“Sure did,” Maxine drawled. “You gotta know your odds.”

“You can’t just ask someone if they’re gay!” Clara gasped, scandalized.

“Why not?” Maxine shrugged. “It’s not like I asked for his Social Security number. I just asked if he liked men. It’s 2001. We’re all enlightened now. Anyway,” she added, brushing muffin crumbs off her shirt, “he said no. Not gay. Actually said he had a wife. Told me no one in the office should flirt with him.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. “A wife? He doesn’t wear a ring.”

“Exactly,” Maxine replied, pointing like she’d won the game. “That screams cover story.”

Mona snorted. “Jesus, Max. Not everything’s a conspiracy.”

“I’m just saying,” Maxine continued, undeterred. “A man who doesn’t wear a ring, and makes it very clear no one should flirt with him? That’s suspicious. Maybe he’s not out yet. Or maybe,” she added, smirking at Clara, “he just wanted to shut down the possibility of you trying to seduce him.”

“Oh, come on.” Clara scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe he is married and just doesn’t wear a ring,” Mona said. “Why do straight women always assume every good-looking, unavailable man must be gay?”

“I’m not assuming. I’m theorizing. Big difference.”

“Well,” Hollis cackled, tossing her orange peel into the trash like a mic drop, “gay or not, married or not; if he wants to pay me five grand a month for the rest of my life, he can identify as a dolphin, and I’d still say thank you.”

The rest of the girls laughed. I forced a small chuckle, but something about the conversation twisted low in my stomach.

I didn’t know what. I didn’t even know why.

“Anyway,” Mona mused, biting into an apple, “if he ever decides to show his face again, someone please take a photo, okay? I need proof he’s real.”

I gave another tight laugh, trying to shake off the weird feeling creeping into my spine.

* * *

I was supposed to drop off the monthly content calendar in Maxine’s office. Nothing dramatic. Just a folder of neatly labeled printouts and a color-coded spreadsheet that had taken me far too long to format.

Her office was tucked behind a sliding door that didn’t quite close all the way. But when I stepped inside, Maxine wasn’t there. I glanced around. Empty desk. Half-finished coffee. Post-its layered like feathers across her monitor. It smelled faintly of peppermint gum. One minute passed, then two, and still no sign of her. As the seconds ticked on, I figured maybe she’d gone to that second-floor conference room. I grabbed the folder tighter and made my way to the elevator at the end of the hall. Something pulled me toward it. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe curiosity.

The elevator made its smooth ascent.