Sleep had become an intangible concept last night. Something so foreign and inaccessible, it felt like the kind of thing she’d read about in a book once but couldn’t quite imagine experiencing.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ethan’s face. Saw the destruction she’d wrought over someone she held so dear. Her actions had held so much purpose in that moment, but now she struggled to remember why she’d felt so certain that parting was the only path available to them. Naomi didn’t let herself linger on dangerous thoughts like that.
She focused on her work. Something she knew she was good at. Something she’d never had the impulse to ruin.
“I’m worried about you,” Clara said, voice wavering as she took up residence in her usual seat.
Naomi could imagine her heart—clanging against the cage that had descended to protect it.
“Don’t be,” she suggested.
Clara had enough on her plate. Even Naomi couldn’t stomach spoiling her wedding plans with borrowed tragedy.
“I’ll be okay.” And who knew, maybe she would. Someday.
Her business partner chewed her bottom lip, eyes lowered to the notebook clutched in her hands.
When had Naomi grown so, so soft?
She sighed. “Fine. Read me the first few items on the list. Quickly.” No one found as much comfort in organization as Clara Wheaton.
As evidenced by the grateful smile that graced her face. “Okay. I really think these could help. You’re a woman of action. You respond best to challenge and—”
“Clara,” Naomi cut in.
“Right. Sorry. Reading.” She ran a finger down the paper, obviously searching for her most persuasive pitch. “Well, you’re maybe not going to love this one, but I’ve got sub-bullets detailing an affirmative argument for why this is the right thing to do.”
Naomi placed her chin in her palm. “Can’t wait.”
“Actually,” Clara hedged, “before I get into the specifics, could you promise not to yell in response?”
“I don’t yell,” Naomi said loudly.
Clara raised her eyebrows.
“Much.”
“Mm-hm.” Clara straightened her skirt.
“You have my commitment to reply at a low to average volume.” She picked up her pen dejectedly, for something to do.
“Right. So, a few weeks ago the office got a call from a Ms. Michelle Router.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Naomi was in no mood to hunt for the connection. “Uh-huh.”
“And she happens to be the new principal at your old high school in Boston.” Clara raised her eyes to the ceiling, acting innocent. “Ms. Router said she’d tried to reach you a few times via email and found our office number online.”
Naomi gritted her teeth. “Tell me you didn’t.” She indulged a certain volume of Clara’s meddling, chalking it up to misplaced affection, but this really took the cake.
“She said she’d invited you to present a seminar on the future of sex education but hadn’t heard back,” Clara continued, seemingly undeterred. “But I assured her that you’d love to come speak to her seniors at the first available opportunity.”
“Clara Annabelle Wheaton.” Naomi got to her feet. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Holy shit,” Clara blanched. “I didn’t know you knew my middle name.”
As if Naomi hadn’t done her research before they went into business together years ago.
“You are the most meddling, devious—”