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“Saturday. I found some things out that don’t work for me.”
“Like what? Is he a murderer?”
“No, but I think he’s a stalker.”
I tell her what transpired on Saturday and that he owns part of Scarborough.
“Wow, that is some shit. He could have told you sooner.”
“That’s what I said, but he acted like it wasn’t a big deal.”
“These rich guys. They think they can do whatever they want.”
“I told him that I’m probably going to leave Scarborough.”
Angie looks at me, incredulously, “No fucking way. You’re not leaving me.”
“Angelica, I can’t work here knowing he owns this place.”
“You told me this was your dream job. Now you’re going to let some guy chase you away? What will you do?”
“Look for another job at a publishing house. There are lots of them in Manhattan. I can get good recommendations from the head editors.”
“Yeah, but still. I mean, you have Nicky eating out of the palm of your hand. He hasn’t bothered you at all lately. It’s the perfect situation.”
“It is perfect, but not for me.”
When we get back to our cubicle, there’s a giant bouquet of red roses on my desk. Angie pulls the card before I can read it, tearing open the envelope, reading, then handing it to me.
Dear Miss Stanford,
I’m sorry you’re so upset with me. I only had your best interest at heart. I’m very fond of you, and I wish you would give me another chance. Adversity can always be overcome.
Regards,
Jordan
“Man, he has it bad.”
“How do you get that from this?”
“He likes you.”
“Angie, it’s over. Do you want these flowers?”
“Are you serious? I’ll take them for sure.”
She puts the vase on her desk and sits down to get to work. I can’t concentrate and keep fingering the card that Jordan sent with the roses. I can faintly smell his cologne on the paper, and it makes me long for him, but it’s over between us. I’m miserable without him, and I wonder if he feels the same.
By the end of the day, I’m more than ready to go home. Tomorrow is Friday, and I promised Lexi to come to dinner. I flaked out last week, and I miss my family. I need their support.
The subway is crowded, and I was lucky to get a strap to hang onto as the train moved from stop to stop. The lobby is almost done, and the renovations are awesome. We got new tile flooring, a front desk with someone there twenty-four hours a day, a doorman, security cameras, and new cushioned benches. I wonder when the shoe is going to drop about charging the residents for the upgrade.
Upstairs, I plop down on the couch and turn on the news. I’m glued to the television as I see what’s happening on the screen in front of me. A crawl at the bottom tells about the people dead and injured in a bombing at Heathrow airport.
I’m panicked because Nathaniel said he was flying to Spain today. If anything happened to him, I’d die. I can’t lose my best friend. I don’t know what to do. I dial his phone, and it keeps going to voicemail. I run to his bedroom looking for the phone number of his manager, Barry. He has it pinned up on a bulletin board near his bed. I tap in the numbers and bite my lip as the phone rings.
A strained deep voice answers, “Barry Melnick,”
