"So, that’s it? Can I clean out my desk?"
"Yes, but make it quick. Do it while everyone is in the morning meeting, which you obviously won’t be going to."
Will my legs be able to hold me up when I exit the chair? I feel unsteady, like my lower half forgot how to function.
"You can't discuss who is buying out our contracts or where this company is headed. We take NDA’s seriously," Mr. Robinson tells me.
Why is he being so stern? We've worked together for two years. I know about his daughter's sports schedule, for fuck's sake! I know he and his wife have been having issues but are seeing a therapist. I even know he's very regular for an older guy—always goes for the long bathroom break right after his 12:30 p.m. lunch.
Yet I very curtly, very professionally, shake his hand and thank him for giving me the opportunity to work for him. He assures me he'll give me a great recommendation.
When I'm in my car, with a small box of my belongings, I let out an angry, high-pitched wail akin to Ron Burgundy in the phone booth.
Myboyfriendisnotanswering his phone. Technically it's going straight to voicemail, so he's not even registering my calls.
Where the hell are you, Beckett?
The thought of seeing Beckett makes my heart swell. He works from home, so I know he will be there when I return. I'm holding back the tears until I can see him. He will have the perfect thing to say to make this seem less life-shattering.
Parking next to his Lexus, I take out both binders that showcased all my hard work and heave them in the dumpster.
When I unlock our apartment door, the tears are there. They are pooling at the corners of my eyelids, politely waiting for their chance to make a scene.
"Beckett?" I call out.
I release my hair from my tight bun and let my blondish-brown locks cascade over my face and down my back in a messy tangle. I don't bother taming it because I don't care if I look like a rumpled disaster. I even throw my purse to the ground like a scorned woman.
I call out for Beckett again. Why isn't he coming out to greet me?
The worst-case scenario runs through my head, again, and I picture home invaders sneaking into our place and stabbing him.
This is why I never got assigned the slasher movie trailers—because I have the imagination of Hannibal Lecter.
Beckett is probably wearing the noise-canceling headphones I got him for Christmas. It was a great gift idea, except for the fact that I later worried: what if I'm getting murdered in the next room and he can't even hear my screams?
Now, he can't even hear me calling for him.
That's okay. I'll surprise him in our room... with a tear-soaked face and snarled hair. That's not the bombshell I would want to be surprised with, but he will manage.
As I make my way closer to our closed bedroom, I hear...moaning.
Oh my.
But it's his voice I hear, not a woman's.
Is he…masturbating?I'm not sure what the etiquette is here. This has never happened in the four years we've been together.
Do I wait by the door until he’s done?
My tears have receded back into my eye sockets as he moans again.
I'm not in the mood, so it's not like if I walk in I'll want to join him. Do I let him finish? This is kind of fascinating. He never makes sounds when we have sex, so I'm somewhat intrigued.
But I hear something else.
"You like making me this crazy? Tell me how bad you want me."
My eyes widen in horror.
