I CONTINUE BEFORE HE CAN DARE TO RESPOND. “YOU NEVER SAW ME as anything other than your girlfriend. You never saw my talent, my drive, my dreams. I was never good enough. It was exhausting, always trying to prove myself to you. And for what? Believe it or not, there’s a guy out there who thinks I’m Kix.”
Zane furrows his brow, and I know he thinks I sound insane. All the more reason he should leave. He walks to the door, stops, and turns toward me one step into the hallway. As he looks at me, I see a stranger. It’s remarkable to stand here across from him and feel nothing. My anger that mutated to hurt has now turned into indifference. It’s joyous, the indifference.
He lingers for a moment, then lifts his arms, takes a step forward, and throws his weight around me in an awkward embrace. I am rigid at first, but eventually, I close my eyes and soften, feeling something like release.
That’s when I know, without a doubt, without any trace of regret or what-if, I’m over Zane. One hundred percent, absolutely over Zane. Because after six months of secretly, pathetically yearning for this opportunity at my lowest points, the instant Zane wraps himself around me, I think of Charlie.
I pull back and am about to tell him again to leave and not look back. But when we part, as if my realization summoned him, Charlie stands in his own doorway, trash bag in hand. He’s wearing a ’93 TULSA, OK, SALSA DANCE COMPETITION tee and the sight of it makes my heart pinch.
The rest happens in slow motion, though somehow still too fast for me to intervene. Zane turns to follow my gaze, and now Zane and Charlie are face-to-face, between Charlie’s door and mine, in a narrow hallway standoff.
Finn lifts from his position in the doorway, joins us in the hall. He shifts his face to Zane, then Charlie, then Zane again. We all watch as he then steps next to Charlie and lies down at his feet.
If only it were that easy.
After acknowledging Finn with a head scratch, Charlie turns his attention to me.
Zane clears his throat and extends his hand to Charlie. “Hey, man, Zane.”
“Zane,” Charlie repeats, shaking my ex’s hand but still looking at me. “He’s shorter than I expected.”
“What?” Zane mutters.
We stand in this charged triangle for what feels like a year, Zane staring at Charlie, Charlie staring at me, me staring back at Charlie.
“You look familiar,” Zane says, clearly not reading the hallway.
Don’t say it, is all I can think. Please don’t say it.
Zane points his finger at Charlie. “Aren’t you the guy from that commercial? The fake abs guy?”
I clench my jaw as Charlie does the same. If Zane recognizes Charlie from the photo he sent to Catapult, he’s certainly disguising it well.
Charlie still doesn’t look at Zane. “Right, well, I’m gonna take out the trash.” He raises the bag into the air. “Any garbage you’d like me to take out for you, neighbor?” His tone is steely, and I feel it rub against my skin like a Brillo pad.
I want to say yes. I want to announce, in front of both of them, that I am officially, unequivocally over Zane, and the only person I care about in this hallway is Charlie. But when I open my mouth to speak, there’s nothing except a sharp intake of air. Charlie gives me the slightest of nods, then heads off down the hall, garbage bag slung over his shoulder. He strides past our floor’s trash chute and into the stairwell. I feel as though I may shatter from the center like a puzzle picked up from its edges.
Zane turns back to me, shrugs, leans in to embrace me again. I don’t know how I overlooked his inability to read social cues for as long as I did.
“Zane, don’t.” I put my hand out to stop his motion, but it ends up more like a shove.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t get it, Sloane. I said I was sorry. I came back here, tail between my legs. What more do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t want anything from you anymore.” I can practically see the ghost of him exit my body, viscous white matter floating up and away, disappearing into the dingy ceiling grate.
Zane scrunches his face in a look of dismissal. I saw this look throughout our relationship. He dismissed my design talent and interest in gaming. He dismissed me as a whole when he slept with Jenna, and he’s dismissing me now. It’s evident he assumed I’d be here waiting, when he eventually found Jenna’s likely well-manicured bush wasn’t in fact greener.
“Goodbye, Zane.” I take a step backward and begin closing the door.
He stops it with his arm. “Wait. I at least want to say congratulations on the job. You earned it, fair and square.” He looks down at the ground then back at me, his face neutral. “You’re really talented, Sloane. I’m sorry I could never get out of my own way long enough to see it.”
“You didn’t get the job?”
He shakes his head. “They ‘best of luck in your future endeavors’-ed me.”
“The middle finger of corporate-speak,” I mutter. Zane didn’t get the job. And he was the other final candidate, or so Jack Palmer’s email implied. But I didn’t get an offer. After Zane sent that picture and my game debacle, perhaps they decided to scrap us both and start over.
He nods. His face remains even and I can’t read him, but I choose, for me, to accept his apology.
“Thank you,” I say.
When he steps back, I call Finn in and close the door, then watch through the peephole as he stands there for a moment, seemingly unsure what to do next. Finally, he makes his way down the hall. As soon as he’s out of sight, I know I need to find Charlie. Explain to him the epiphany I’ve had. Tell him I was wrong to be so closed off. Wrong for not allowing myself to give in to what I felt—am feeling—for him. And mostly, wrong for not expressing how much he’s affected me in a matter of days. As my hand curls around the knob, I hear the familiar soft ding from my phone on the table beside the door. I’m inclined to ignore it—Charlie is far more important than anyone trying to get ahold of me—but then I see the notification. An email from Catapult Games.
Ms. Cooper,
I’m pleased to inform you that, with HR’s approval and strong input, we would like to offer you the game designer position at Catapult, assuming you can keep the promises you made in the interview. If so, see you Monday.
Best,
Jack Palmer
I stare at the screen, reread the email several times. What Zane said just now was true. Him congratulating me on getting the job was real. I did get the job. Over him. Over everyone else who has dreamt about this their whole lives, and they chose . . . me.
It occurs to me that they let him know of their decision before they even offered me the job, confident I will accept. The truth is . . . who wouldn’t? They are the number one game design company in the world.
My back slides down the door until my butt hits the floor, knees pressed up to my chin. Finn sits beside me and scrapes his tongue along my cheek in a congratulatory lick.
Everything I’ve ever worked for—I just got. I’m vindicated at this moment. Quitting my previous job with no plan, risking losing my apartment, hedging my bet against Jaya’s mom’s engineering job, disappointing my mom—the risks were all worth it.
There’s a satisfaction in me, yes. A feeling of validation I wasn’t sure I’d ever get—someone recognizing what I already knew to be true. That I am a damn good game designer. But it’s not the pure, blissful joy I thought I’d have, either. Because I know saying yes to this offer means proving myself in ways outside of just game design. That I’ll have to be perfect in my efforts to “keep my interview promises.” It also means saying goodbye to whatever small hope still existed for Charlie and me. By accepting this job, I’ll be confirming that we are nothing more than those seven days on a tropical island.