You Were Better When I Was Gone Chapter 07
Late April, the company confirmed a new project. I’d lead it independently, a cross-border expansion plan for a major e-commerce platform. My biggest assignment since coming to London.
When the Director called me in, he said: “I trust your approach, Sarah. Go for it.”
No but. No strings attached. No “are you sure you can handle it?”
Walking out of his office, my palms were sweaty, not from fear, but excitement. The kind that came with being trusted.
I worked until 11 that night, finalized the project framework, then headed home.
At the entrance of my apartment building, someone was leaning against the wall.
Luke. A week early.
His trench coat was rumpled over his suit, a paper bag in his hand. When he saw me, he straightened up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Trip got moved up.” He looked at me, eyes bright under the streetlamp. “You’ve lost weight.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I know.” He held out the paper bag. “Passed by Chinatown, got you your favorite lemon tart.”
I didn’t reach for it. “Luke, showing up at my place without notice isn’t really appropriate.”
His hand froze, then dropped. The bag swung slightly. “Then can I make an appointment?” He laughed, but it didn’t quite fit. “When is Ms. Sarah available?”
“Not this week. I’m buried in a project.”
“Next week?”
“Not sure either.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Are you actually busy or do you just not want to see me?”
It was both. But I said: “Actually busy.”
He set the paper bag on the ground. “Then I’ll go. At least take the tart, don’t waste it.”
He turned, took two steps, then stopped. “Oh” He looked back. “Sophie asked me to bring you a letter. It’s in the bag.”
I glanced down at the bag. Didn’t move. “She can text me herself.”
“She said you don’t read her messages.”
Right, because I’d muted her. “Then that means I don’t want to read them.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just walked away. I stood there watching his figure disappear at the end of the alley, then bent down and picked up the bag. I gave the lemon tart to Emma.
Sophie’s letter, I opened it. Pink stationery. The first line: “Sarah, I know you’re angry at me, but do you know, after you left, I realized how much I relied on you…”
There were several more pages, the handwriting crooked like she’d been crying while writing. I folded it and put it in the very back of a drawer. Not because I couldn’t bear to throw it away, but to keep it as a reminder.
The next day, back to work. In the afternoon, during a video meeting with the Chinese client, the system glitched, screen froze. While reconnecting, a message popped up in the work group chat.
From the client’s contact person: ” @Sarah, good afternoon. A Ms. Sophie called our office saying she’s your proxy contact. She mentioned you were traveling and told us to route things through her. Could you clarify?”
I stared at the screen for three seconds. The blood in my veins went cold, then hot again.
What?
I called Sophie. First time, no answer. Second time, she picked up, voice sweet. “Sarah! You finally called me!”
“Sophie, did you call my client’s office?”
One second of silence on her end. “Oh, that. I just wanted to help. You’ve always been nervous with clients, so I thought I’d break the ice for you, make it easier for you to follow up…”
I took a breath. “Sophie, you pretended to be my colleague and contacted my client without my permission. Do you realize how serious that is?”
“Pretend?” Her voice turned aggrieved. “I didn’t lie, I said I was your friend”
“My client nearly thought I’d gone AWOL and couldn’t handle the account.”
“I explained it to him, I said you were just really busy”
“Who asked you to explain for me?”
Silence.
Then she inhaled, and her voice changed, low, wounded. “Sarah, I really just wanted to help. I’ve felt so guilty since you left. I wanted to make it up to you. I thought you’d be happy.”
Three sentences, each one aimed straight at my soft spots.
The old me would’ve said: “Okay, okay, I know you didn’t mean it.”
But now
“Sophie, I don’t need your help. And don’t ever contact anyone related to my work again.”
I hung up. My hands were shaking, not from anger. It was that trembling release of finally saying it out loud.