Page 43 of Abyss

He’s right. This is just a business arrangement. We’re not two friends cohabiting an apartment together. Nor are we strangers paying equal amounts for space in the same home.

I’m getting paid for being at his beck and call for work purposes, not staying here for my own pleasure.

Grabbing my keys, I make my way out of his apartment, taking the elevator down to the first floor.

Thankfully, the rain has let up, though the dark clouds continue to linger. Walking out of Hudson’s high-rise, I catch a cab to a home goods store to purchase a few inexpensivecooking essentials. Afterward, I find a grocery store and grab ingredients for the cornbread and lunches for the week.

I’m supposed to be getting paid this week, so I don’t feel too bad about splurging on a few brand-name ingredients versus my go-to generic ones, but I make sure to stay within my meager budget.

With bags hauled over my shoulders, I exit the grocery store, scanning my receipt. Just as I reach the curb to hail another taxi, my boot gets caught in a broken dip in the concrete pavement. My body launches forward, hands instinctively reaching forward to brace for impact as my bags slip down my arms.

I’m so taken aback by the fall, I don’t have time to save the baking dish I just purchased. It lands, along with my palms and one knee, on the unforgiving pavement, and I cringe at the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

“Oof!” I hiss as I stuff the rolling can of sweet corn back inside my bag and gingerly gather myself back to my feet.

“You okay, lady?”

With my head still buzzing from the fall, I turn toward the voice of a stranger—an older black man with a concerned look on his face.

Giving him a small smile for his kindness, noting how the rest of the world continues right past me, I nod. “Yeah, just lost my footing, I guess.”

He points at my open palms, and I look down at the bloody and mangled skin there. “You’ll need to clean that up.”

I tell him I will as soon as I get home before throwing my aching hand up in the air to hail the next cab.

With my knee and hands throbbing, I make my way back up to the apartment. Thankfully, Hudson is nowhere in sight.

Leaving my things on the kitchen counter, I walk over to my bedroom to rinse my hands when I notice the boxes on the floor. Looks like the movers came.

After gently washing my hands with soap, I search inside the cabinet drawers for bandaids, to no avail.

I’m just making my way out of my room to see if I can find a first aid kit somewhere when I notice something. Or rather, thelackof some things.

Where are my painting supplies and canvases? I know I packed them last night. Did the movers forget to bring them? God, I hope not. I’m supposed to be taking some of them to class tomorrow.

Ignoring the pain on my palms for a few seconds, I peek inside the room in front of mine—the one that is now flooded with the afternoon sun, which is a rare sighting over the past few rainy days.

Except, instead of the bed and dresser I saw in there earlier, it’s now filled with all my painting supplies—my easel placed directly in front of the large picture window, displaying one of my unfinished pieces.

My jaw drops as my mind races to catch up with the changes in the room over the past two hours. Not only did my enigmatic boss clear out the space, but the movers had tastefully arranged all my supplies and canvases inside.

Was this also an instruction from Belinda?

I don’t have an envious bone in my body for her; she’s been nothing but kind and supportive, even defending me during the public dressing-down I received from Mr. Hot and Cold. But I can’t say I’m not curious about how she persuades him.

Speaking of curiosity, I wonder what her reaction was to my move into his home. While she updated me about her pregnancy, telling me the baby would be here any day now, conversation about my move never came up in our recent messages.

So, either she doesn’t know or it was too weird for her. I get it; finding out your boss moved his temporary admininto his home to retain a client is definitely a surprising twist.

I’m also unsure if he’s told Madison.

I don’t know why the thought has my stomach in knots.

While I know her well enough to know she’s both laid back and understanding, I don’t know how she would feel about me living in the same house as her dad. Would she find it weird, like some sort of breach of friendship rules? Would she understand the situation from my perspective—that I can’t afford to live near work, and that it’s all a temporary means for the summer?

Not knowing is making me think the worst, and it’s something I have to discuss with Hudson before I see Madison again.

Giving up on finding a first aid kit after looking in the hallway bathroom and a couple of kitchen drawers, I begin to unload the groceries, wincing from the ache in my palms.

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