See You Sunday

Thursday, 5:40 PM. The fourth floor was emptying. The Ashford deck was submitted, the Braddock call was done, and the hallway outside the kitchenette was quiet except for the hum of the vending machine and someone’s Spotify leaking through a closed office door three rooms down.

Ray was pouring coffee. Black, no sugar. His tie was loosened, his collar damp, the grey dress shirt pulling across his shoulders and straining at the second button where his gut pushed forward. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and the forearms underneath were thick, hairy, the skin ruddy and coarse. He looked like a man who’d spent the day selling something to someone who didn’t know they were buying it.

She came around the corner and stopped in the doorway.

He looked up. The small eyes — sharp, assessing, taking her in from heels to hair in the space between one breath and the next. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when she came at him with this face.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“We do?”

“Not here.”

“Okay”

She stepped into the kitchenette. The door swung shut behind her. The room was small — counter, sink, coffeemaker, a table with two chairs that nobody sat in, overhead fluorescent casting shadows under his brow and jaw that made the pockmarks deeper, the jowls heavier. She could feel the heat coming off him — the permanent warmth he carried, the temperature of his body always higher than any room he stood in. His sweat had cut through whatever he’d put on that morning and what remained was skin, animal, the raw smell of a large man at the end of a long day.

“The last time I came to you with a question,” she said, “you answered it with your cock.”

He sipped his coffee. “Worked, didn’t it.”

“It worked. And I walked out of that suite knowing less than when I walked in, and I’m done with that.”

“Fair.”

“You told me to come back honest.” She leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. “Your turn. All of it.”

His eyes held hers. She watched him read her — the posture, the jaw, the arms crossed not in defense but in challenge. He read rooms the way she read financials: fast, accurate, three steps ahead of whatever the room was ready to say.

“All of it,” he repeated.

“The anniversary lingerie. How you knew James bought it for me. The recording — who cut it and why. The phone call before Dayton that you and James can’t agree on.” She kept her voice flat. “Three facts, Ray. Three things that don’t add up. And the first time I asked you about one of them, you put me on my knees in a hotel suite.”

“I remember.”

“It’s not going to work twice.”

He set his mug on the counter. Folded his thick arms across his chest, mirroring her posture, and the room shrank by half.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not going to work in a kitchenette.”

“Where then.”

“Sunday. My apartment. Six thirty.” He watched her face. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Why your apartment?”

“Because what I have to tell you needs more than a coffee break, Blondie. And because some of it is going to hurt. And because you deserve to hear it sitting down, with a drink if you want one, and nobody walking past a glass door.”

She studied him. He stood six feet from her, enormous, sweating lightly at the temples, his gut pressing forward against the strained shirt, his face unreadable and his eyes patient and his body taking up the space the way it always did — not aggressive, just vast, the bigness of a man who had stopped apologizing for himself decades ago. He was not performing vulnerability. He was performing the decision to stop deflecting. She couldn’t tell where it ended and the real thing began.

“You’re not going to fuck me out of this conversation,” she said.

“Sunday. Six thirty.” He picked up his mug. Drained it. Set it in the sink the way he ended meetings — deliberate, final. “Bring whatever you need. Bring the questions. I’ll sit there until every one of them has an answer.”

“And if I don’t like the answers?”

“Then you leave. And I’ll still be the man who gave them to you instead of the man who didn’t.”

He moved past her toward the door. His shoulder came close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him — the warmth that had pressed against her back and her stomach and between her legs in every room they’d shared since November.

At the door he stopped. Turned his head.

“For the record,” he said, “the first time you came to me with a question, I didn’t answer it with my cock. You asked the question and my cock happened to be nearby and you made a choice. I just didn’t stop you.” The corner of his mouth moved. “See you Sunday.”

He left. His footsteps — heavy, deliberate, spaced like a man who had nowhere to rush — faded down the hallway.

She felt where his eyes had been on the way out — the back of her skirt, the place his hands already knew — and pressed her thighs together once against the counter.

Jenna stood in the kitchenette. The fluorescent light buzzed. His mug was in the sink, still warm.

