Radiation tasted like metal and fatigue.
Not for her, of course. She just sat in the waiting room, scrolling emails on her phone while her mother lay under a machine that hummed like a quiet, invisible storm.
“You don’t have to be here every time,” Patricia said on the way to the first session, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “It’s fifteen minutes of lying still and then I get a sticker.”
“You get a sticker?” Maya asked.
“In my heart,” her mother said. “They’re stingy with the actual ones.”
“I’ll make you some,” Maya said. “Gold stars for ‘Did Not Punch the Tech.’”
“You really don’t have to,” her mother said again, softer. “You already missed so much work for the surgery.”
“I didn’t miss,” Maya said. “We adjusted. There’s a difference.”
In truth, they *had* adjusted.
Marcus had insisted.
“You’ll work remote some days,” he said when she’d brought him the radiation schedule—three times a week, early afternoon. “You’ll be in the office others. We’re not clock-punchers here.”
“There’s that Glassdoor review that says otherwise,” she’d said.
“Glassdoor can choke,” he’d replied. “We’ll make it work.”
“They’ll say you’re going soft,” she’d warned.
“I terrify people for a living,” he’d said. “I can afford a little softness.”
She hadn’t had a comeback for that.
So now she sat in a beige chair with her laptop on her knees and her heart doing that unpleasant, fluttery thing every time a door opened, even though she knew—statistically, rationally—this was the easier part.
“Ms. Brooks?” The radiation tech smiled kindly. “All done. She did great.”
Her mother shuffled out, a little pale, a lot stubborn.
“Piece of cake,” Patricia said. “If cake tasted like microwaved pennies.”
Maya snorted. “Yum.”
They drove home in relative quiet, the radio murmuring old R&B songs that made her mother tap her fingers on the steering wheel.
“How’s your…friend?” Patricia asked suddenly.
“Which one?” Maya asked, though she knew.
“The one from Systems,” her mother said. “With the crooked glasses. You mentioned him.”
“Oh,” Maya said. “Owen.”
“Yes,” her mother said. “How’s that going?”
“It’s…nice,” Maya said. “He’s kind. Funny. Stable.”
“And yet you’re using words like ‘nice’ and ‘stable’ instead of ‘he makes my pulse do gymnastics,’” her mother observed.
Maya sighed. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I’ve lived a long time and made many bad choices,” Patricia said. “I know the difference between safe and right.”
“Owen is right for a lot of people,” Maya said. “He might be right for me. Eventually.”
“Is your boss wrong for everyone?” her mother asked, too shrewd.
“He’s wrong for me right now,” Maya said firmly. “That’s enough.”
Her mother hummed. “I trust you,” she said. “I just don’t want you choosing men—or jobs—based only on practicality. That’s how you end up resenting everything at sixty.”
“That’s why I go to therapy,” Maya said. “To vent about you.”
Patricia laughed, then winced, hand flying to her temple.
“You okay?” Maya asked sharply.
“Just tired,” her mother said. “My head and I had a disagreement.”
Maya swallowed the urge to turn the car around and march back into the hospital demanding more scans.
Instead, she drove a little slower and set a reminder on her phone to log every symptom, every wince.
Control where you can. That’s what Marcus had said.
She hated that his voice had taken up permanent residence in her head.
***
Work, mercifully, remained a beast that demanded attention without caring about MRI results or neurosurgeons.
“Portvale’s suing,” Jenna announced one Tuesday, dropping into a chair at Maya’s desk like she’d been shot.
“Of course they are,” Maya said. “On what grounds? ‘Your CEO bruised our ego’?”
“Tortious interference,” Jenna said. “They’re claiming we sabotaged their bid for a smaller logistics firm in Tacoma. Something about poaching key personnel mid-talks.”
“Did we?” Maya asked.
“Depends who you ask,” Jenna said. “Legal says ‘no.’ Portvale says ‘yes.’ The truth is probably somewhere in the gray zone where everyone’s hands are dirty.”
Maya opened a new tab and started a mental list.
PORTVALE LAWSUIT – MOVING PARTS.
