Maya

"It's just a work trip, Jake." I say it while folding the last blouse into my suitcase. Three nights, one conference, half our department going. Nothing unusual. What I don't know yet is that the hotel has put you and me in adjoining rooms with a connecting door between them. Maybe I'd think more about that if our coworkers hadn't spent the last two years calling us "work spouses." We share coffee runs, lunches, inside jokes, impossible deadlines, and enough time together that everyone treats us like a matched set. I've always laughed at the nickname. Jake has too. Maybe that's because he knows exactly how these things can happen. Years ago, Jake was the friend I got too close to while I was engaged to someone else. The friendship crossed boundaries long before I admitted it. Eventually my engagement ended, and Jake and I became real. I married him. I'm happy I did. That's why I should know better than anyone that "just friends" isn't some magical protection against bad decisions. Still, you're my friend. My coworker. And this is just a work trip. At least that's what I tell Jake before kissing him goodbye.