Evan made another joke about my “pastures,” and we bantered, just like we’d done many times before, but I noticed his words were more flirty than usual, his jaunty lean against the wall more practiced. And Evan was giving me “the eyes”-a pointed stare I’d seen him give other women when the conversation was light but he was imagining something much heavier.

“How about lunch?” Evan said. “I was thinking RL.”

Although Evan and I frequently had lunch together, it was usually at Subway or the salad place downstairs. RL, on the other hand, the very chic Ralph Lauren café, was Evan’s official first date spot.

“We don’t need anything fancy,” I said.

“I want to treat you.”

“Why?”

He uncrossed the leg and moved until he was standing in front of my desk. He leaned forward, hands on the desk, and a lock of blond hair fell across his eyes. “Why do you think, Billy?”

The sound of my name coming from his mouth made me shiver. I could remember vividly the feel of his breath in my ear Saturday night. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you spell it out for me?” I couldn’t help it. I leaned forward too, and now our faces were only a few inches apart.

We stared into each other’s eyes. I found it hard to get air in my chest. I had a crazy desire to press into his lips.

Finally, he spoke. “Because of your promotion. We never got to celebrate.” His words were mundane, but his voice husky, as if imparting an erotic secret.

“Uh-huh,” I said, my lungs still struggling to work.

“Well?” Evan said. He smiled with one side of his face, the dimple there denting his skin adorably.

I made myself sit back in my chair. Once the nearness of him was gone, I was left feeling cold and silly. “I think I’d better pass.”

“Why?”

I murmured excuses about meetings and projects, but the truth was plain-I couldn’t trust myself around Evan.

As I ate a carry-out Caesar salad, Lizbeth came into my office. She was more comfortable around me since our talk last week, yet still not truly relaxed. As a result, I tried hard to be engaging and kind, but managerial and bosslike. This attitude also helped to convince myself that I really was a VP.

“What’s up today?” I said through a bite of salad.

“Some papers for you to sign. Oh, and the HR department wants to know if you got the signed severance agreement from Alexa.”

I swallowed hard on a rough piece of lettuce. The guilt of firing Alexa was still eating at me. I’d gotten a taste of power, and she was the first one in my line of fire. “You haven’t seen anything come through the mail?”

Lizbeth shook her head. “Let’s hope she doesn’t sue the company. Roslyn would be so pissed.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“That’s what HR said.”

I pushed my salad away, feeling queasy. I’d wrongfully fired a colleague-just because I could-I’d given her a pittance of a severance, and now I might have landed the company in litigation. “Maybe I can help her get a job,” I mused aloud. But even as I said it, I knew it would be tough. I’d been keeping an eye on the city’s PR firms for over a year, and the industry was as dry as ash.

“Whatever you want to do,” Lizbeth said. “Here’s her info if you want to call her.” She handed me a sheet listing Alexa’s name, address and other identifying information.

I looked it over, staring at Alexa’s address. She lived on West Division. Probably in one of those new loft condos. Of course, Alexa might have a hard time affording the new loft condo with her ten days of severance pay. The guilt rose higher in my chest.

“I’ll work on it,” I told Lizbeth.

I immediately called HR and asked if I could get Alexa a longer severance. No go, the HR director told me. It was the company’s policy not to change a severance once set, especially if the employee had been terminated for cause as Alexa had. She reminded me that we needed the signed severance agreement.

My guilt felt like it was scraping away my insides.

I sat silently at my desk until I knew what to do. After work, I’d stop by Alexa’s place, and bring her flowers or something suitably apologetic. I’d tell her I was sorry for the way things had gone down, and I’d tell her that I would help her in any way I could. And then I’d get her to put pen to paper.

I pulled my salad toward me and at the same time pushed Alexa from my mind. It would be all right, I told myself. For both of us.

At six o’clock, I sat in the back of a cab traveling west on Division. In my lap was an enormous fern. I’d spent an inordinate amount of time at the florist, debating hydrangeas versus orchids, tulips versus sunflowers. Nothing seemed right. Finally, I settled on a huge fern in a yellow ceramic holder. The flowers had seemed too romantic, but the fern, I’d decided, had a hail-fellow-well-met effect and said, I’m sorry I fired you and gave you a shitty severance, but you’ll be just fine.

I couldn’t see in front of me, due to the fern, but out the side window, I watched as the cab passed the entrance to the highway and continued west. Ashland went by in a blur, the hip shops and cafés of Wicker Park starting to show themselves. Of course, Alexa would live somewhere trendy. She was probably from a waspy family in Kenilworth but considered herself “slumming” in the now-posh confines of Wicker Park. She began to annoy me again, if only in my head. I saw those cashmere twinsets and her smug grin. I remembered her uncanny ability to get me to do her work.

Suddenly, the fern seemed obscene. She had deserved to be fired, and she certainly didn’t need my help. She probably wouldn’t even want it.

I shoved the fern onto the seat next to me. It would look good in my house, next to Chris’s big chair. I wanted to tell the cabbie to turn around.

I had just leaned forward and angled my head through the fiberglass window to speak to the driver when I noticed that we’d passed Damen. The cab kept moving. The trendy stores of Wicker Park gave way to Hispanic grocery stores and rundown bars.

“Excuse me,” I said to the cabbie. “Have we gone too far?”

“Nope. Another eight blocks.”

I sat back and watched the neighborhood grow steadily more sketchy. The cars were no longer of the Lexus or Mercedes variety, but appeared to be taken from a Starsky & Hutch rerun. People ambled on the street and sat on front stoops as if there was nowhere in the world to go.

Finally, the cab pulled to the curb and pointed across the street. “There’s your address.”

I checked it with the one I’d written down at the office. It was right. But how could this be? The building was cement block. The yard was made of dirt, with not a green bush or tree in sight. Some of the windows were boarded up. Others had sheets hanging in front of them.

“Want me to wait?” the cabbie said. “This isn’t such a hot neighborhood.”

“Thank you,” I said distractedly, still staring at the building. “That would be great.”

I hefted the fern up the sidewalk, glancing around nervously. This had to be a massive mistake. There was no way Alexa lived here.

But there was her last name-Villa-right on the buzzer box for apartment 3A. I pushed it. Nothing. I pushed again, relief filling me. No one home! I should have had the damn fern delivered.

But then the door clicked, followed by a faint buzz. The box crackled and a voice said something that sounded like, “Come on,” but could have been, “Up yours.”

Inside, the hallway smelled of cigarette smoke and spicy cooking. The doors to the apartments were made of cheap brown press board. I took the stairs as fast as possible, grateful for the Yellow Cab waiting outside. I’d drop off the fern, then I’d get the hell out of here.

The fern was heavy as lead, and by the third landing, I was huffing like I’d just run the Chicago Marathon. I knocked tentatively on the door for 3A.