She’d learned that if she wrote the chaos down, it felt more manageable. Like you could put teeth and tails on it.
“What does Marcus need?” she asked.
“A miracle,” Jenna said. “Short of that, talking points and a war chest.”
“I can give him the first,” Maya said. “The second is on Oliver.”
“Oliver’s already crying into his Excel sheets,” Jenna said. “You two are up.”
They were.
For the next week, life became a blur of litigation strategy meetings, communications huddles, and furious quiet discussions in Marcus’s office with the blinds half-closed.
“He’s enjoying this,” Oliver muttered at one point, flipping through a printout of Portvale’s complaint.
“Who?” Maya asked.
“Portvale’s managing partner,” Oliver said. “He loves a public fight. It makes him feel relevant.”
“What about Marcus?” she asked.
Oliver glanced through the glass at the man in question, who was on the phone pacing like a caged tiger.
“He enjoys the game,” Oliver said. “Not the collateral damage.”
Maya watched Marcus for a second.
He was in full battle mode.
Voice low and clipped. Movements economical. Eyes bright in that slightly scary way that meant his brain was five moves ahead.
He hung up, exhaled, and strode out.
“Jenna,” he said. “Draft me a statement for internal use. No one reads about this first in the Journal. Then schedule a call with outside counsel. I want to see every email chain and calendar invite relating to Tacoma in the last six months.”
“On it,” Jenna said.
He looked at Maya. “Clear my Thursday afternoon. All of it.”
She checked his calendar. “You have the board strategy session. And the Arcturus integration check-in. And a one-on-one with—”
“Clear it,” he repeated.
“Ominous,” she said. “Should I bring snacks?”
He almost—almost—smiled. “Only if they’re legal documents.”
She snorted. “Your love language is subpoenas.”
“You joke,” he said, “but you’re not wrong.”
She spent the next hour rearranging his life like a very high-stakes puzzle.
“You could have said ‘please,’” she muttered, dragging the board meeting to next week.
From his office, as if he’d heard, his voice came through her headset.
“Thank you,” he said.
She paused, hand hovering over her keyboard.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
There was a beat.
“You told me once,” he said, “that gratitude is my weak muscle. I’m working it.”
Her throat tightened.
“You’re doing…okay,” she said. “Don’t pull anything.”
He huffed a soft laugh.
***
On Wednesday night, Owen came over with Thai food and a movie he swore was “the perfect blend of indie and fun.”
“I need fun,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “I watched Marcus eviscerate a poorly redacted email chain today. It was like courtroom porn.”
“That’s…a terrifying phrase,” Owen said, setting takeout containers on her coffee table. “Does he do that thing where he says, ‘Isn’t it *true*, Mr. Smith, that—’”
“He doesn’t need theatrics,” she said, flopping onto the couch. “He just stares and people confess things they haven’t even done yet.”
Owen laughed, then sobered.
“How’s your mom?” he asked.
The question, genuine and unforced, made her chest loosen.
“Tired,” she said. “But good. She calls her radiation machine ‘Gerald.’ Says she and Gary are in a turf war.”
“Only your mother would name her tumor,” he said.
“She’s very thorough,” she said.
He handed her a carton. “Extra pad thai. No peanuts.”
“Bless you,” she said. “If I die of anaphylactic shock while dating you, my ghost will haunt your cat.”
“She’d like the company,” he said.
They ate. Watched the movie. Laughed at the right parts.
His hand found hers halfway through, fingers laced.
It was…nice.
Warm. Solid.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
Her brain behaved for a while.
Then, as film characters kissed under fairy lights, it did what it always did.
It slipped.
Replaced Owen’s mouth with another.
Replaced this comfortable couch with a glass office.
Replaced the easy, steady affection with something sharper.
She tensed.
Owen noticed.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing down.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just thinking about…court filings.”
He made a face. “You really need hobbies that aren’t work.”
“You’re my hobby,” she said.
He smiled, but his eyes searched her face.
“Am I?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“You…could be,” she said.
He nodded slowly.
After the credits rolled, he kissed her again.
