“What about then?” I say, pretending like a coward.

“About the other night.”

“It was a mistake,” I blurt.

Riley sighs. She sits in the chair that foremen usually sit in. She crosses her legs, probably trying to seem in charge, but I can see her age through her ruse. She’s a girl in woman’s clothing. A kid playing dress-up. Something about the thought breaks my heart because I can almost see her as she once was. I can see below her skin. I know how part of her must feel all the time because as much as she had growing up, she and I share something. A pain that most can’t know.

“Is that all it was?”

I sigh. I don’t know what answer she wants me to give.

“My father said you stuck up for me.”

My eyes narrow. That’s absolutely not what I expected her to say.

“I did?”

“He said you told him I knew the company better than anyone. That if you didn’t get the vice presidency, he should give it to me.”

“Take it,” I say.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s your father’s company.”

“And I don’t want pity. I don’t want to get what’s not coming to me.” She gives me a demure little blink, and I wonder if there’s more to that statement than I’m seeing.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For telling him that. I’m trying to be that person.”

“Be what person?”

“The person I need to be.”

Riley sounds like she’s attended a self-help seminar. I’m not sure where to take this, but I can see she’s not angry. At least not on the surface. Maybe I did read her right. My heart, which continues to thud in my ears and make me dizzy, isn’t positive.

“Okay,” I tell her. “You’re welcome.”

A tiny smile. I can tell how much it’s costing her to break through the harsh facade. “How am I doing?”

“You look very professional.”

Something in the way I say it seems to bother her. She sits up straighter.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. I mean that you look professional.”

“Is professional good?”

“Yes. Sure.” I don’t know what to say beyond that. I feel like I’m being tested.

“What happened,” she says. “That can’t happen again.”

“Okay.”

“This company is … ” She sighs. “It’s my legacy, I guess.”

“Of course.”

“But my dad doesn’t believe I can run it. Not really. I think he wants to believe me, but to him, I’m still just his little girl.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Brandon.”

“I know you are.” But already my mood is changing. I read her right, all right … but now she’s talking herself into changing her mind. And she’s doing it without my permission. And at my expense. I was right that she didn’t want to deny what happened between us across the board, but wrong in believing she wanted to fully face it. What she wants is to change it. She wants to talk it out so she can convince herself that I’m the bad guy. Or at least the guy. She did nothing to initiate our encounter; that’s what she’s trying to say here. It was all me. Now she’s dressing me down, making sure I understand that I can’t come at her again with a raging erection because she’ll turn it down in a straight faced, disapproving way. Because she’s a businesswoman. Which my testimonial helped her father to believe, after I plowed her in the back of a pickup.

I force my anger down. I’m overreacting. She doesn’t mean that at all.

“I should apologize,” she says.

“Don’t apologize.”

“That first day. By the creek. It wasn’t fair for me to put that on you.”

“You didn’t put anything on me.”

“I might have given you the wrong idea.”

“You didn’t give me any ideas,” I say, now glancing around the office, wanting this to be over. I don’t know why I asked her to stay. I feel stupid. Was I really that dumb and naive? She’s Mason’s daughter. She’s a shark, from blood to cartilage.

“I’d just come home,” she says. “I was missing my friends. That’s all. You know how it is.”

“I don’t know how it is,” I tell her, “seeing as I didn’t go to college.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Of course not.”

She looks at me for a few seconds. Then she goes on.

“It wasn’t a good idea, and we both know it, Brandon.”

“Having sex in the back of my truck?”

She seems to blush. “The whole night.”

“I thought it was perfectly professional.”

“This isn’t good for you either.”

I laugh. “It was plenty good for me. And for you, too, judging by the way you — ”

“How would my father react if he knew?”

“Did you tell him?”

“Of course not.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Nobody!”

“Not even Phoebe?”

She looks away.

“I see. So you didn’t tell anyone at all.”

“You told your sister!”

“I needed her to give us a jump! And to give you a ride home so I could make a meeting with your father! One I missed, thanks to you!”

“Thanks to me?” 

“My dick wasn’t in anyone else that night, Riley!”

Her face is more hurt than angry. But then the anger percolates back, and she says, “Yes. You missed the meeting. My father came home plenty pissed. I’ll bet he really gave it to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Enough that it probably seemed like he was going to fire you. Certainly not consider you for the vice presidency. Or did you leave that little chat feeling confident? Shack up with the boss’s daughter, miss a meeting, and still stand on top of the world? That’s how it seemed, right?”

I kind of grunt, unsure where she’s going, the hair on the back of my neck standing tall. “So what?”

“He said you were a drunk. Did you know that’s how he thinks of you?”

Now she’s trying to jab me. I’m definitely not a drunk. I go on binges here and there, but they’re isolated. I’ve always been to work on time, always. I’ve never shown up drunk. I’ve never carried a bender past a weekend. Bar girls have been my only casualties, and they all went home happy.

“Marcus came here because of me! I told him to give you another chance!”

My head cocks. Only for a second; I don’t want to give her a point. But I can’t stop my curiosity. I expected her to keep our secret, if she could, but this is strange. She seemed cowed and angry when I left her, and she’s seemed latently angry since, if not overtly angry like now. In my rush and desperation, I’ll admit I came off as an asshole. I can’t really blame her for resenting me. So why go above and beyond?

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it!”

I’ve failed to keep the surprise from my face. Now her eyes look wet. This is how Bridget gets when she’s frustrated. Saying the wrong thing to a crying woman is like making the wrong move around a nervous dog. I’m suddenly sure I’m about to be bitten.

“Why?”

“Oh, fuck off, Brandon,” she says, turning, standing, wiping at her eyes in a way she probably thinks I can’t see.

“Why?” I repeat.

“Why did you tell him what you said, about me?”

“I guess because you deserve it.”

We stare at each other like two fighters squaring off. The distance between us feels a thousand miles away, but still I want to go to her. I’m sure she’d hit me if I approached, but I still want to do it. I can’t not do it.

“It didn’t happen,” she says. “And it won’t happen again.”

“Of course.” I mean it, but now I feel humbled, punched, weak. I’m genuinely agreeing, but mostly saying what she needs to hear. What will make her stop being hurt, stop being angry.

I don’t want her to hate me. A while ago, I didn’t care. But now I do. A lot.

“I have to go,” she says.

“I’ll drive you.”

But she’s already out the door, pulling a phone from her purse to make a call.