Page 12 of For Wrath and Redemption
This time, I meet every one of my colleagues’ pitying looks with a bright smile.
I’m fine. It’s fine. It will all be fine.
This is what I say to myself, over and over, as I set my espresso on my desk and grab the small bag I keep in my top drawer. The one I haven’t touched in months. I walk to the elevators, push the button for the lobby, and repeat the words until the doors open, revealing the large reception desk in the middle of the white and black tiled floor. The security guard nods as I pass him, and I return his greeting with a smile.
I’m fine. It’s fine. It will all be fine.
I chant the words in time with my steps—thirty of them—until I’m pushing open a large wooden door and entering the lobby bathroom. Thankfully, it’s empty. It usually is.
I close myself into the stall farthest from the door, tuck my hair into the back of my shirt, and empty the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet. I flush, then walk to the sink and wash my hands. I rinse my mouth from the tap twice. I take my toothbrush out of the small bag I keep in my desk and brush my teeth. Then I make myself look in the mirror, keeping my eyes on my face.
I clean up my eye makeup. I reapply my lip gloss. And then I force a smile.
It’s robotic. Automated. It’s all muscle memory. I ignore the guilt. I ignore the shame.
“I’m fine,” I say to my reflection. “It’s fine. It will all be fine.”
I’ve missed spending time in my apartment.
It’s much smaller in comparison to Conrad’s. I don’t have a chef or a maid or a smart house system. My door has four locks on it. I only have an old secondhand treadmill instead of an entire gym. And, of course, I’m alone, which has its drawbacks, but still. I love it here. I’m proud of it.
It’s my first solo apartment. My first place that’s just mine. In college, I had roommates until I moved in with my fiancé. After that relationship failed miserably, this apartment felt like a new beginning. My first real step in doing something on my own. I was in it for only a couple of months before I met Conrad, and then I started spending less and less time here. Conrad prefers his penthouse, and I don’t blame him. I used to, but as I sink into my thrifted couch and curl my legs comfortably beneath me, I question whether I still do. Certainly, I’m more relaxed here. I don’t feel like an imposter, and it’s nice not to worry about how toappearlike I belong.
I bring my cup of hot chamomile tea to my lips and take a sip. It’s in a cheap tourist mug I got from a gift shop in Times Square. The tea warms me from the inside, and I close my eyes, relishing the feel of it pooling in my empty stomach as I sink into my thoughts. Everything in Conrad’s kitchen is plain white and designer. Sterile and clinical. No character. No color. It might as well be a hospital operating room.
I prefer my tie-dye IHEARTNYC mug, even if I won’t admit it out loud.
I worked on MixMosaic ideas all day, then came home and ran five miles on my treadmill. I showered in my postage stamp of a bathroom—in and out in five minutes before the hot water disappeared—and then I slipped into my favorite oversized, worn-out T-shirt and a pair of sweats that I stole from my ex-fiancé. Conrad would probably be appalled to see me in this outfit. The silk pajamas he bought me are by some Italian designer while this faded cotton shirt has a hole in the armpit. I can’t help but snort a laugh at the contrasting mental images.
I drop my head back on the couch and cup my mug in my hands, listening to the traffic sounds filtering up from the street below my window and the music coming down from the floor of the apartmentabove me. Content for the first time in months, I sigh, welcoming the noise. You don’t get noise like this from thirty stories up. It’s the sounds of life, and there’s nothing clinical about them.
I listen to the noise for a long time, my body relaxing with every passing car. Every siren. Every muffled laugh. When I finally fall asleep, I dream of a baby. A little boy with curly brown hair and hazel-green eyes. A baby I’ve only seen in photographs and short, thirty-second videos.
But I love him.
I love him so much it hurts.
A knock on my door wakes me, and I shoot upright.
I blink rapidly in the dim light of my apartment. I must have fallen asleep on the couch. One glance at the clock on my stove tells me it’s a little after 2 a.m., and my eyebrows furrow in confusion. Who would be knocking on my apartment door at two in the morning?
Another knock, this one louder, draws my attention back to the door. My heart speeds up, and fear prickles the back of my neck. This neighborhood is safe. I think. I guess I wouldn’t know what goes down after midnight since I’m never here. Quickly, I dig around on the couch until I find my phone, but it’s dead. I can’t even call the cops. The thought heightens my anxiety. The one night I stay in my apartment in months and it’s going to get me murdered.
When the person at the door knocks a third time, I shoot to my feet and rush into my bedroom to plug in my phone. I chew on my lip as I wait for it to power back on. I’ll call the cops and ask for a drive-by or something. It’s the longest fifteen seconds of my life. The moment my screen lights up, before I can even start to dial 9-1-1, the phone starts to chime with notifications. I have several missed texts and voicemails from?—
“Claire, it’s Conrad. Open the door.”
The sigh of relief that leaves me escapes in a loudwoosh. My body wants to collapse, but I manage to rush to the door and undo my four locks. When I swing the door open, Conrad doesn’t wait to be invited in.
“What’s wrong? I thought I wouldn’t see you until Monday. Is everything okay?”
Conrad runs his hands through his hair, but he remains silent. He’s more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him. No tie. No jacket. His shirt is rumpled, and the first few buttons are undone. His face, usually clean-shaven, is sporting a day’s worth of stubble, and even in the dim light of the apartment, I can see the stress on his face.
“Conrad. What is it?”
When he finally turns to me, disapproval flashes over his face, no doubt at my pajamas, but it’s gone in an instant, and his eyes go hard. His brow furrows, he sighs, and then he speaks.
“I have a job for you.”