She had wanted him to fight her. She had wanted the deflection, the salesmanship, the move toward her body that she could push back against and use as proof that he was the problem. Instead he’d given her a time and an address and walked away, and what was left in the room was the space where his push should have been.

She washed his mug and dried it and put it back in the cabinet and went home.

---

That night, Ray sat at the table in his apartment with the overhead light off and the desk lamp making a circle on the scarred laminate surface. The lot outside the window was dark. Someone’s TV murmured through the wall — a game show, applause, the muffled enthusiasm of people winning things that didn’t cost them anything.

He had known this was coming. He’d known since the suite, since she sat there in the midnight blue and said *there’s something you two aren’t telling me* and he’d gotten her mouth on his cock fast enough to close the door on the question. The door was still closed but the lock was loose and she was leaning on it.

The slip about the anniversary lingerie. He’d replayed it a hundred times since the couch — *should’ve worn that black lace for me, the anniversary one he bought you* — spoken with his cock inside her, spoken because the text-as-James version of the evening was still running in his head even while the real version was running between her legs. A sloppy goddamn play. The kind of error that happened when the blood left his brain and went south, and three years of discipline cracked because her ass was in his hands.

She’d caught it. Of course she’d caught it. The sharpest woman he’d ever sat across a table from, and he’d given her a tell while his cock was buried in her.

He lit a cigarette. First in months. The smoke rose into the light and curled against the low ceiling.

The calculus was simple. If James told her first — if that careful man found a spine — Ray was finished. Villain. Gone. If she dug it up alone, same ending, uglier. So he got there first. Not to be noble. To own the version she heard, and to make sure that when the dust settled she was looking at her husband, not at him.

He stubbed the cigarette in a chipped ceramic ashtray.

Sunday. His apartment. Her across from him with questions she’d been carrying since the suite. He could already see it — the silk she’d pick, the way she’d sit with her spine straight like at a Braddock meeting, that mouth set for a fight. He was hard thinking about the fight ending. About getting her out of the chair. About turning her around over his bed and putting both hands on that ass — the one he’d been staring at in doorways for three years — and watching those questions go quiet the way they always went quiet when he had her like that.

He’d answer enough to keep her in the room. Not a syllable more than he had to. The rest stayed in his pocket where it belonged.

What he couldn’t fake was the face he wore while he did it. She’d watched him sell for a year. Professional. Charming. Directive. She’d also watched every one of those faces fall apart when he was inside her — the salesman gone, just a fifty-three-year-old man who wanted her past the point where wanting was a choice. If Sunday smelled like a pitch, she’d walk. If it smelled like him —

He shifted in the chair. Adjusted himself without shame.

He’d tell her the truth she was already halfway to. He’d let her hate him for a minute. And then he’d find out whether the woman who’d worn the name he gave her under a ballgown and come on his cock in a suite fourteen floors up still wanted the man who’d done the rest of it — ugly apartment, ugly body, all of it — once she knew how the door got opened.

He turned off the lamp and sat in the dark. The lot was empty. Someone’s headlights swept the ceiling and vanished.

Sunday.

---

Saturday afternoon. The kitchen. He was chopping onions while she prepped the marinade, and the light was coming in at the angle it only hit in late afternoon, warm and long across the counter and the cutting board and the herbs on the sill.

“You said you wanted boring,” she said. “At the benefit.”

“I did say that.”

“And then on the dance floor you said *I want you to go up there.*”

His knife paused. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I’m not fighting about it. I’m asking.” She looked at him across the counter. The afternoon light put his face in sharp relief — the early grey at his temples, the stubble, the jaw that was working the way it worked when he was holding something back. “How do you get from *boring* to *go* in three hours?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the honest one.”

She held his eyes for three seconds. Then she went back to the marinade. But she could feel the dishonesty the way she felt a number that was wrong — not the specific error, just the shape of a digit that should be a seven but was a six, and you couldn’t point to it yet but you knew.

He slid the onions into the pan and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching them go translucent.

“Tom sent the wrong deck to a client today,” he said.

