You're the loud shoes lady, Mia said. That's me, Sloan said. Dad says you fired him. Mia, Caleb said, I did. Sloan said she looked at the girl and didn't soften it.
I made a mistake and I fired him and I'm here because I was wrong and I wanted to say so. Mia seemed to consider this with the seriousness of someone evaluating testimony. Did you say sorry? I did. What did he say?
Mia, Caleb said with a particular parental firmness that was clearly trying to hold back something that might otherwise become laughter. I'm just asking, Mia said. He said he knew I meant it. Sloan said. Mia looked at her father.
Did you go finish your show? Caleb said. Mia went, not entirely satisfied, back down the hallway. A moment later, the television volume adjusted. Sloan looked back at Caleb.
He was watching the empty doorway with that expression she'd seen on the driveway, the immediate, unguarded kind, the kind that doesn't perform itself for anyone. She had seen that expression in conference rooms and on stages and across negotiating tables for years, on people who'd spent decades learning to produce it on command. She had never once seen it look the way it looked on him, which was to say like it actually meant something. She's a good kid, Sloan said. She's a weird kid, Caleb said.
I mean that as the highest possible compliment. Sloan almost smiled. I have one more thing I need to say and then I'll go, she said. I'm not coming back with job offers. That's not what this is.
I came because there are 40 people in that hanger who watched what happened and I can't fix what they saw, but I can start doing things differently and hope that eventually that matters. And I came because I needed you to know that I understand what I actually did, not just that I made an HR error, what I actually did. Caleb was quiet. What did you actually do? He said finally.