It doesn’t matter what your background is and where you come from, if you have dreams and goals, that’s all that matters.
–Serena Williams
Bethany
Sunlight wakes me. I blink my eyes open to find Brent lying on his side, facing me.
“Are you watching me sleep?” My voice is thick and drowsy.
“Maybe.”
“Creep.” I yawn.
“Yep.”
“I bet I can be creepier.”
“I always sleep better with you for some reason.”
“Okay, you win, creeper.”
He laughs. “That’s not creepy. It’s true. You’re like a drug.”
I smile into my pillow, suddenly shy, then turn my face back to watch him.
“Okay creep-face. Staring contest. Go.”
We lay side by side, eyes locked. This will be the easiest bet ever. I could stare at him all day since I’m shocked into stillness by the fact that this gorgeous hunk of a man chose me. His eyes are bright and happy this morning. I trail my gaze over his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones tempered by thin laugh lines and a sensual curve at his lips.
Old remnants of insecurities flare.
He can’t mean to stick around. It’s all a fluke, brought on by his own self-doubt.
And even if he does, what if something happens to him before surgery? Or during?
What if Mr. Crawford finds out and fires me?
I shove the thoughts down, not wanting them to ruin the moment.
The staring gets cut off when he tilts forward and kisses me. Sweet, gentle pecks and sips.
The night was for ghosts and dreams; the morning is for gentle touches and memorizing everything about each other with soft fingertips.
I trail fingers over the piece of his hair that puffs up at the same spot in the back, the ticklish inside of his elbow, the curve of his bicep. And he explores my landscape, kissing the freckle on my side, tracing the shape of my knee with a finger. All while talking about any odd thing that pops into our heads and laughing for no reason, just for the joy of the moment.
“You’re the only person I’ve slept with more than once,” I say when he pulls back slightly.
His smile is everything. “Did we just become best friends?”
“Yup. Will you sing with me at the Catalina Wine Mixer?”
He laughs. “Anytime. Go out with me tonight.”
“What are we doing?”
“I want to take you somewhere nice.”
“Erm. Somewhere paparazzi won’t see us?”
He shrugs. “Can’t guarantee anything but I’ll do my best. I want to spend time with you. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
I scoff. “You’re such a romantic.”
“With you, yeah.”
My stomach flips, like giant butterfly bats flying around and wreaking havoc with my soul.
It would be so easy to fall in love with him.
“So if we go on a really real date . . . does this mean we aren’t friends anymore?”
His finger traces my collarbone. “I hope you don’t think this is super pathetic since we’ve only known each other for like a month, but you’re my best friend. And I don’t see that changing.”
“Best friends who make out sometimes.”
He grins, his blue eyes bright and happy. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“No.” I try to push down the cowlick in the back of his head again and it pops right back up, making me smile. “Are we friends who shower together, too?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Work sucks. More than usual. Mr. Crawford isn’t even here yet and it’s a madhouse of people trying to get their lists and to-do items onto my desk so they don’t have to deal with him.
Not that I want to deal with him, either. Things are still strained between us since our last blowout.
It gets worse when Charlie emails me a link to an article that hit less than an hour ago.
“Shit.”
It’s another photo of me with Brent.
It could be worse. We’re not making out this time, just eating burritos in his car.
And of course, they caught me with my mouth completely full, chewing, foodstuffs visible in my teeth and Brent has his mouth closed, angled toward me, looking like the model he is.
The universe seriously hates me.
At least there’s no reference to Angela in this one, just a note about how we were spotted together eating in his car.
I close the web page and send a fervent prayer to the universe that Mr. Crawford doesn’t see it.
There are still a few people at my desk when Mr. Crawford breezes in. Some of them scatter but not quickly enough to avoid overhearing his words.
He slams a paper down on my desk. “You’re fired.”
Behind him, Stan the security man shuffles his feet, not meeting my eyes.
Blood drains from my face. Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me. This isn’t a cute, jokey firing. This is real.
Mr. Crawford’s eyes, blue like Brent’s, are hard. Cold and calculating.
