If I had a nickel for every time a biker nearly mowed me down in the bike lane while I was crossing the street, I wouldn’t have to work for the Garrick family. As I’m crossing the street to get to the Garricks’ apartment building, a biker with no helmet and holding a cell phone to his ear comes within millimeters of sending me to the hospital. Why is it always the bikers on cell phones who also don’t have helmets? It’s like a rule.
Just before I reach the entrance to the building, my phone rings inside my purse. I hesitate, considering letting it go to voicemail. Then I dig into my purse and pull it out. Brock’s name is on the screen. Now I’m even more tempted to let it go to voicemail. I don’t want to have yet another conversation with him about why I can’t move in with him. Or as he likes to put it, I won’t move in with him.
Finally, I sigh and press the green button on my phone to accept the call. “Hey,” I say.
“Hi, Millie,” he says. “Are you up for dinner tonight?”
“I’m probably going to be at the Garricks’ late tonight,” I tell him, which isn’t entirely a lie.
“Oh.”
I wonder how many dinner invitations I’ll need to turn down before he stops asking. And I don’t want that. I like Brock a lot, even though I might not quite love him yet. I don’t want to lose him.
“Listen,” I say, “Douglas is going away for a few days starting tomorrow, so they don’t need me to cook. What if we have dinner tomorrow night?”
“Okay.” His voice sounds a little strange. “Also, when we’re having dinner, I think we need to have a talk.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“I just…” He clears his throat. “I like you a lot, Millie. We just need to discuss where I stand.”
“You stand just fine.”
“Do I?”
I don’t know what to say. But he’s right. Brock and I do need to have a talk. Sooner rather than later. I need to come clean to him about everything in my past, and then he can decide if he wants to move forward. I’d like to think he’s a decent enough guy that he won’t be scared off by a decade in prison, but I keep imagining the look on his face when I tell him. And it’s not one of happiness.
“Fine,” I say. “We can have a talk.”
“Meet at my apartment at seven?”
“Sure.”
There’s a pause on the other line, and I’m almost scared he’s going to tell me he loves me again, but instead, he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After we hang up, I stare down at the screen of my phone for a moment. What if I called him back right now and told him everything? Just rip the Band-Aid right off. And then I wouldn’t have to wait and carry around that sick feeling in my stomach for another day.
No, I can’t do it. It’ll have to be tomorrow.
I continue to the apartment building, a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The doorman rushes over to hold the door open for me, and as he does, he winks at me.
It strikes me as a little strange. The guy is at least thirty years my senior. Is he trying to hit on me? For a moment, I try to remember if I’ve noticed him winking at me before, but then I put it out of my head. A creepy doorman is the least of my problems.
When the gears grind to a halt on the twentieth floor and the doors open to the penthouse, I nearly jump out of my skin. In all the times I have come here in the last few months, this is something I have never seen before. And it is enough to make my jaw drop open.
Wendy is standing in front of the penthouse elevator door—she has emerged from the bedroom. And she is staring at me with her big green eyes.
“We need to talk,” she says.