A little less tentative this time. A little more sure.
She kissed back.
Her body responded—warmth, awareness, a pleasant hum.
But there was a missing piece. An edge.
She tried not to look for it.
When his hand slid to her waist, she let it.
When it started to dip lower, she froze.
He sensed it immediately and pulled back.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Too fast.”
“No,” she said. “It’s— It’s not you. I just— My head’s full.”
“Of filings?” he asked, trying for lightness.
“And my mom. And work. And…everything,” she said.
He nodded. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he said. “Ever.”
Guilt pricked.
“I *want* to,” she blurted, then winced. “Just not…tonight.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
They sat in awkward silence for a minute.
“I’m not…doing this because I’m waiting for something better,” she said, hating how it sounded even as she said it. “You’re not…a backup plan.”
He flinched.
“It kind of feels like that sometimes,” he said quietly.
She closed her eyes. “Owen—”
“You’re half here,” he said. “The rest of you is at work. Or with your mom. Or in a mental world I’m not invited to.”
“That’s not fair,” she said, stung. “You know what’s happening with my family. With my job.”
“I do,” he said. “And I’m not saying you’re wrong for being pulled in ten directions. I just…” He gestured helplessly. “I like you. A lot. I want more than…half.”
She swallowed.
“So do I,” she said. “I just don’t know if I have more to give right now.”
He nodded, expression conflicted.
“I don’t want to be another obligation,” he said. “Another thing on your list.”
“You’re not,” she said uselessly.
He gave her a small, pained smile.
“Maybe we should…slow down,” he said. “Or pause.”
Her chest ached.
“Is that what you want?” she asked.
“I want you not to look like you’re about to jump out of your skin every time I touch you,” he said gently. “And I want not to feel like I’m competing with a job I know I can’t win against.”
She closed her eyes.
This wasn’t about Marcus. Not directly.
It was about the way her life was built right now—stacked and precarious. Adding another heavy thing, even a good one, felt dangerous.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re just…not choosing me. Which hurts by default.”
The honesty slashed through her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He exhaled. “Don’t be. Just…figure out what you *do* want.”
“I’m working on it,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “You’re very good at working.”
He stood, grabbed his jacket, hesitated.
“Text me,” he said. “If you want to try again. Or just…be friends. I like your brain. Even when it’s elsewhere.”
She let out a wet laugh. “Okay.”
He left.
The door clicked shut.
She slid down the couch and covered her face with her hands.
There it was.
One variable removed.
Not neatly. Not cleanly.
But definitively.
It hurt.
And under the hurt, something cold and scary whispered: *Now you have one less excuse.*
She shoved it away.
There were enough moving pieces already.
She didn’t need to add that one. Not yet.
***
The next morning, she walked into the office with puffy eyes and a fresh layer of armor.
Marcus looked up as she slid into her chair.
“Late night?” he asked mildly.
“You ever have one of those evenings where you realize you’re the main problem in your own life?” she asked.
“Every day,” he said. “Why?”
She snorted. “Nothing. Dump Tacoma’s latest mess on me. I need something external to blame.”
He studied her for a beat too long.
“After you finish the Tacoma memo,” he said, “take an hour. Put it on your calendar. Block it.”
“For what?” she asked.
“Anything you want,” he said. “Scream into a pillow. Walk around the block. Stare at the wall. Just…not work.”
She blinked.
“Is this…part of the leadership summit’s ‘boundaries’ homework?” she asked.
“You’re not the only one with assignments,” he said dryly.
Tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll…try.”
“Try harder,” he said.
She smiled despite herself.
“Hypocrite,” she muttered.
He didn’t deny it.
And just like that, the day moved forward.
Not fixed.
But not unmanageable.
Variables in motion.
Equations unsolved.
And somewhere under all the math, a tiny, stubborn kernel of something like faith.
Not in fate.
Not in men.
In herself.
In the belief that she could navigate all of this without losing who she was.
And maybe—just maybe—without losing him, in whatever capacity he ended up belonging in her life.
For now, that was enough.
Barely.
But enough.
***