He always does that when he lies.
I wonder if he knows that’s a tell.
“You should play mixed doubles,” I say, after an awkward pause when Sara returns to her desk. “Looks like Sara’s already dressed and ready to go, and you’d both make a great… team.”
Sara’s cheeks immediately flush as her gaze darts to Tony, then to her laptop.
“Right, I better go,” I say, sliding my laptop into my bag and getting up. “Have fun.”
Julie, Pietro’s assistant, waves goodbye at me and shouts, “Lunch tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I say, waving back.
That is, if I make it through tonight.
Forty minutes later, I unload my shopping basket onto the conveyor belt. Although I might be able to mask how I’m really feeling to the world underneath the guise of a smile, my shopping choices clearly aren’t hiding anything.
“Tough start to the week?” the cashier asks, scanning each item through and placing them in a brown paper bag.
“What gave it away?” I ask, laughing at my purchases.
The two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.
The tub of pringles.
The chicken tenders.
The six-pack of Corona.
Thankfully, I managed to pick up some healthy items too. Spinach, avocado, bananas, and berries, but I’d be kidding myself if I claim I’m going to eat any of them. My housemate Andrew will probably end up eating it all instead.
“That’ll be ninety-one dollars and seventy-two cents.” The cashier places the can of pringles into the bag while I take out my wallet. I show him my driver’s license so he can verify I am indeed over twenty-one before tapping my Wells Fargo card on the card reader.
A flashback to the flight home to LA almost knocks the wind out of my lungs.
Filling in my bank details on the paperwork and signing the numerous pages.
They were a renegotiation of the terms Paul had made me sign, but with no negotiating.
I shake my head, shoving my wallet back into my pocket. I grab my bags and head to my car, throwing the bags in the trunk of my jeep before jumping in the driver’s seat, turning on the car, and cranking up the air conditioning full blast. I wave at another driver, waiting with his indicator on for my spot, to move on.
He throws his hands up, but I give him a death glare. He really does not want to pick a battle with me, today of all days. I grip the steering wheel and let out two deep breaths as he moves on, before pulling out my phone and firing up the Wells Fargo app.
The money wasn’t there earlier, and I have a rousing suspicion that Connie has pulled a fast one on me. She’s bought my silence, but without the payment. She said the money would be there by 4 p.m., but when I checked just before heading into the HR meeting at five, I didn’t see the deposit.
I hold the phone up to my face, the app opens and loads, and I close my eyes.
I wish I’d never met Alexander Morgan.
I wish our paths had never crossed that first night in the lift.
I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back. Not with a knife, but an axe.
But maybe I dodged a bullet, or more aptly, a cannonball.
I alsodon’twish that I’d never met him.
I don’t.
