I scold myself when I stop and listen, but I still don’t move away.
“Yeah, you heard me. Ten thousand on the Knicks.”
…
“No, I’m not going to Venmo you the money right now. I’m good for it.”
…
“Are you forgetting what I did for you last year? You owe me.”
…
“Jesus Christ, Dan, do your former lawyer a solid here.”
…
“You’re a loser. I should have let your ex bleed you dry.”
…
“Yeah, well fuck you too.”
The phone slams against the receiver not once, but five times.
My head swirls. Luke was right. About all of it.
I march into Cyrus’s office, drop the breakfast bag on his desk, and look him square in the eyes, surprised at thisunconventional head-on approach I’m taking with him. “I met someone interesting at the bagel shop.”
“Get out, Kenna. I’m busy.”
I slap Luke’s business card down in front of him.
He looks from it to me. “What the fuck is this?”
“This is your bookie. The one you owe a hundred grand to.”
He points to the door. “Get out.”
“Not until you admit it.”
“Kenna, I mean it. Get the hell out.”
I cross my arms, taking a stand. “Do you or do you not owe this guy a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Until you’re making five hundred dollars an hour, you don’t have the right to ask me that.”
“So that’s a yes.”
He stands abruptly, seething, and Luke’s warning about how men in Cyrus’s position may do things they normally wouldn’t do swirls through my head. I step back, suddenly fearful of my husband.
“Leave!” he shouts.
“I guess we’ll talk about this at home then.”
“No, I mean get the fuck out of my office and keep walking. You’re fired. You’ve never been good for anything anyway. You’re a shitty receptionist. And you and your messy brat have never been anything but a drain on me. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking taking you in.” He waves his arm. “Go get your shit and get out of my apartment.”
“It’sourapartment. Maybe you should be the one to leave.”
