“You know what, I’m just being silly,” she says, grabbing my knee and shaking it. “Your guy is
nothing like Jason, I’m sure. So forget everything I said.” I force a smile, but I can’t quite let it drop.
“I have my own money,” I tell her. “If something happened, I would be ok.”
She nods, wilting into the chair. “That helps a lot. I just…if something happened, and I hadn’t said
something, I don’t know if I could live with myself. But you’re right. You’ll be ok, no matter what.
You’ve been alone before, you can totally do it again.”
She’s being kind. She has no idea how those words hurt.Alone. Always alone. I don’t want to go
back to that. I have a life now. Friends. People who look happy to see me, which is such an amazing
thing. I don’t want to give that up.
“Right. You’re right. I appreciate it, Abigail, I do.”
She exhales, her relief palpable, and grips the arms of the chair. “These ceiling panels are really
cool. Where did you find them? I bet your headaches are so much better.”
“They are cool. But I didn’t find them. Zach put them up himself after my first day of work. He…
I’ve never had anyone see me like that.” I have to show her who he is. She has to know. Or maybe I’m
just trying to remind myself. “He saw that I was struggling and he just…fixed it. I didn’t ask him to.
He stayed up all night to do it. He didn’t want the credit. He didn’t want to talk about it. He just did
it.”
“That’s really nice of him,” she says softly.
“He’s really nice,” I say, looking down at my shoes, and flex ing my toes. I still haven’t gotten
used to having shoes that fit so well. The calluses caused by blister after blister from the old shoes
are nearly gone.
Abigail claps her hands. “It’s settled then. He’s amazing, and I’m completely jealous of y —
woah. Who is that?”
I follow her gaze and find Cara walking toward us. She’s in full Cara mode, red lacy top under a
black bustier. Her leather pencil skirt cups her hips tightly, arrowing down to her knees. And on her
feet, leopard skin patterned stilettos with the red sole.
“Cara,” I murmur as she approaches. Abigail’s still staring, and Cara arches a brow at her. “This
is my friend Abigail. She was my assistant back in New York, and she’s working here now, for a
while at least.”
“Abigail,” she says, in her low, throaty rasp.
