“Well, not on purpose,” I say, scratching under Gordo’s chin as he stretches across the counter like he owns it. “But he’s here now.”
“Good thing you called,” she says. “I’ve been in New York for three days. Manny’s appendix burst, so I came to help while he had surgery. He’s fine now, but I asked Mrs. Henderson to check on Gordo for me.”
My stomach dips. That explains why she had no idea.
“I… hope Manny’s okay,” I say quietly.
“Oh, he is,mija. Thanks for asking. I’m glad Gordo is with you. He’s liked you since he was a kitten.” A beat. Then: “Wait… did you move out?”
“I—” My stomach knots. Right. Cover story. “Oh… um… I’m at Jasper’s place,” I lie. “Just for a bit. He, uh… let me borrow it.”
Silence. Just long enough to make my throat tighten.
Then, softly: “Are you okay?”
God. I hate lying.
“Yes, Essie. I’m fine.” The words scrape out stiff, too quick.
She sighs, relieved. “Good. Then feed my boy and don’t let him trick you into more than two cans a day. He’ll eat until he bursts.”
“Yeah,” I manage, watching Gordo curl into an orange comma on Anton’s pristine counter. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick up food for him. You just… take care of Manny.”
“Always,” she says warmly.
We hang up, and I’m left staring at the silent phone, my chest buzzing with guilt. She has no idea. None. And maybe that’s better. Maybe that’s the only way she’ll stay safe.
I run a hand through my hair, glance at the empty penthouse. Gordo yawns, tail twitching.
“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?”
He blinks like he agrees, then rolls to his side, fat belly on display.
I envy him.
My eyes drift past him to the kitchen windowsill. My balcony herbs—the ones Boris hauled over in his gorilla arms—sit therein neat little rows like spies from my old life. Basil, rosemary, thyme. And outside, through the glass doors, the bigger pots: the aloe that refuses to die, the jade plant I’ve had since college, all lined up like they’ve belonged here forever.
It’s disorienting. Cozy and wrong at the same time. Like someone picked up my apartment and dropped it in the middle of a mafia safehouse.
I glance back at the clock. Still Saturday. Still noon.
My weekends used to mean scrubbing the bathroom until it smelled like bleach, juggling laundry cycles, maybe five straight hours of rom-coms I swear I hate but still cry through anyway.
Now? My to-do list looks like:
Don’t die.
Don’t piss off the scary Russian with the green eyes.
