I hang up, and not a minute later my phone rings. I think about not answering it, but I worry that HR is on the other end, probably ready to fire me.
Mase.
I hesitate, but knowing if I don’t answer, he’ll probably start texting me a million times until I pick up.
I clear my throat of the hoarseness. “Hey.”
Dang it.
I hear the wobble the second the words come out of my mouth, and my intuitive-as-hell brother will not miss it either.
“Are you okay? Why are you home in the middle of the day?”
My brother may be a pain in my behind.
He may be nosy…overbearing…overprotective.
But he’s a damn good brother, and just the thought of him stoppinghisday to make sure I’m okay has me in a chokehold, and there’s no way the words will come out without emotion.
“Did I do the right thing coming to New York?” I whisper.
“Madeline, what’s going on?” His soft voice causes the tears to flow. “Talk to me.”
“Hold on.” I walk into the bathroom to get the tissues and snuggle back onto the couch. “It’s stupid. I had a bad day at work, and I feel like my whole world is crumbling around me. I’m being melodramatic. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
I can hear his coach in the background calling his name. “You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”
“Cunningham, time’s up. Let’s go.”
“Go ahead, Mase. I’ll be fine, I’m an adult, and I’ll get over it.”
He lets out a frustrated breath; I know he doesn’t want to get off the phone, but if he misses practice, he’ll get fined.
“I’ll call you later tonight. Call Addie to come over.”
“Good idea,” I lie, not wanting him to feel worse knowing I’m alone. “I love you.”
“Love you more.”
I allow myself to cry, feeling utterly sorry for myself for a few more minutes, then I scroll over every rom-com and find a murder mystery—something void of love—and zone out for the next few hours because I’m not ready to face the cold, hard truth of why I freaked out today.
The intercom’s buzzing jolts me awake, echoing loudly through the open space of the penthouse. My heart pounds from the sudden surprise, and my eyes expand and adjust to the harsh light gleaming from the television.
It’s the only light illuminating the space; it’s pitch-black out now. I must have fallen asleep at some point, though if it’s this dark out, that means I’ve been napping for hours.
The buzzer goes off again, and it takes me a minute to steady myself before walking over to answer.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Cunningham, you have a special package. Shall we bring it up?”
Huh.
I run through my mind, wondering what I’ve ordered this time.
Between art supplies and a new New York wardrobe, the packages have been endless.
“Sure, send it up.”
