Page 47 of Show Me

Xavier: Are you safe?

I clutch my chest and close my eyes. Don’t read more into this than is there. I inhale and tap out a response.

Me: Yes. I’ll tell you tonight.

Xavier: I’m here if you need me.

I stare at the message until the screen dims. He’s only helping me with renovations and giving me a job. Nothing more. He’s not my protector. Or my savior. He’s a friend. Hell, I don’t even know if I can call him a friend.

Still, it feels nice that he’s concerned enough to check on me.

I fold the letter, slide it into an envelope, and write Greg’s name across the front. My hands are steady as if my body knew I was making the right decision before my brain did.

Greg’s office door is open. His glasses are perched low on his nose as he types on the computer.

When I knock on the frame, he looks up with a frown covering his features. “Shouldn’t you be at the desk?”

His tone holds that same criticism that’s always there. He can come to my desk and tell me what to do, but I have no right to come to his.

“You got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

The words shouldn’t feel creepy, but right now, everything feels off.

I step inside and hold out the envelope. “This is my notice.”

He doesn’t take it. He stares at the envelope like it’s written in another language. “Your what?”

“My resignation.”

A red tint climbs up his neck until it covers his cheeks. He lifts his hand. “You’re quitting?”

“Yes.”

His jaw flexes. “Because of Xavier.” He almost spits out his name.

“No. It has nothing to do with Xavier.” My eye twitches. “I don’t feel comfortable here anymore.”

His eyes sharpen. “I told you he wouldn’t respect you.”

“This isn’t about Xavier.”

“He’s been in your house,” Greg says, voice tightening. “He’s manipulating you.”

The room feels smaller, like it’s closing in on me.

“I’m leaving.” If there was any doubt remaining before this conversation, there’s none left. “My last day will be next Friday.”

He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t think I am.”

His hands flatten on the desk, knuckles whitening. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

‘Done for you?’ Like I’m in debt to him. That’s bullshit. I was qualified for the job. I don’t sluff off. I earned every dime of my paycheck.

My pulse roars in my ears. “I appreciate the job,” I say. “But I’m done.”