There’s a quiet exhale on his end.
“I’m flattered, truly. But you shouldn’t make a decision that big because of me. Or anyone.”
He pauses. “You’ll only be able to follow through when you figure out what’s actually stopping you.”
I press my thumb into my palm.
“It’s because I’m a fucking coward.”
“No,” he says immediately. “You’re human.”
There's a brief pause. “And humans are masters of self-sabotage. We flirt with disaster.... invite heartbreak, and pay for nonsense, all while swearing we’re rational creatures.”
A faint smile touches my mouth. “Like buying ‘raw water’ for sixty dollars?”
“Exactly. We’re deeply flawed.”
I let out another quiet breath.
“I’m okay,” he adds, softer now. “I’m here. I’ll be here when you get back. So if you’re spiraling into some narrative where you’ve betrayed me by not resigning today, you should stop.”
My chest tightens again, but differently this time. I close my eyes for a moment and let that settle. “Once this assignment’s almost done, ” I assure him, “I’ll hand over my notice and be out of here.”
There’s a soft hum on the other end. I tilt my head, catching the faint amusement in it. “What?”
“You’re procrastinating. Another charming side effect of being human.”
I blink and he adds, voice calm but sharp. “And by the way, you’re not an investment. Don’t mortgage your identity to someone else. Find it.... guard it fiercely.”
I let his words sink in, and for a moment, all the tension I’d carried since stepping into that office loosens, just enough for me to feel him, steady and alive, on the other end. It’s a small thing. But right now, it’s enough.