I’m still thinking about that gun hidden in the dictionary as I crawl into bed. The look in Wendy’s eyes when she showed it to me was unmistakable. She means business. She has reached a point of desperation in which she’s thinking to herself, him or me. And that’s a bad place to be. That’s when
you start making stupid mistakes.
Sooner rather than later, I need to give Enzo a call. He will help her better than I can. But I can’t call him now. It’s close to midnight, and if he sees me calling him at this hour, he will definitely think this is a booty call. I do not want him to get the wrong idea.
Although there is a small part of me that hasn’t stopped thinking about him since that night I went to Albany.
I’m still mad at him for disappearing like he did, but I can’t deny the pure joy I felt when he came out of that car. It hits me now that I have never felt that way for Brock, and I’m not sure I ever will.
But that’s not fair to Brock. My boyfriend has so many good qualities. Most of all, he is a solid guy who would never abandon me in a time of need. I’m sure of that much.
Then again, I haven’t been able to tell him any of the stuff going on with Wendy. His response would be to call the police immediately and not get involved. Typical lawyer thinking.
As if his ears are burning in the next borough, a text message from Brock pops up on my phone:
Love you.
I grit my teeth. Oh my God, how many times does this man have to tell me he loves me? He’s expecting me to write it back, but I just can’t make myself do it right now. These “I love you’s” are holding me hostage. So instead, I take a selfie of myself making a kissy face and I text it back to him. That’s kind of like saying I love you, right? He writes back instantly.
You look cute. I wish you were here.
Oh my God, does literally everything he says to me have to be some sort of guilt trip about the fact that I didn’t move in with him?
I toss my phone aside, frustrated. I start to get up to brush my teeth when the phone starts ringing. It’s probably Brock, considering I didn’t answer his text. He’s probably going to ask if he can come over. And I’m going to have to nicely tell him no.
Except when I look down at the screen of my phone, it’s not Brock. It’s
Douglas.
Why is Douglas calling me at midnight?
I stare down at my phone for a minute, my heart pounding. There’s no good reason my boss would be calling me at midnight. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but instead, I swipe to take the call.
“Millie.” His voice sounds slightly clipped. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” “No…”
“Good,” he says. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought it’s better if you hear this now. After this week, we will no longer be requiring your services.”
“You… you’re firing me?”
“Well,” he says, “not firing, exactly. More like letting you go. Wendy seems to be feeling better, and she would like to have some privacy in our own house again.”
“Oh…”
“It’s not that you didn’t do an adequate job.” Gee, thanks. “It’s just that a married couple needs their privacy. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I’m getting the message loud and clear. He doesn’t want me to talk to
Wendy or attempt to help her.
“You understand, don’t you, Millie?” he presses me.
“Sure,” I say through clenched teeth. “Of course I do.”
“Good.” His tone lightens. “And just to thank you for everything you have done for us, I’d like to give you a pair of tickets to a Mets game. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I do like the Mets…” “Great! It’s all settled then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good night, Millie. Sleep tight.”
As I hang up the phone, I still have an uneasy feeling. Something was bothering me about that conversation—something I can’t quite put my finger on. I plop back down on my bed, and that’s when I look down at the oversized T-shirt that I’m wearing to sleep in.
It’s a Mets T-shirt.
I raise my eyes to look at the window across from me. The blinds are closed like they always are. I run over to the window and crack my fingers between the blinds to look outside at the street. It’s completely dark. I don’t see any ominous men standing outside. Nobody is staring at my window with a pair of binoculars.
Maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’m from New York. Who doesn’t like the Mets?
But I don’t think it was. There was something in his tone when he mentioned getting me Mets tickets. I’d like to give you a pair of tickets to a Mets game. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
Oh my God, what if he can see me in here?
But it’s not like it’s some huge secret I wear a Mets shirt to sleep in. I may have opened the door wearing it at some point. And all the boyfriends I’ve had know about it, even if that list only includes Brock and Enzo.
Still—I’ve got a few other shirts I sleep in too. Douglas knew what I was wearing tonight.
I swore to Wendy that I would never give up on her, but I have to admit, I am thoroughly freaked out. The blinds are closed. I never open them in the evening, especially when I’m changing into my nightshirt.
My hands are shaking as I pick up my phone and send a message to Brock:
Do you want to come over?
As always, he answers right away:
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
