This morning, she says,Damion, can I have your keys? I need to go somewhere. Alone.
I didn’t even get a chance to show her the Christmas lights last night because she texted me, in full professional diction, saying that something came up and she would be busy through the evening and into tomorrow, wherein she would need to utilize one of her PTO days. I was mildly hoping that she’d let me know I hadn’t written anything revolting and our relationship could proceed as normal while she continued to consider marriage as an end goal, but at this point, I’ll take anything reassuring from her.
Especially along the lines ofI haven’t crashed your giant vehicle and died horribly.
It has been over an hour since she drove off. I am losing my mind with worry.
Sighing, I cut my fingers through my hair, glance at my tattoos, and sag over my work.
This is torture.
After far too many minutes of suffering, assuming the paparazzi got her, even considering that she collided withthat idiot Jeffry, the sound of an engine finally encroaches. I straighten, heart lightening. She’s okay. She made it back. Whatever she needed to do, it’s done now. And I can relax, focus on my work, ignore the sound of…wood? Against tile?
Blinking, I look up at my closed office door and tense when the dragging noise stops right outside it. The handle jiggles, but doesn’t open, and then the front door opens and shuts.
Several times.
I stand, cross the room, and discover that while my handle turns, I cannot get out.
The front door opens and shuts again.
“Mirabelle?” I call.
Beyond the thick wood, she squeaks. “Y-yes?”
“What’s going on out there?” I try the doorknob again. “Did you…trap me in my office?”
“Does that really sound like something I would do?” she asks, sounding exactly like the kind of person who would do that.
“Yes,” I state.
“What an odd thing to say,” she calls, voice fading.
The front door opens and shuts yet again.
I am trapped in my office.
Mirabelle trapped me in my office.
What is she doing?
Heading toward the window, I attempt to get a look at the driveway, but it seems she’s pulled up, out of the view of where she normally parks and out of my sight from this vantage.
Stomach tight, I cross my arms as the door opens, and shuts, opens, and shuts.
I could probably climb out the window.
It’s a decently sized window.
I’d fit. It might be uncomfortable, but I’d fit.
Before I can commit to opening the window, my doorknob jiggles again. Then, Mirabelle knocks.
My brow furrows as I cautiously move back toward the door, climb the few steps, lift my hand to the knob, and…open it. To…
Flowers.
Hundreds of them.
