My sister knows me so well. I take a sip. It’s good stuff.
She makes a toast. “To the future. And to new adventures.”
I clink my glass with hers. “To new adventures.”
We’re silent for a few minutes, processing the crossroads we’re at. “When does Sebastian come home?”
“He was supposed to be back two days ago. But he never arrived.” I shake my head. “And since I turned down his last bribery attempt, he’s been incommunicado. He hasn’t even answered my texts or phone calls about where he is and when he’ll be back.”
“Is that normal?”
“I mean, he changes plans all the time. But he usually calls and messages me thirty times a day. More. He’s never gone silent. And I have work I need to coordinate with him. I don’t know if he’s sulking. Or lying in a ditch somewhere,” I say.
“Well, you told him you wouldn’t change your mind. Maybe he wants to give you some space.”
“It feels weird. This is the longest we’ve gone without talking since I started working for him.”
“It’s only natural to miss him, Em. He’s been a central part of your life for a really long time.”
And that’s exactly why I need to leave.
Because while I’m just a friend and employee to Sebastian Blake, I hate that my heart wobbles every time he smiles. Or that he knows to turn on my emotional-support television show when I look stressed. And I especially hate that I notice every time the ridiculous man takes off his shirt.
I don’t say anything. And my sister doesn’t press. Because my nonanswer is a confirmation that I do indeed miss him and probably will for a very long time.
But that’s why this change is so important. It’s why I need to break from the codependent relationship we’ve been enmeshed in. As frustrating as it’s been, it’s also been safe, in a way. I’ve been in a relationship with someone without really being in a relationship.
I curl my legs onto the chair and rest my chin on my knees, looking out into the night.
Sirens blare in the distance. A couple argues loudly on the corner. The sound of a breaking bottle on concrete is unmistakable. Just another evening in my neighborhood.
Once I can afford it, I might even be able to move. I’d have more flexibility because I wouldn’t have to worry about living somewhere within commuting distance of the insanely expensive Malibu.
And suddenly, I get a burst of energy. Or is it restlessness?
“Sadie, wanna go dancing?”
“Hell yeah, babe,” she says, like I knew she would. She’s always asking me to go out with her, and I usually decline, being either too busy or too tired to indulge in her shenanigans.
I’m still too busy. I have a to-do list that I should tackle. But I need the break.
We polish off the bottle of good champagne since we won’t be able to afford anything decent at whatever bar or club we decide to go to. And then we get ready together, giggling and trying on outfits like we’re teens. Sadie forces me to wear one of her dresses because she says I look like Business Barbie in my outfit.
Which is silly. I’m way too short and not blond enough ever to be mistaken for Barbie. Plus, there’s my resting bitch face.
But she’s right about one thing. I don’t own any single-girl clothes suitable for a night on the town. So I let her dress me for our outing because committing to change means getting out of my comfort zone.
Which is why I also let her order our drinks when we’re at the club.
But I forgot one thing when I put myself in her party-loving hands.
My sister has a freakishly high tolerance for alcohol. And I rarely drink.
And that’s how I get into trouble.
I havefun for the first few hours of the night. I dance, even though I’m not great at it. Mostly, I feel awkward and uncool, and I don’t quite know how to move to the beats masquerading as music. But eventually, I get enough alcohol in my system to lose myself to the rhythm.
I also attempt to flirt with the few guys who approach. I’m just as bad at flirting as I am at dancing. But I still throw myself into it because it’s not okay that I only feel comfortable in a suit or making bitchy banter with my celebrity boss.
