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“I see.” It’s not the blow-up that I am expecting. Mandy’s voice is calm and cool, but the look in her eyes could burn down a building. “If that is the case, Mr. Keeley. I would like my assignment here to be done. I no longer enjoy working with you. You can find another accountant to help you set up your office. My talents have been wasted here.” She raises her little chin defiantly.
In my head, I keep telling myself that this all is for the best. I’m getting too caught up in a woman who is obviously still in love with another man. I need to let her go, even if it hurts now.
“Fine. Thank you for your help, Ms. Burmmell. You can leave.”
After waving my hand towards the door, I turn away from her. Mandy stays standing still for a second. I can feel her watching me, but I won’t look back at her. The silence between us stretches for a few seconds, then she turns and stomps loudly out the door. I sit back down in my chair, preparing to work on the tablet again — but I can’t because the pieces are broken beyond repair. Not sure what to do, I just stare at my desk.
Chapter Seventeen
Mandy
Two Weeks Later…
Bubby’s hand towels are the most awful shade of pink. At one point in their lives, they must have been almost Pepto-Bismol colored, but after a century or more of use, they are a tannish pink. The eyelet lace that lines their borders is frayed and has lost most of its ruffle. Every time I’m in her bathroom, I stare at them, somewhat disappointed. They just look sad for an old woman who is otherwise so full of life.
I bought her other towels, bright multi-colored ones that I figured she would love and gave them to her for Christmas. She smiled awkwardly when she opened them. She thanked me. But the new towels never got hung up. I tried not to take offense, I mean, maybe she just forgot about their existence. So much goes on in Bubby’s busy life, towels just might be a thing she overlooks. We all have things like that. I constantly forget to buy new socks. Luckily, I mostly wear heels.
My stomach still flipping and tying itself in knots, I set the pregnancy test on the counter next to a half-burned, pink candle and a glass duck filled with potpourri so old it doesn’t smell anymore. Or rather, it doesn’t smell good.
I set the timer on my phone for three minutes and try to relax. The bathroom is too small to pace in, so I set the toilet seat down and slouch onto it.
It can’t be positive. The test. It really can’t. I don’t need fate to do that to me right now. And I mean, how did it even happen? Every time Christian and I have had sex, we have used condoms. One must have just been old or something. Fuck, I don’t know.
Leaning forward, I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples gently and running my fingers through my hair. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry, I repeat over and over in my head. I just never thought I would be at this moment. Wondering if I’m pregnant with my asshole boss’s baby was not quite on my to-do list. Sure, I want to have kids someday. But I would like that to be at a time when my apartment floor isn’t being redone, and their father isn’t a man who basically treats me like a sex toy. If I am pregnant, there is no way I can tell Christian. He’d probably sue or have me fired.
Pumpkin starts scratching and yowling to be let in the bathroom door. I shush her a bit, hoping she will shut up and not make my grandmother aware that I have been in the bathroom longer than normal, but Pumpkin doesn’t listen. She keeps scratching and meowing at the top of her lungs. I reach over, turn the handle, and try to get the cat to come inside quickly. She doesn’t. Always annoyed with closed doors, Pumpkin rubs her orange fur along the door jam and purrs with satisfaction.
“Get your butt in here!” I hiss at her.
She looks up at me with lazy, golden eyes and purrs louder. After she is happy with her rubbing, she wanders in enough for me to close the door and lock it again. Clutching her soft body, I pull her into my lap and pet her gently. Pumpkin is a handful, but she can be comforting.
Not five seconds later, there is a knock at the door. “Mandy, are you feeling okay?”
Just as I open my mouth to answer, the timer on my phone beeps. I grab it as quickly as I can, throwing my cat onto the floor in an undignified way. The alarm keeps beeping as everything I try to turn it off suddenly doesn’t work. There is no way that Bubby cannot hear that. Exacerbated, I slip the phone between my breasts, it doesn’t quite silence the beep, but it mutes it, and that will have to do.
