The Open Line

POV: NORA.

"I am going to piss on his car."

The words tear out of my throat as I trudge down the gritty, gum-stained stairs of the subway station. The oppressive heat of the underground tunnels hits me like a physical wall, smelling faintly of old pretzels and damp concrete. The clatter of an arriving train almost drowns me out, echoing off the tiled walls, but my best friend hears my declaration loud and clear.

Gwen’s sharp laughter explodes through the phone speaker, bright and cutting against the dreary noise of the transit system. "You are going to what? Nora, I love you to pieces, but you lack the spine to tell the bodega guy he messed up your coffee order. I watched you eat a turkey sandwich with extra mustard last week just to avoid hurting a stranger's feelings. You do not have a single rebellious bone in your body. You definitely do not have the 'urinate-on-a-luxury-vehicle' gene."

I let out a bitter, exhausted breath, swiping my yellow MetroCard through the reader with far more force than necessary. She is right. The truth stings, but she is right. "It is garbage that Tessa hoarded all the rebellious DNA in the womb," I grumble, pushing my hip against the heavy metal turnstile. "My system is hardwired for blind compliance. Just the thought of talking back to him makes my neck break out in itchy red hives. You should have seen me in his office, Gwen. I just sat there like a lump of clay while he threatened my livelihood."

"Do not sell yourself short, babe," Gwen says, her tone losing a fraction of its amusement. "You are just playing the martyr. You endure Prince Douche Bag because you need the paycheck to keep those kids in a safe place. You keep the food on the table. You keep the roof over their heads. They should carve a marble statue of you and stick it right in the middle of Central Park."

"I will pass on the statue," I say, stepping onto the crowded train. I grab a greasy overhead pole, swaying as the doors slide shut with a harsh ding. "I just want to walk into my workplace and not feel like a peasant begging for scraps of basic human decency. I do not want to be treated like a second-class citizen by a man who looks at me like I am a stain on his shoe."

"Well, if wishes were fishes, we would all have a seafood buffet," Gwen quips sagely.

I frown, shifting my weight as the train lurches forward. "What does that even mean?"

"No idea. Something my grandmother used to say. Dust Bowl wisdom." Gwen grew up right across the street from Tessa and me, miles away from the Midwest, but her family’s quirky folk sayings and bizarre idioms still dominate her vocabulary.

"It seems like a reasonable wish to me," I argue, the train rattling my teeth as it speeds through the dark tunnel. "It is madness for him to question my dedication to that company. I live and breathe Vanguard. I am there before the sun comes up and long after it goes down. My brain is infected by him. I dream in color-coordinated spreadsheets. Do you know how sad that is? I literally have nightmares about Viktor’s stupid custom fonts and strict to-do lists. Even when I am unconscious, I am working for him. It is insane."

"Preach, baby girl. Go on, let it all out. Do not let me stop you."

I ignore the side-eye from the older woman sitting in front of me. The word vomit just keeps flowing, fueled by the leftover adrenaline of my silent humiliation. "He is so smug! It is maddening. Where does he get the nerve? I bet he goes home, pours a glass of expensive scotch, stares into his designer mirror, and twirls his mustache like some evil comic book villain. 'Ah yes, another triumphant day crushing my secretary’s soul. Brilliant work, Viktor. Well done indeed.'"

"Hold up. He has a mustache?"

"Gwenny. Focus."

"Right, sorry. It is just... I have a very vivid mental picture of this guy. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair. The kind of sexy, devastating smirk that screams 'You want to get out of here?' without actually saying a single word. Washboard abs. Bulging forearm veins. God, I am a massive sucker for good forearm veins. And a hidden tattoo. Something dark and dangerous that you only get to see when the expensive suit comes off..."

"Gwen," I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. "Not helping the situation."

"Right. Sorry!"

The real problem is the painful accuracy of her blind description. I have known since my very first day at Vanguard that Viktor Volkov is a colossal nightmare of a human being. But I also know, with agonizing, unavoidable clarity, that he is stupidly, dangerously attractive.

I have caught those brief, accidental glimpses. The dark ink creeping up from his collarbone when he loosens his silk tie. The broad, muscular span of his chest beneath the tailored shirts. That rare, fleeting tilt of his lips that almost qualifies as a genuine smile. Every time I see it, a traitorous, touch-starved part of my brain wishes he would direct that intense, dark energy at me. Just once. I want to feel the heavy weight of his attention without the sharp sting of his criticism.

The train screeches to a halt at my stop. I drag myself out of the station and begin the weary climb up the concrete steps toward street level. It feels strange to be walking down the cracked sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen while the sun is still casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. Usually, it is pitch black by the time I make it back to my neighborhood.

For a brief, shining window, I have a pocket of pure silence waiting for me. The kids are still safe at their afterschool program for another forty-five minutes. Derek is supposedly attending a 'job fair,' which is his clever code word for drinking cheap draft beer at the local pub down the block.

