Gregory called me eleven times before lunch.
He texted three versions of the same plea.
This can be fixed.
Call me before this goes farther.
You’re hurting the project.
Dana answered the last one from my phone while I sat at my mother’s kitchen table with a heating pad against my back and a bowl of cut strawberries I could barely taste.
Future communication goes through counsel, she wrote.
At 3:06 p.m., Edwin forwarded confirmation that the board had voted in emergency session to remove Gregory permanently from BCD-17 pending audit. They appointed an interim committee until after my delivery. My old preliminary design package—mine, not Gregory’s cleaned-up presentation version—was being restored to the file.
He attached the memo Gregory had drafted about my supposed instability.
Across the top, in red, someone had stamped NOT ACCEPTED.
Gregory came by the house once, just after dark. My mother saw his car first through the dining-room curtains. Dana had already warned him not to contact me directly, so he stayed on the sidewalk with his coat open and the rain starting again. Porch light on. Hands empty. No performance left. He looked up when he saw me in the front window.
I did not open the door.
After thirty seconds, he set a small velvet box on the top step and went back to his car.
Inside the box was the watch I had given him on our second anniversary.
No note.
No apology.
Just the weight of something returned too late.
