t’s raining by the time I head home, and I’m soaked walking the few blocks from the station to my apartment.
Sarah’s out when I get into our third-floor apartment; I take in the coziness of the small rental and instantly relax. I’m glad to be home, surrounded by our familiar comforts, bright rooms, and our feminine haven. I’m tired; it’s been a long day, and I want to take a bath and go to bed.
I screw up Sarah’s note on the counter informing me she has made mac ‘n’ cheese and left it in the refrigerator for me, and I throw the paper in the garbage. The perks of living with a chef.
She works late most nights, and I can’t remember the last time we spent more than five minutes in each other’s company. Our lives are comprised of occasional, brief conversations in passing and notes on the refrigerator, which suit me more than when I had to keep her company every evening.
Sarah has been my best friend since forever; we came to New York together five years ago and were lucky to get this place. She’d been accepted to an elite cooking school, and I had a temporary admin role in the Carrero corporation as a receptionist, even though I had zero experience and hardly any qualifications. I had been nothing more than a tea and coffee maker back then, eager to do anything to keep me here in this crazy city. My fresh start.
My escape from who I didn’t want to be anymore and any reminders. Sarah was thrilled that I had wanted to come with her and that I was un-phased at leaving Chicago to go into the world on our own, but our relationship has changed since then. We’ve drifted apart in so many ways. I guess we don’t need each other like we used to. The apartment is the only thing holding us together.
I kick off my shoes and head to my bedroom to get changed, hauling on workout leggings and a sports bralette and towel drying my rain-soaked hair before my short after-work exercise regime. I find it helps me unwind from the day’s stress and gets me in the mood for sleep.
There’s a flashing light on the answering machine, and I press it, a surge of anxiety in my stomach as I hazard a guess at who it will be.
It’s Marcus.
He’s Sarah’s on-off boyfriend; it’s who I expected it to be. They have been off again lately, much to my delight, but this call means he’s back on the scrounge for hooking up again. I delete the message. She will never know he called. Marcus is as sleazy as they come, but Sarah can’t see it; he’s slimy, over-friendly, and makes lewd comments and sexual innuendos whenever he’s around. He makes my skin crawl, and I think she can do better, but she tries to tell me that my experiences with men are why I can’t warm to him. I know deep down that’s partly the reason I’m this way, but he’s still a creep. I try not to linger on it and switch on my iPad for some workout music.
***
I’m tired after my workout, meal, and hot bath, yet I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ve never been a good sleeper, not since childhood, as far as I can remember anyway. I have vivid dreams that make no sense, full of darkness and anxiety that leave me ravaged upon awakening. Working out before bed helps but doesn’t eradicate them, and I’ve learned to live on the erratic, fretful sleep I get. I still wish I could sleep like an average person, but I know that I may never lose the night terrors; my mind can’t let go of the past no matter how hard I try to move on.
My cell vibrates, and I jump with a small surprise, noting it’s a text from Margo. I wonder if this is the start of full-on PA mode. I’ve been waiting for my job to infringe on my life outside of regular working hours; I know they’ve been going easy on me so early into the promotion.
“Emma. I need you in an hour early tomorrow. You’ll be paid overtime. There will be a car for you so that you won’t be late. You’re meeting Donna Moore. X”
I reply instantly, uneasily, “That’s fine, Margo. Thank you.”
This side of the job is new to me, working early/late and the need for specific outfits; I suppose the executives I handled on the lower floors weren’t as important. I’m aware that working directly for a Carrero is a whole different ball game, and in a way, I’m eager to start properly. I had needed a new challenge as things on the tenth floor had become stale and predictable.
***