Chapter 22 - Destroy It
Malcolm typed:
Destroy it.
Then he stopped.
He deleted the sentence.
Tasha had taken choices from him for years.
Responding impulsively because he wanted distance would still be a reaction to her.
He looked at the photograph again.
The Grantham notebook contained preparation notes for a future that had never happened.
Why keep it?
Why destroy it?
He called Dr. Ellis.
The therapist did not answer.
Good.
Malcolm smiled.
He was trying to outsource another decision.
He set the phone down.
An hour later, he replied:
Mail it. No note necessary.
Tasha answered:
Okay.
That was all.
The next morning Malcolm flew to Chicago.
As the plane lifted, he remembered the executive program he had once abandoned after Andre—unknowingly influenced by Tasha—convinced him it was too expensive.
Malcolm looked out the window.
No dramatic feeling arrived.
No cinematic revelation.
Chicago was simply a city.
That mattered.
The conference was busy and exhausting.
Malcolm met operations leaders from companies he had only read about.
He attended a workshop on organizational influence.
The speaker said, “Healthy leadership increases the number of good decisions other people are able to make.”
Malcolm wrote the sentence down.
It reminded him of Denise.
Real growth gives people honest choices.
Control steals them.
At lunch, another attendee named Rachel asked why Malcolm smiled at his notebook.
“My mother would’ve liked that line.”
“She in leadership?”
“Life.”
Rachel laughed.
“Best department.”
The interaction was ordinary.
Friendly.
Malcolm noticed he felt nervous anyway.
Not because he wanted anything romantic.
Because talking to new people used to come with an invisible calculation.
Would Tasha be uncomfortable?
Would she think he was becoming distant?
Would this become an argument?
Now there was no calculation.
On the second evening, Andre called.
“You networking or hiding in your hotel room?”
“Networking.”
“With humans?”
“No. Pigeons.”
Andre laughed.
“Proud of you.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes.
“Don’t get sentimental.”
“Too late.”
After the conference, Malcolm returned home to find a package at his door.
The Grantham notebook.
No note, as requested.
He opened it.
His younger handwriting covered the pages.
Interview questions.
Salary calculations.
Neighborhoods in Charlotte.
On one page:
Ask Tasha what she needs to feel good about move.
Malcolm stared at the sentence.
For years, Tasha’s story had been that Malcolm wanted success more than he wanted her.
But there was his handwriting.
Before the offer.
Before the sabotage.
He had planned to include her.
He photographed the page.
Then stopped.
He did not need to send it to her.
He did not need to prove anything.
Tasha’s fear had not required evidence then.
It would not be healed by evidence now.
He closed the notebook and placed it beside his mother’s blue spiral book.
Past and warning.
Side by side.
The following month, Bellweather assigned Malcolm to lead a small project team.
Not manage.
Lead.
Five people.
At the first meeting, Malcolm almost overcorrected.
He asked everyone’s opinion about everything.
Timeline.
Meeting frequency.
File structure.
Even minor formatting.
Afterward, Camille pulled him aside.
“You know leadership doesn’t mean refusing to decide.”
Malcolm laughed awkwardly.
“I’m trying not to be controlling.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you fighting a crime you didn’t commit?”
The question stopped him.
She continued.
“Giving people choices doesn’t mean abandoning responsibility. You still have a job.”
Malcolm nodded.
His personal healing was leaking into professional behavior.
Again.
The next meeting, he set clear deadlines.
He explained which parts were negotiable and which were not.
The team responded better.
Malcolm learned a distinction Tasha had never understood.
Authority was not control when it was transparent, limited and consented to by the structure everyone entered.
Hidden power was different.
Secretly removing options was different.
By December, Malcolm felt stable enough to stop counting days since he spoke to Tasha.
Then she emailed.
Subject:
Lease Deposit Tax Form
Purely administrative.
She needed his mailing address for a document associated with their old joint account.
Malcolm replied with a P.O. box.
Tasha answered:
Thanks.
No emotional bait.
No questions.
An hour later, another email came.
Sorry. One more thing. My therapist suggested I ask rather than assume. Would you prefer I never contact you again unless legally necessary?
Malcolm stared for several minutes.
He could say yes.
Part of him wanted to.
Another part did not need such a permanent rule.
He responded:
Do not contact me for personal reasons for now. If that ever changes, I will initiate.
Tasha replied:
Understood.
The boundary held.
Christmas approached.
Malcolm and Andre spent it with cousins.
Denise’s absence still occupied the room.
After dinner, Andre gave Malcolm a small gift.
Inside was a tie.
Navy blue.
Malcolm laughed.
“You serious?”
“The old interview tie looked terrible.”
“You bought it.”
“I made mistakes.”
Malcolm held it up.
Andre grew quieter.
“Figured you need something for all these executive things you do now.”
Malcolm smiled.
“Thank you.”
His phone vibrated.
For a split second, his body expected Tasha.
It was Camille.
Great work this quarter. January is going to be big. Enjoy the holiday.
Malcolm put the phone away.
January would indeed become big.
Because Bellweather was preparing a new regional initiative.
One requiring someone to spend six months traveling between Atlanta, Charlotte and Houston.
Camille had already placed Malcolm’s name on the shortlist.
The exact cities Tasha had feared.
The exact doors she had closed.
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And this time, nobody was going to hide the opportunity from him.
But Malcolm still had to decide whether wanting it was truly growth—or whether he was now chasing every forbidden future simply because once, somebody told him he could not.
