Page 80 of Grease Monkey
I pull my long, straight hair over one shoulder and twirl a chunk around my finger. Shay doesn’t know aboutthe incident.The less I think about it, the fewer people who know, I can forget it ever happened, right?
I huff a noise and roll my eyes. “It’s not liketexting-texting. I message asking if there’s an update, and he replies hours, if not days, later, saying no.”
“No. Like one word?” I nod, and she scowls. “What a dick. Want me to come to Phoenix and kick his ass?”
My whole body flies forward as I grab my phone and hold it close to my face.
“No,” I shout and close my eyes. “No, Shay, it’s okay.”
We’re silent for several seconds, and I know I’ve messed up.
“Morgana?” My eyes snap open, and Shay’s worried face stares through the phone. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” I ask the question, nothing more than a squeak.
“You can talk to me. You know that.”
I smile warmly. “I know. I promise I’m fine. I guess I’m a little homesick. And I miss Richard.” Even to myself, I can hear how fake that sounds, and the lie doesn’t taste that much better either. Richard has never been further from my mind.
She chews on her bottom lip as she watches me. Eventually, she sighs, and I’m unsure if it’s a placated or disappointed sound.
“Okay, but you know where I am if you need me.”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you too. Listen, I’ve got to run and start getting all dolled up. Call me soon?”
“I will.”
She blows me kisses through the phone and then hangs up. The disconnecting beeps are heavy in the empty room filled with paperwork and self-loathing.
I itch my eyes as the words on the screen dance. I’ve been staring at this for too long. If it’s not making sense at seven-fifteen at night, it won’t make sense at all. This can wait until morning.
Just as I’m packing my laptop into its case, Richard calls.
“Hey, you,” I say, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I finish gathering my things for the evening. The office is always locked, but I don’t risk it. Besides, I don’t want the employees at Bank of America thinking I’m messy, leaving files strewn all over the desks and floor.
“Have I got some great news for you,” he says, and I can hear his excitement. I smile as I pile a stack of dossiers I’ve finished with on one side of the desk, then move the ones I’m working on next to it, followed by documents I still have to review.
“Tell me.”
“Tom’s sister’s friend is a realtor, and I asked her if she could get an evaluation sorted for your little apartment…”
I stand, the loose documents in my hand fluttering to the ground. Realtor. Evaluation. Apartment.
“Reckons we’ll get at least two hundred thousand over the asking price, and it can be on the market by Friday.”
“Friday?” I mutter, dropping to my seat.
“Yes. Isn’t that great? She also thinks it won’t take that long until it sells. One week, tops.”
“But I don’t want to sell my apartment.”
“Morgana,” he sighs, and I know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re moving into my place the day after the wedding. You’re there all the time as it is. The fact you still own that place is… well, I don’t understand why you haven’t put it on the market already?”
I wasn’t sure either. All I know is that every time Richard brought up selling it, I’d laugh and change the subject, and it would be forgotten.
“I love that apartment, Richard,” I say softly, not wanting to argue with him. It is slowly becoming painfully obvious that’s all I ever do—avoid arguments. “I was thinking of putting it up for rent, actually. Making some money off of it?”
