Chapter 12
I stood on the other side of the door, hand on the knob, heart in my throat.
This was it. No screen. No alias. No carefully angled photos. Just me—Nora Chen, with puffy eyes and unwashed hair and a hoodie that said "I'd Rather Be Sleeping."
I opened the door.
Alexander stood in the hallway, still in his work clothes—navy suit, white shirt, no tie. His hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it the entire drive over. His eyes were red-rimmed.
He'd been crying.
My CEO had been crying. In his car. On the way to my apartment.
We stood there, separated by a doorway, staring at each other. Two people who knew everything and nothing about each other simultaneously.
"Hi," I said, because apparently my brain had decided that "hi" was an appropriate response to the most monumental moment of my life.
"Hi," he said back.
A beat of silence.
"Can I—" he started.
"Come in—" I said at the same time.
He stepped inside. The door closed behind him. My apartment was small—a studio, really—with books stacked on every surface and a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter. It was the opposite of the sleek minimalist space he'd described to me.
He didn't seem to notice any of it. He was looking at me.
Not past me. Not through me. At me.
"You're Iris," he said, like he was still testing the words for truth.
"I'm Iris."
"And you're Nora."
"Also Nora."
"And you—" His voice broke slightly. "You've been sitting twenty feet from my office for over a year."
"Fourteen months."
He laughed—a real laugh, raw and incredulous—and pressed both hands over his face. "Fourteen months. I've been telling you about my day, and you were there for it. I complained about a board meeting, and you were in the room."
"Technically, I was outside the room. I'm not senior enough for board meetings."
He dropped his hands. His eyes were bright, intense, scanning my face like he was memorizing it.
"The photo I sent you—the first one. When you gave me style advice."
"Your selfie angle was criminal."
"You changed how I dress. How I present myself. My own employees complimented me and I didn't know why, and it was because of you."
"You looked good before. You just didn't know how to photograph it."
He took a step closer. Then another. We were three feet apart.
"The gym videos," he said, quieter now.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "What about them?"
"You saved them."
"You can't prove that."
"You asked for more."
"I was being polite."
"You said, and I quote, 'Got more? Send me some more!' with an exclamation point."
"I was enthusiastic about fitness."
He was smiling now. Really smiling. I'd never seen Alexander Whitmore smile like that—open, unguarded, luminous.
"In Chicago," he said, and his smile faded into something softer. "In the bar. You told me you were seeing someone you'd never met in person."
"I did."
"You were talking about me. To me."
"The irony wasn't lost on me, trust me."
"And that night, when I asked you—" He stopped. Swallowed. "When I asked if you ever feel like the real you only exists with one specific person."
"I wanted to scream."
"Why?"
"Because the answer was yes. And I was looking right at the person."
The space between us had shrunk to nothing. I could smell cedar again, and that warm undertone—sandalwood, maybe. The same scent from the airplane, from the conference room, from every close encounter that had nearly broken my composure.
"I need you to tell me why," he said softly. "Why you didn't tell me."
I took a breath. "Because you're my boss. Because I was terrified of losing my job. Because I thought if you found out, you'd feel tricked, or angry, or embarrassed. Because every time you walked past my desk without seeing me, I thought, 'He loves the version of me that's witty and brave at 2 AM. The real me eats cereal for dinner and can't parallel park.'"
"I can't parallel park either."
"That's not the point—"
"Nora." He lifted his hand, hesitated, then gently—so gently—tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers trembled. "I fell in love with your mind at 2 AM. And I fell in love with your mind in conference rooms. I didn't know they were the same mind, but my heart apparently did, because it kept trying to tell me, and I was too stupid to listen."
My eyes burned. "You're not stupid."
"I described you as 'brown hair, maybe.' I looked at you every day and didn't recognize the person I love. That's advanced stupidity."
I laughed through tears. "It really is."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For not seeing you sooner."
His hand moved from my hair to my cheek. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and I leaned into it without thinking.
"I told you," he murmured, "that if I could meet you, I'd kiss you before you could change your mind."
"I remember."
"Have you changed your mind?"
"No."
He kissed me.
Not desperately. Not urgently. Slowly, carefully, like he was savoring every millisecond of contact. His lips were warm and soft, and his other hand came up to cradle the other side of my face, holding me like I was something precious he'd been searching for and finally, impossibly found.
When we pulled apart, he pressed his forehead against mine.
"Cereal for dinner?" he whispered.
"Sometimes pizza."
"Marry me."
"We've been officially face-to-face for twelve minutes."
"I've known you for six months."
"You've known Iris for six months. You've known Nora for fourteen months. And you've known both of us are the same person for approximately forty-five minutes."
"And in those forty-five minutes, I've only become more certain." He pulled back, looking at me with an expression so open and vulnerable that it almost hurt. "But I'll wait. As long as you need."
I reached up and straightened his collar. "Let's start with dinner. A real one. Not through a screen."
He smiled. "I know a place."
"Not Thai food."
"Why not Thai food?"
"Because you ordered it for the task force meeting while Vivienne stole spring rolls off your plate, and I nearly committed homicide with a fork."
His eyes widened. "You were jealous."
"I was stabbing noodles."
"You were jealous of Vivienne."
"She called you Alex."
"We went to school together."
"She touched your arm."
"She touches everyone's arm. It's a networking thing."
"I hate networking."
He laughed again—that full, real laugh—and pulled me into a hug. A proper, full-body, face-buried-in-my-hair hug. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast and strong and perfectly aligned with mine.
"Italian," he said into my hair. "There's an Italian place on Ninth Street."
"That sounds perfect."
We stood there for another minute, tangled together in my tiny apartment, and for the first time in six months, I didn't feel like I was living two lives.
