That evening, I found him at my apartment cooking something that smelled suspiciously competent.
“You abstained.”
He looked over.
“Hello to you too.”
“The incubator vote.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You told me you didn’t want special treatment.”
“I don’t.”
“So I did not participate.”
I put my bag down.
“Thank you.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am not.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I’m emotionally complicated.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I walked over and kissed him.
“What are you making?”
“Risotto.”
I stared.
“Who are you?”
“A man with internet access.”
From the table, Mia called, “He burned the first one.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
“Confidential information.”
Mia grinned.
In June, almost a year after the morning Mia wandered into the executive hallway, Adrian asked me to come to the Kane Foundation after work.
He stood inside the renovated community center where Daniel had once forced a paint roller into his hands.
