I do not want to go on a trip with him.
Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but proximity requires a change of panties.
4:59 p.m.
“THE CAR WILL PICK YOU UP at four,” Canon says without salutation.
Four? As in 4:00 a.m.? Oh, holy sh…
“Four o’clock,” I confirm, and the line clicks.
I hope he ended the call. I contemplate calling him back to check but decide against it. I would call back anyone else; it’s in my nature. Mr. Alaric Canon would call back if he had been cut off.
But he would definitely be pissed if I interrupted him needlessly.
9:00 p.m.
*
Skin
: Buffed.
*
Nails
: Filed to nubs. Clear coat.
*
Credit Card
: Dangerously close to limit.
*
Kitchen Table
: Covered in supplies for every occasion.
*
Suitcases
: Packed. Everything from Rebecca’s best suit to my roommate’s cocktail dresses.
*
Wardrobe
: Looks like I have robbed a stranger.
*
Feet
: Raw. Stupid shoes.
*
Roommate
: Bouncing off walls.
“CLARA. CALM DOWN.”
“Emma. Calm up.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
Clara zips around the kitchen. “Here’s a bag of meds and one for late night emergencies,” she says, tossing bags in the suitcase with the other items.
“Eagle Scouts are less prepared.” I roll my eyes at her. “Clara, I appreciate all of this, I really do.”
She shrugs. “Are you going to eat the rest of that stir-fry?” She’s rummaging in the refrigerator, tiny ass in the air.
“Nope,” I say, “help yourself.” Then, unbidden, melancholy hits.
This is not what I dreamed about at all. I wanted him to notice me. To just be kind. See a light in his eyes. Or a smile on his lips. A moment of friendliness or appreciation—or, just maybe, flirtation—from the consummate SOB.
It’s a sick need. I get it. I know it.
I still wanted it.
And I feel that dream die.
I had a process. I had a plan.
Day of Employment:
375
12:23 a.m.
STILL AWAKE.
Wide freaking awake.
If there are butterflies in my stomach keeping me awake, then it’s not from delicate little flutters of nervousness. Their wings are like thunderclaps. These are rabid, fanged, snarling butterflies beating their way around under my ribs. These are the Mothra of butterflies.
3:00 a.m.
NOT AWAKE. Most assuredly not awake. No sleep would have been better. My God—so groggy.
The snooze button beckons me. Such temptation.
I want to snuggle down into my toasty pillow and to doze and dream of a time when Canon was still a pretty, shiny thing to admire from a shop window. When I was naïve enough to think the PAs who got fired immediately were the unlucky ones.
I get up. I don’t give in.
3:58 a.m.
*
Luggage
: One large, rolling suitcase.
*
Carry-On Contents
: Travel documents for myself and one Alaric Glenn Canon. Motion-sickness meds, just in case. Gum. Mints. Purse. Laptop. Magazines and new book by favorite author of new boss. Miscellaneous.
*
Hair
: Stick-straight, clipped back.
*
Clothes
: Gray pantsuit. Gray pumps. Gray everything.
*
Mood
: Gray. Natch.
A BLACK E-CLASS PULLS UP, sloshing through the overnight moisture. It waits silently.
I heave the suitcase into the trunk. The empty trunk. What the hell?
The driver offers no immediate explanation. A fender bender on the highway slows traffic to a crawl for several minutes. He takes an exit off the route to the airport and appears to do some winding around in an impromptu route. The rocking motion threatens to lull me to sleep.
In a neighborhood so affluent all that can be seen are wrought iron gates and ten-foot hedgerows, the car glides to a stop outside one such gate. He punches in a code, and we meander up the winding lane. Canon is outside, suited in deep charcoal. Three-button. Some ridiculous, cool-tone paisley tie that only he could make look as imposing as hell. He walks to the car while punching the keys of his phone.
I note the driver actually deigns to put Canon’s bags in the trunk.
Canon sits next to me in the seat now, never taking his eyes off his screen.
“When I give you a time to be ready, it is not an approximation.”
My mouth drops open. Do I defend myself in a situation such as this? I was on time.
“Sir,” the driver says, proving himself un-mute, “there was a wreck on the turnpike. It was necessary to double-back through the Hammond district.”
Beside me, Canon’s jaw visibly tightens, but he never stops typing. “Tell me, do you believe that you are paid to arrive at a certain time?”
“Yes, Mr. Canon, I am.”
Canon slides his phone into a pocket and looks out the window. “Wrong. You were.”
I study the reports I have been pretending to read for all I’m worth. I don’t hold my breath for an apology.
5:20 a.m.
*
Location
: Airport, Terminal A.
*
Canon
: Coincidentally, also such a huge “A” it’s going to be the death of him.
“YOUR TICKET, MR. CANON.”
He’s standing near a pillar at our gate. He has been standing there, still, robotic, since he finished the coffee for which I had to sprint to the far end of the terminal. Sprint. In heels. Try it sometime.
He takes the ticket from my hand, and I’m glad I move quickly or I would have a Guinness-worthy series of paper cuts.
We have checked our bags, but there’s still his briefcase, laptop, and my carry-ons to contend with. Priority boarding is called, and it looks as though I’m meant to carry his things, too. He walks away with a hand in his pocket, suit jacket slung over his arm.
Please, don’t break a sweat or anything, mister.
He throws a glance my way. “Today.” He lays on the last syllable as if the sarcasm might’ve escaped me otherwise.
Faked grace gets fifty pounds of junk and me down the breezeway without banging his hoity-toity briefcase against the walls. Leather. Probably from the pelts of newborn puppies. Or a giant panda. Anyone seen Ling-Ling lately?
Our seats are in the very front of the plane. I have heard this is not the safest place to sit. But it occurs to me Canon would simply tell the plane it could not crash, and it would begin to flap its wings like a great, metal bird.
He sits nearest the window and utilizes a final few minutes on his phone. I don’t think he even realizes I’m here.
I wrestle most of our items into the overhead bin while trying to not block the path for every single person who comes on board. Because we’re sitting right up front. Have I mentioned that?
It’s a weird angle. To reach up into the bin but keep my ass out of the aisle, I feel like a question mark.