It’s a heavy, sour milk cheese with a raw onion vinaigrette that makes it—pungent. It’s called “the music” because of the flatulence it can cause. Considering the knots in my stomach, it might be a fitting metaphor.
“I’m no more likely to leave my family business than you are yours.”
His expression darkens, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. It’s no secret my father agreed to get into bed with a cartel when he accepted the Diazes’ inquiry.
Into bed.
For fuck’s same, Anneliese, stop making everything sexual.
“Are you always trustworthy, Jorgito?”
I’m probably slipping the noose around my own neck right now, but I can’t help the extra dig.
“No.”
I’m left waiting for more, but he says nothing else. He watches me for a moment before turning around and walkingout. He doesn’t even bother to shut my door. I watch him head out of the office suite, leaving that door open too. The elevator dings, and he disappears.
Poof.
Gone.
I’m left staring until I catch myself because people are looking into my office and watching me. I connect my laptop to the dock and sit down. No one can see what’s on my screen—or what’s not. I hope I look like I’m intently reading something. Instead, I’m gazing blankly at my computer. The part where he blatantly admitted he’s not trustworthy—that sparked curiosity and dread. That entire exchange rattled me.
“Did you hear me, Anne?”
“Hmm? Sorry, Bastian.”
“You’re even more distracted than usual.”
Fuck.
“I thought I saw someone I know, but probably not.”
We just walked into the grocery store, and I could’ve sworn I saw Jorge in the parking lot. I know he wasn’t there, but I could have sworn…
“Do you want me to get the pork loin and steaks?” Bastian’s question draws my attention back to him.
“Yes, please. I’ll get the fruits and vegetables.”
We have the same conversation every time we come to the store. As though something’s going to change after shopping together nearly every week for the past six months we’ve lived together. I rarely notice, but it seems asinine today.
It’s nine-thirty on Saturday morning. Where else would we be?
Normally, I like our routine. It’s reliable.
But as I watch Bastian walk away, the predictability reminds me of how I thought of him as a spaniel. It’s not a complimentary comparison. I doubt he’d appreciate it. It makes me think of an elderly married couple, and that hardly excites me when he and I are barely thirty.
Is it sweet or boring?
I used to think it was the former. Now I’m leaning to the latter.
I head to the right while Bastian’s still to the left of the store’s entrance. I glance over my shoulder, something unsettling me. I see nothing strange, so I head to the cabbage. How very German of me. As I place two heads in myEinkaufswagen—shopping car—I consider what else I need to make sauerkraut.
Haus frau.
That’s what I feel like. A housewife. It doesn’t give me the warm, fuzzy contentment I got when Bastian moved in with me. I don’t intend to give up my job—I can’t since I’ll inherit the firm—but I liked the idea of a happy home with Bastian.
It’s not like we’re unhappy. I don’t know what the fuck’s gotten into me except for a piss-pour mood for the past three days. Everything’s irritated me since Jorge showed up to my office five hours early. Papa and I nearly got into an argument in his office after Jorge left. We saved it until I went to my parents’ house that night.