Just one. Finally, just one.
---
This was it. No screen. No alias. No carefully angled photos. Just me—Nora Chen, with puffy eyes and unwashed hair and a hoodie that said "I'd Rather Be Sleeping."
I opened the door.
Alexander stood in the hallway, still in his work clothes—navy suit, white shirt, no tie. His hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it the entire drive over. His eyes were red-rimmed.
He'd been crying.
My CEO had been crying. In his car. On the way to my apartment.
We stood there, separated by a doorway, staring at each other. Two people who knew everything and nothing about each other simultaneously.
"Hi," I said, because apparently my brain had decided that "hi" was an appropriate response to the most monumental moment of my life.
"Hi," he said back.
A beat of silence.
"Can I—" he started.
"Come in—" I said at the same time.
He stepped inside. The door closed behind him. My apartment was small—a studio, really—with books stacked on every surface and a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the counter. It was the opposite of the sleek minimalist space he'd described to me.
He didn't seem to notice any of it. He was looking at me.
Not past me. Not through me. At me.
"You're Iris," he said, like he was still testing the words for truth.
"I'm Iris."
"And you're Nora."
"Also Nora."
"And you—" His voice broke slightly. "You've been sitting twenty feet from my office for over a year."
"Fourteen months."
He laughed—a real laugh, raw and incredulous—and pressed both hands over his face. "Fourteen months. I've been telling you about my day, and you were there for it. I complained about a board meeting, and you were in the room."
"Technically, I was outside the room. I'm not senior enough for board meetings."
He dropped his hands. His eyes were bright, intense, scanning my face like he was memorizing it.
"The photo I sent you—the first one. When you gave me style advice."
"Your selfie angle was criminal."
"You changed how I dress. How I present myself. My own employees complimented me and I didn't know why, and it was because of you."
"You looked good before. You just didn't know how to photograph it."
He took a step closer. Then another. We were three feet apart.
"The gym videos," he said, quieter now.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "What about them?"
"You saved them."
"You can't prove that."
"You asked for more."
"I was being polite."
"You said, and I quote, 'Got more? Send me some more!' with an exclamation point."
"I was enthusiastic about fitness."
He was smiling now. Really smiling. I'd never seen Alexander Whitmore smile like that—open, unguarded, luminous.
"In Chicago," he said, and his smile faded into something softer. "In the bar. You told me you were seeing someone you'd never met in person."
"I did."
"You were talking about me. To me."
"The irony wasn't lost on me, trust me."
"And that night, when I asked you—" He stopped. Swallowed. "When I asked if you ever feel like the real you only exists with one specific person."
"I wanted to scream."
"Why?"
"Because the answer was yes. And I was looking right at the person."
The space between us had shrunk to nothing. I could smell cedar again, and that warm undertone—sandalwood, maybe. The same scent from the airplane, from the conference room, from every close encounter that had nearly broken my composure.
"I need you to tell me why," he said softly. "Why you didn't tell me."
I took a breath. "Because you're my boss. Because I was terrified of losing my job. Because I thought if you found out, you'd feel tricked, or angry, or embarrassed. Because every time you walked past my desk without seeing me, I thought, 'He loves the version of me that's witty and brave at 2 AM. The real me eats cereal for dinner and can't parallel park.'"
"I can't parallel park either."
"That's not the point—"
"Nora." He lifted his hand, hesitated, then gently—so gently—tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers trembled. "I fell in love with your mind at 2 AM. And I fell in love with your mind in conference rooms. I didn't know they were the same mind, but my heart apparently did, because it kept trying to tell me, and I was too stupid to listen."
My eyes burned. "You're not stupid."
"I described you as 'brown hair, maybe.' I looked at you every day and didn't recognize the person I love. That's advanced stupidity."
I laughed through tears. "It really is."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For not seeing you sooner."
His hand moved from my hair to my cheek. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and I leaned into it without thinking.
"I told you," he murmured, "that if I could meet you, I'd kiss you before you could change your mind."
"I remember."
"Have you changed your mind?"
"No."
He kissed me.
Not desperately. Not urgently. Slowly, carefully, like he was savoring every millisecond of contact. His lips were warm and soft, and his other hand came up to cradle the other side of my face, holding me like I was something precious he'd been searching for and finally, impossibly found.
When we pulled apart, he pressed his forehead against mine.
"Cereal for dinner?" he whispered.
"Sometimes pizza."
"Marry me."
"We've been officially face-to-face for twelve minutes."
"I've known you for six months."
"You've known Iris for six months. You've known Nora for fourteen months. And you've known both of us are the same person for approximately forty-five minutes."
"And in those forty-five minutes, I've only become more certain." He pulled back, looking at me with an expression so open and vulnerable that it almost hurt. "But I'll wait. As long as you need."
I reached up and straightened his collar. "Let's start with dinner. A real one. Not through a screen."
He smiled. "I know a place."
"Not Thai food."
"Why not Thai food?"
"Because you ordered it for the task force meeting while Vivienne stole spring rolls off your plate, and I nearly committed homicide with a fork."
His eyes widened. "You were jealous."
"I was stabbing noodles."
"You were jealous of Vivienne."
"She called you Alex."
"We went to school together."
"She touched your arm."
"She touches everyone's arm. It's a networking thing."
"I hate networking."
He laughed again—that full, real laugh—and pulled me into a hug. A proper, full-body, face-buried-in-my-hair hug. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast and strong and perfectly aligned with mine.
"Italian," he said into my hair. "There's an Italian place on Ninth Street."
"That sounds perfect."
We stood there for another minute, tangled together in my tiny apartment, and for the first time in six months, I didn't feel like I was living two lives.
Just one. Finally, just one.
---