I reach my apartment door, shifting my purse to dig out my keys. "Change the subject," I demand, sliding the brass key into the temperamental lock. "Tell me about your life. Distract me from my misery."

"You are deflecting," Gwen notes.

"Obviously. Indulge me anyway."

I push the door open and step inside. The quiet of the empty apartment washes over me, a rare, beautiful relief from the constant chaos of my existence.

"Let us see," Gwen muses, the sound of street traffic echoing on her end of the line. "I went on that date with the hotshot chef last weekend."

"Ah, right. The forearm vein obsession continues."

"Guilty as charged. And it was a spectacular date, honestly. We had oysters. Turns out the rumors are true about the aphrodisiac qualities."

"So you got lucky?" I ask, kicking off my sensible, pinching office heels and leaving them by the door.

Gwen snorts loud enough to make me wince. "Please. He got lucky. It is not everyone who gets a chance to dine on the sweet nectar of my—"

"Yep!" I interrupt hurriedly, cutting her off before she can paint a mental image I will never be able to erase. "I get the picture. Though, if I recall your roster, quite a few guys have gotten the tour lately. There was the accountant..."

"He helped me file my tax returns! That is just smart financial planning."

"The zookeeper..."

"He promised I would get to pet his monkey!"

"The therapist, the commercial diver, the PhD student..."

"Alright, alright, drag me through the mud," Gwen laughs, though there is no real heat in it. "I am a filthy, whorish witch and I should be burned at the stake. But listen, it is the modern age, so slut-shaming is off the table. Plus, sue me for living a little. I am young, I am hot, and I want to enjoy the buffet of men out there. You should be doing the exact same thing."

I let out a soft giggle. She knows I am not judging her. If anything, it is pure, unadulterated jealousy speaking. My romantic life has been dead and buried for so long I am convinced my reproductive organs are sprouting cobwebs.

"I know," I sigh, the heavy exhaustion creeping back into my bones and settling in my joints. "I should. I just... cannot, you know? I do not have the time. And even if a free hour magically appeared in my schedule, it is not like a line of gorgeous men is beating down my door for a chance to take me out."

Gwen’s tone shifts instantly. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by something incredibly soft and fiercely serious. "You would have a line if you put yourself out there, babe. I know it is heavy. I know you miss Tessa every single day. I know managing three kids is draining, and dealing with a useless lump like Derek takes whatever energy you have left. But just try. Promise me you will try."

I swallow the sudden, sharp lump in my throat, staring blankly at the chipped paint on my kitchen cabinets.

"If there is anyone in your life who you could see yourself trying with, it is worth taking a shot," Gwen pushes gently. "Tomorrow is never guaranteed, love. You and I know that better than anyone else. So you owe it to yourself—and to all the people who love and depend on you—to be happy."

I walk over to the kitchen table, dropping my heavy purse onto the scratched wood with a dull thud. My tired feet carry me toward the small, faded armchair in the corner of the living room. "I know. You are right."

I plop down heavily into the cushion, letting my tense muscles turn to liquid.

*Crunch.*

A sickening squish follows the sound. Damp heat seeps directly through the thin fabric of my pencil skirt.

I freeze. My hand darts under my thigh, my fingers meeting something soft, wet, and reeking of processed beans. I pull out a mashed, half-eaten Taco Bell burrito. Derek’s latest disgusting handiwork. He must have left it here before stumbling out to his fake job fair, ruining the living room space I spent hours meticulously cleaning just yesterday.

A wave of deep, visceral disgust ripples through my chest. I grimace, pinching the soggy wrapper between my thumb and index finger, and lob the messy, ruined food straight into the nearby trash can. It lands with a heavy, wet slap against the plastic liner.

"Nora? Are you still there?" Gwen asks.

I close my eyes, rubbing my sticky fingers against a discarded napkin on the side table. "Yeah. I am here. I will try."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yeah. Pinky swear."

"Okay," Gwen says, her voice bright and satisfied once again. "I have to run to Hot Girl Yoga now. I love you with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. Give the little ones my love."

"I will. Bye."

The call clicks dead.

The silence of the apartment rushes back in, thick and heavy. The frantic adrenaline from my internal meltdown in Viktor's office has finally drained away, leaving behind a hollow, aching shell. My shoulders slump forward, no longer required to hold up the invisible armor I wear at work.

I let my hand fall limply into my lap. My grip loosens. The slick, smooth metal of my smartphone slips from my tired fingers.

It slides down the curve of my thigh and drops straight into the dark, narrow gap between the cushion and the armrest. I can feel the hard corner of it digging into the upholstery, sliding deeper into the hidden crevice of the furniture until it hits the bottom.

I just sit there, staring at the empty space in my palm. The thought of leaning over, wedging my hand into the tight gap, and fishing the device out feels like an impossible task. I do not have the strength. I do not have the willpower to move a single muscle.

I let it stay wedged tightly in the dark.