Not even ten minutes later, the texts start.
I’m sorry I annoy you so much.
When I ignore that one, she sends another.
Okay, “sorry” might be a stretch. Here’s the list of stuff I need.
She sends a list so long, I regret giving her the phone. The list includes specific items of clothing, makeup, toiletries, and food. Organic food, to be exact, exotic things I’ve never heard of with names like rambutan, cherimoya, and aguaje. Plus four different varieties of kale.
There’s a pause of no more than five minutes, then the texts start up again with only a few moments lapsing between each one.
Did you let Natalie know I’m okay yet? I’m worried about her.
Is Sean alive? I didn’t see him get out of the limo. I’m worried about him, too.
Why is there no television in your bedroom?
There are suit makers other than Armani, you know.
Remember: you got this.
I finally have to turn off the ringer because everyone keeps looking at me strangely. I’m standing in a room full of thirty Irish mobsters who came to pay their respects, and my phone is blowing up like some teenager’s in the midst of an emotional meltdown.
I text back, YOU’RE NOT TALKING TO ME, REMEMBER?
She sends back a middle finger emoji.
I can’t fucking believe this is my life.
