Page 200 of The Vacation Mix-Up
Tessa stares at me, mouth amusingly agape.
“It’s not,” I add defiantly. “She can’t keep me here like a caged animal.”
“Look around, Riley.” She gestures to the office. “There are more caged animals here than at Central Park Zoo.”
“You’re not wrong.” I sigh. “So how did Freya do while I was gone, or do I even need to ask?”
“She lasted two days.”
“What?” I blink all the blinks. “Who filled my position then?”
“Me. And Isobel. And Craig.”
“Oh. My. God.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Believe it or not, I like being caged here.”
I snap my head up as if she’s just confessed a love of cockroaches, which, in hindsight, is probably more acceptable than what she just said. “You do?”
“Yes. A pretty cage full of literature is my kind of cage.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “I used to feel the same way.”
Tessa touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your mother, Riley. Had I known before you left, I would’ve said or done?—”
“Thank you,” I say, deliberately cutting her off. Talking about Mom at the office is a bone of contention I’m not willing to chew on—they don’t belong in the same conversation.
She nods. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Riley!” Georgia squawks. “Where’s the list of this week’s galleys?”
Closing my eyes for the shortest of seconds, I scrunch my face, almost to the point of pain.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Tessa whispers before scuttlingoff.
Rifling through the paperwork on my desk, I collect the document Georgia is requesting and rush into her office. “It’s here.”
She snatches it from me and runs her finger down the list, and when she doesn’t say anything, I turn to leave.
“I want that manuscript by day’s end.”
“Yes. It’s on its way.”
“It won’t be if you continue to just stand there, will it?”
“Right. Yes. Sorry.”
Rushing back to my desk on the brink of tears, I take a deep breath and compose myself. It’s been years since I’ve had to sneak into the bathroom for fear of crying on the job, and I don’t understand why today is any different.
What’s wrong with me?Jesus! Get yourself together, Riley. You’re used to this. You can handle it. You’ve been handling it for almost a decade.
“Manuscript,” I say to myself.
Manuscript first, cry later.
For the restof the day and into the evening, I get lost in the domestic thriller novel, finally typing the closing words of my report. I remove my reading glasses, massage the bridge of my nose, and close my eyes, reopening them to focus on my surroundings. The lights are dim, the only sound a soft hum of a vacuum being pushed around by the janitor. Having been completely focused on my work, I can’t recall Georgia leaving, nor anyone else for that matter.
Crap! What time is it?
