I don’t know what.
I do know Donald does not suddenly grow a conscience in the span of ten minutes, so whatever lit a fire under his ass was external and probably expensive.
I also know that every time I tried to follow his terrified little glances, Niccolò Neri was at the end of them.
Which means I should definitely not think about it too hard.
And yet.
By the end of the shift, my feet are throbbing, my back hurts, and I’ve spent the last hour smiling at customers while my brain quietly built conspiracy boards out of Donald’s panic and a folded white handkerchief still tucked in my apron pocket.
But under all of that, beneath the exhaustion and the confusion and the low-grade existential scream that is my natural resting state, there is relief.
Deep, glorious relief.
Tomorrow, I can pay daycare. Hell, I can take Noah for ice cream and not have a panic attack about it after. I am already halfway into that fantasy when I finally check my phone.
And the world drops out from under me.
Seventeen missed calls.
Nine texts.
All from Gabby.
For a second I just stare at the screen, not understanding what I’m looking at. My mind is still in bill-paying mode, still doing soothing little mental math with the money in my bag.
Then I open the messages.
hey i’m rly not feeling good
sry i cant
i texted u
izzy???
i literally cant make it
i’m sick
plz answer
not my fault if u dont pick up
Something cold and immediate grips the base of my spine.
I stop walking.
No.
No no no.
I hit call so fast I almost drop the phone. It rings once, twice, then Gabby picks up.
There is loud music in the background. Bass thudding so hard I can hear it through the speaker. People shouting. Laughing.
Club music.
