I stopped the fuck.
And now I have to tell Bree.
She’s going to find out soon enough. The story runs tomorrow. Even if she doesn’t seeit herself, someone will tell her. A former classmate will reach out.
She needs to hear it from me first. She needs to know what I did. Why I did it.
But as I sit there in my office, looking at her working peacefully at her desk, I realize I have no fucking idea how I’m going to tell her.
No fucking idea at all.
It might be easier just to let the shit hit the fan and deal with the aftermath.
Maybe I’ll just do that.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’m so screwed.
32
Bree
Meeting the parents.
Meeting. The. Parents.
Three words that have historically preceded some of humanity’s greatest disasters. The Titanic. Pompeii. That time I wore white jeans to a wine tasting.
And now, apparently, Thursday dinner at the Rossi family home in Queens.
“Dom set it up,” Nico says, like that’s supposed to make me feel better. Like his brother orchestrating this whole thing isn’t somehow worse.
He told me at work, and I left early so I could stop by my Astoria apartment for a change of clothes, since I’ve only moved the business casual stuff to Nico’s place. But now that I’m standing in front of the closet of said apartment, everything I own suddenly looks either too casual or too try-hard.
Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi. Yes, I’m the secretary who’s been sleeping with your son. No, I’m not a gold digger. Yes, I’ve seen the news coverage. Please pass the lasagna.
My phone buzzes. Nico:We’ll pick you up at 6.
I type back frantically:What should I wear?
His response is immediate:Anything. You look beautiful in everything.
Helpful. Super helpful.
I settle on a soft green wrap dress that Sora once said makes me look “like someone with her life together.” Which is hilarious, because I’ve never felt less together in my entire existence.
The SUV pulls up at exactly six. Because of course it does. Nico doesn’t do late.
When I climb in, he’s in the back seat wearing a charcoal sweater. The cashmere clings just enough to remind me what’s underneath. His jaw is freshly shaved, and his scar looks less angry than usual, if that’s possible.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“You said that over text,” I counter.