It’s amazing how two people with the same eyes view the world so differently.
My eyes flick to the paper. It’s a different article from the one Charlie sent me. This one has pictures of me and Brent arriving at my apartment and an update about him leaving the next morning.
The rest is inferred.
“Security will make sure you pack only your personal belongings and escort you from the building.” Without another word he disappears into his office.
As soon as Mr. Crawford’s door slams shut, people exit the area—slowly, mind you—totally watching the train wreck the entire time. I don’t move.
I can’t lose my job.
What about Mom? There’s no way I could get her financing now that I’m not gainfully employed.
Finally, everyone has pitter-pattered away and I meet Stan’s kind eyes.
His face is a study in regret, brows furrowed, lips tilted down.
“It’s okay. I don’t have much stuff.”
“I’m real sorry about this.”
“I’ll be okay.” But the words don’t make the ache in my stomach go away.
Twenty minutes later, I’m outside on the sidewalk with a box full of personal items.
At the top of the box, flickering in the crisp breeze, is one last sticky note from Marc.
Never let anyone treat you like a yellow Starburst. You are a pink Starburst.
I don’t even smile. I think I’m in shock. Men and women dressed in smart suits with backpacks and briefcases churn around me. They all have somewhere to go. Something important to do.
Three mindless subway stops later, I book it past the bodega to my apartment building.
Everything is numb, like I’ve been sitting on a block of ice for an hour instead of where I actually am, on the time-worn futon.
Brent left his watch behind on accident and I watch it tick the time. It’s a black sports watch with exposed cogs and wheels. TAG Heuer. It probably costs more than a car.
My phone rings and when I pick it up, I realize I have three missed calls.
One is Mom.
One is Brent.
One is Sam.
And Sam’s calling again right now.
“Hello?”
“Dude. There might be shit in your walls.”
“What? Shit? I don’t think I can deal with more bad news right now.”
“Not like actual shit, but some kind of treasure!” He’s way too excited, the sound a contrast to my own inner turmoil. “Traaay-suurrre!” he yells.
“Are you drunk?”
“Nope. What were you saying about bad news?”
“Nothing. So what’s in my walls?”
“Get this. In the 1950s there was this old mob boss dude who was on the run for embezzlement or whatever mob guys run away from, and he hid in your building. While he was on the run. Except it’s the apartment next to yours he actually lived in.”
He pauses for effect but it goes on way too long. “And?”
“And there are some who think he may have hidden something of serious value in the walls for safekeeping so he could retrieve it when he got out.”
“Like what? Drugs?”
“Not drugs, cash money, baby! Or jewels. Or whatever it is Mafia dudes use. Gold bars! Silver coins! Doubloons!”
“This isn’t The Goonies.”
“How do you know?” His tone is offended.
“And you think that’s why there have been weird noises and intruders in my apartment? The mob guy’s out of prison and seeking his hidden wealth?”
“No, he’s dead. But there’s this whole website of people who have all these conspiracy theories. With a little digging, anyone could have figured it out. I did. Now I bet there’s a bunch of ex-cons teaming up to break in using elaborate methods to steal the goods back.”
I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”
Pause. “Are you okay? You’re not being yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You love ridiculous notions. You’re supposed to expand on my heist theory, not knock it down.”
“I’m fine.” I really don’t want to talk about it. “Thanks for the intel, Sam. I’ll call you later, okay? Give Gemma my love.”
“I will.”
I hang up and flop over on the couch. It would be nice if there were riches in my walls. Maybe I could use them for Mom’s rehab. And bills. But it’s all a pipe dream. If I can’t find another job . . . I’m not going to think that way.
Brent will make me feel better. I may have lost my job, but I have him. Even though I don’t want to unload my problems all over him. He has enough going on, and I don’t want him to feel like he has to help me—in a monetary sense—but maybe he can help me look for a new job.
I try to call him but it goes to voicemail.
I’m sure he’s busy.
But a niggling of anxiety won’t leave me alone.