Chapter 68
Emily's POV
Alex stepped out of the treatment room with a strip of white gauze across his lip, his jaw tight in a way that looked more like exhaustion than pain. I was still sitting in that plastic chair, my face probably blotchy and swollen from crying, and when he stopped in front of me I couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Let's get you home."
I nodded and stood up, feeling like my legs might give out. The whole drive back to the apartment I kept my forehead pressed against the window, watching the city lights blur past, trying not to think about Ethan throwing that bloody shirt on the ground. Trying not to think about how I'd stood there frozen while my entire life fell apart.
When the cab pulled up outside my building Alex leaned forward to pay the driver, then turned to look at me, his expression careful. "Take tomorrow off."
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Sleep in. Take a walk. Do something that isn't staring at spreadsheets until three in the morning."
My brain tried to kick into gear. There was the supplier meeting at ten. The payroll audit. The revised projections I'd promised to have ready by Friday. "I can't. There's too much—"
"Emily." He cut me off, his voice firm but not unkind. "A lot of what I've been giving you to do? I've been making it up."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Some of it's real," he said, leaning back against the headrest. "Don't get me wrong. But a lot of it? Tasks I could've handed to someone else. Problems I manufactured so you'd have something to solve. I've been doing it for weeks."
The words didn't land right. I kept hearing them but they weren't making sense. "Why would you—"
"Because I wanted to see what you could handle." He shrugged one shoulder, his jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully. "And because I'm an asshole who doesn't know when to stop testing people. But that's on me, not you. So tomorrow, you're taking the day off."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say there was no way I could afford to stop working, not when we were this close to turning the restaurant around, not when I'd just proven I could actually do this. But the exhaustion sitting in my chest was so heavy I couldn't find the energy to fight him.
"One day," I said finally, my voice small. "That's all I can do."
"Honestly?" He gave me a tired smile that pulled at the gauze on his lip. "You deserve three. Maybe a week. But considering where we're at with the business, one day's probably the most reasonable move. We'll get you more time later. I promise."
"You're a terrible boss," I said, but there was no heat in it. "Drawing me in with fake promises."
"I know." His smile turned self-deprecating. "Total snake oil salesman. But I mean it about the day off. Go sleep. Do something normal. Be a college student for twenty-four hours."
Something about the way he said it—be a college student—made my throat tight again. Because I hadn't been that in weeks. Maybe months. I'd been so busy trying to prove myself, trying to build something that felt solid and safe, that I'd forgotten what it was like to just exist without constantly calculating the next move.
I nodded and reached for the door handle. "Thanks. For the ride. And for—" I gestured vaguely at my face, at the mess I'd been in the waiting room. "Yeah."
"Get some rest, Emily."
I climbed out of the car and watched the cab drive away, then turned and walked into my building on autopilot. Up the stairs, down the hall, key in the lock. The apartment was exactly how I'd left it—the stained shirt I'd stripped off earlier still crumpled on the floor near the door, the takeout container I'd brought home sitting on the counter with the food congealed into an unappetizing mess, Ethan's jacket draped over the back of the couch.
I picked up the jacket and held it for a second, breathing in the smell of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent, and then I very carefully folded it and set it on the chair by the door where he could get it whenever he came back for his stuff. If he came back.
The thought made something crack open in my chest again but I shoved it down. I couldn't do this right now. Couldn't fall apart again. I'd cried enough for one night.
I changed into pajamas and brushed my teeth and got into bed, fully intending to pass out the second my head hit the pillow. But my brain had other ideas. I lay there staring at the ceiling, watching the headlights from passing cars sweep across the walls, and all I could think about was Ethan's face when he said we're done.
Around one in the morning I gave up. Threw off the covers and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed my wallet and keys. If I wasn't going to sleep I might as well do something productive. Or at least something that would make me stop thinking.
There was a bar two blocks away that never carded too hard. I'd been there exactly once, with some girls from my dorm during freshman orientation, back when I still thought I might have time for friends. The memory felt like it belonged to someone else now.
I walked in and headed straight for the counter, sliding onto a stool near the end. The bartender was a guy maybe ten years older than me with a sleeve of tattoos and a bored expression. He looked me over once—probably deciding whether I was worth the hassle if someone checked IDs—and then shrugged and came over.
"What can I get you?"
"Something strong," I said. "I don't care what."