Chapter 2: I Know What Loneliness Looks Like

Continued from chapter 1:

Something about the sincerity in her voice catches me off guard.

“As for the future,” she continues, “I guess I see this as a chance to expand my skills and experiences. I don’t know exactly where that leads yet.”

I nod once.

“Fair answer.”

Then I slide a stack of folders across the desk toward her.

“Here are five assignments. No instructions. I want to see how you handle yourself.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“I’ve got a patent draft I need to finish today,” I continue. “Hold my calls. Do not interrupt me unless the building is on fire.”

Chapter 2:

Her eyes widen slightly.

“I’ve got a patent draft I need to finish today,” I continue. “Hold my calls. Do not interrupt me unless the building is on fire.”

A nervous smile touches her lips.

“Understood.”

“At four forty-five, bring me your completed work.”

She squares her shoulders with surprising determination.

“I’ll be here,” she says.

The day disappears into contracts, formulas, revisions, and caffeine.

For hours, the only signs of Becky’s presence are the occasional muted clicks of her keyboard and the faint scent of vanilla drifting in from the reception area whenever my office door opens. No interruptions. No mistakes. No drama.

At precisely 4:45 PM, there is a soft knock at my open door. Becky steps inside carrying a neatly organized stack of papers against her chest.

“There you are,” I say.

“I finished everything.”

She approaches carefully and sets the folders on my desk.

“I double-checked the formatting and cross-referenced the client files,” she explains. “Though I’m sure there are still things I could improve.”

She clasps her hands together loosely in front of her body.

The gesture is strangely endearing.

I begin reviewing the work.

Within minutes, I realize two things. First, Becky is intelligent. Second, she is trying very hard not to disappoint me. The assignments are nearly flawless. A few semantic inconsistencies. Minor phrasing issues. Nothing significant.

I look up.

“Great job, Becky.”

Relief floods visibly across her face.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

A bright smile spreads across her lips, softening her entire expression.

“Thank you, Ero.”

She exhales a breath she has clearly been holding all day.

“I know there were a few mistakes,” I continue, “but your instincts are excellent.”

Her cheeks turn pink.

“I’ll work harder on the details.”

I lean back in my chair.

“Do you need to get home right away?”

She hesitates.

“Or,” I continue, “would you like to order carryout, drink a couple of beers, and talk about your future here?”

For a second, genuine surprise flashes across her face.

Then warmth replaces it.

“That actually sounds wonderful.”

Her smile becomes smaller now, softer.

“I’d really like that.”

So I order Chinese food from a place downstairs and send an assistant runner for cold beer before the office empties for the weekend. By seven o’clock, Manhattan glows gold beyond the enormous windows of my office.

The atmosphere changes after hours. The tension drains out of the building. Becky gradually relaxes too. She curls one leg beneath herself in the chair across from me while picking absentmindedly through noodles with chopsticks. Her earlier nervousness fades into something gentler, more comfortable.

“You work too much,” she tells me quietly.

I laugh once.

“That obvious?”

“A little.”

She smiles into her beer bottle before taking a sip.

“You seem lonely.”

The observation lands more directly than I expect.

I stare at her for a moment.

“You figured that out in one day?”

Becky shrugs.

“I know what loneliness looks like.”

There is no judgment in her voice. Only compassion. She tells me more about herself as the evening stretches onward. How growing up remotely left her uncertain around people. How most of her friendships exist online. How difficult it can be to walk into a room and feel immediately smaller than everyone else inside it.

And through all of it, she listens to me too. Really listens. Not because I am her boss. Because she cares. Eventually, I glance at the clock. It is nearly eight. I shake my head.

“Becky, you’re twenty-four years old.”

She looks up.

“It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out with friends somewhere?”

A faint blush touches her cheeks.

“You can’t seriously want to spend your evening sitting in your thirty-eight-year-old boss’s office listening to him complain about patents and negotiations.”

Her laughter is soft and musical.

“Well, first of all,” she says, “you make yourself sound much older than you actually are.”

I snort.

“And second?”

She lowers her eyes briefly before answering.

“I don’t really have a huge social circle.”

To be continued in chapter 3...