She looked up from the parsley. “Tom Brewer sent the wrong deck? The man who once lectured me for forty minutes about version control.”

“Blamed the intern.” James took a sip of wine, letting the silence do the work. “The intern left six weeks ago.”

“That’s the best excuse in corporate history. *I was sabotaged by a ghost.*”

“That one’s going to be told at conferences for years. The intern who never was.”

“Some poor account manager right now is getting an angry call about a deck that doesn’t exist, written by a man who isn’t employed there.” She scraped the parsley into the marinade bowl and licked oil off her thumb. “Honestly? Kind of iconic.”

She said it into the bowl, head down, and when she looked up he was watching her with the soft half-smile that meant he’d been composing the whole exchange for her and was pleased with how it landed. She came around the island to grab the pepper — cropped long-sleeve riding up, cutoff sweats slung low enough that a strip of her lower back showed — and he caught her waist as she passed. His hand spanned less than he wanted. Below it, under the thin cotton of the sweats, her ass was right there, round and close, and for one stupid second he wanted her on the counter with the onions burning. He pulled her in instead and kissed her, once, tasting wine and onion and him.

“This is what I married,” she said. “A man who saves up a whole day just to make me laugh about his terrible boss.”

“Among my other qualities.”

“Among your other qualities.”

She went back to the marinade. He went back to the onions. The kitchen did what it always did at this hour — the two of them orbiting the same four feet of counter, passing things without asking, the pan hissing, the light going long and amber across the sill where her rosemary was getting leggy.

She laughed at something else he said — Tom’s face, apparently, when the client asked who wrote page twelve — and the laugh was real, and the warmth in her chest was real, and under both of them, patient and quiet, the column of things that came out of his mouth too cleanly was still there, waiting for Sunday.

---

Saturday night she lay in bed while he brushed his teeth and she thought about Erie.

This kitchen, five days after Dayton. James home from visiting Mike Reeves, hollow-eyed, carrying the knowledge that his best man’s marriage had ended because Laura had been lying about a gym for five months.

Jenna had stood at this sink — this exact spot, the same herbs, the fading light — and she had torn up her own lie while it was still working. She had told James everything about Dayton. The anal. The staying. Ray in the hallway. The choosing. She had given him the most honest, most vulnerable, most complete version of herself she had ever given anyone, standing in their kitchen with wet hands and no makeup and her voice shaking, because Mike Reeves was sleeping in his own guest room and she refused to be Laura.

She had stood there and stripped herself open and waited.

And James had fought her. He’d shouted — *I trained you for him, three weeks, every night* — and in the heat of it he’d slipped. *When he called me—* Four words before he caught himself and sealed it over with something smaller: Ray called to check, James performed asking. She’d thrown his arousal back at him — the armchair, the video, the way he came hardest to the worst version — and he’d thrown the theft back, and the fight had run out of fuel without resolution. She went upstairs. He slept on the couch. And lying in their bed alone that night, she’d thought about those four words. Whatever had been behind them, that night had been the night to say it. She’d just handed him every secret she had, stripped open at the sink. If he was ever going to hand one back — any version, any size — a woman confessing in front of him was the moment. He’d slept downstairs with whatever it was sealed inside him, and come up in the morning with it still sealed.

The next day he ate the herb-butter chicken and nothing in his face moved. That night she rode him with a condom and told him about Ray’s cock in her ass, and part of her watched his eyes the whole time — for the flicker of a man deciding whether to say something. It never came. Not that night, and not in the weeks after Erie, in the kitchen or the car or the dark, all the places she knew a confession would have fit if he’d wanted to make one.

She lay in their bed and felt the exhibit settle into place beside the other three, and the case stopped being Ray’s and became hers.

Ray had done something she didn’t fully understand. But James had done something simple and total: he had been offered the truth by the woman who loved him, and he had chosen to keep lying.

No dread. She was not frightened of Sunday. She was patient with it. She was ready.

Sunday would only be the paperwork.

---

Next chapter (equivalent in length to 5-9 posts here), newsletter for updates, and discord server for discussion/ai video in my profile link.