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A few seconds later, I receive his reply.
From: Vadim King
To: Alma Lancaster
Subject: RE: Clarification
Madam Deputy Director,
I acknowledge my mistakes and will take your remarks into consideration.
Regards,
V. K.
I’ve got no idea what that means. But he has clearly decided to go back to being formal—there’s a condescending subject line, and he’s made sure to include the initial of his new last name. I can’t tell whether he’s trying to provoke me or simply covering his ass by following protocol and politely putting me back in my place.
From: Alma Lancaster
To: Vadim King
Subject: RE: RE: Rant
I know you better than you think, Arcadi. Don’t play this game with me.
Do you really believe I’m going to settle for an answer like that?
I foolishly thought you would own it.
Absolutely no regards,
A.
I type without really thinking, maintaining the familiar tone of my first emails, even if it means taking a big risk.
Once again, Vadim replies right away.
From: Vadim King
To: Alma Lancaster
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Low blow
I own it, and I’ve got no regrets. That moment was divine; this conversation is much less so.
Have a good day,
You know who
Yes, I know who. I know all too well: my boss. And I know these exchanges are even riskier for him than they are for me. Vadim King is protecting himself, I’m sure of it.
That “moment,” as he calls it, was explosive enough to unsettle Vadim Arcadi. But he doesn’t trust me, so I’m going to have to prove myself. Things might not be over between us; they’re just tainted by our past mistakes. Mine, in particular.
I find myself in a strange mood for the rest of the day.
And the surprise my sister has in store for me only makes things worse. Lily has been sleeping in my living room for the last two nights, because living with her ex has become impossible. I’ve never really understood why she’s never had a place of her own, instead preferring to crash with whichever boyfriend or friend is willing to take her in. But I’m beginning to understand why Omar—and pretty much everyone else—finds her impossible to live with. In forty-eight hours, she has already rearranged all my furniture to create a “more stimulating atmosphere,” raided my fridge when she felt the need for some “emotional eating,” drained my hot water tank four times during her “hydrotherapy” sessions, opened my mail to “lighten my mental load,” and customized three of my outfits to “bring a little more color” into my life. I’ve got to admit, on more than one occasion, I’ve found myself asking, “Have you thought about trying therapy instead?”—which she answers with a “Pffft” and a shrug of her shoulders. I know it’s bad, she’s my sister… but I really feel like kicking her out.
And today’s surprise? I come home after a nerve-wracking, exhausting day and find myself face-to-face with a shirtless, bearded man doing a handstand in my hallway. Lily’s latest love interest is named Vittorio. He teaches yoga, apparently believes clothing is optional, is Italian, and fakes a thick accent only every other sentence. I say hello and briefly make small talk to his upside-down face, before grabbing my sister by the hand and dragging her into the kitchen.
