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“So says you.” Tracy straightens up and removes the handkerchief, leaning over to pick up the mug. “So, this job.”
My lips crack into a grin. “I have to go shopping for a wardrobe. The contract is supposed to be emailed to me, tonight. A new apartment, new clothes, I feel like I’ve walked into a strange dream.”
Tracy’s dark hair is bundled into a bun on the top of her head and her blue eyes watch me over the rim of her cup as she says, casually, “So, you’re leaving, then?”
I blink, uneasily. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
My friend doesn’t meet my gaze. “Do you really think that’s wise? It’s a company apartment. What if they don’t like the idea of you sharing your apartment? I don’t think—?”
“They’ll have to. Or we won’t tell them.” Usually chirpy and overexcited, seeing this somber side of Tracy makes me tense. “It’s not like they’re going to be conducting routine checks—”
“Kendall,” Tracy cuts me off, her troubled gaze meeting mine. “This is not the time to be impulsive. This job could change your entire life. Don’t let me or Max hold you back.”
“Don’t say shit like that.” I stand up, agitated and start pacing, throwing the comforter on the floor. “We’ve been through hell together. I was there for you when you got knocked up. We raised Max together. We’ve built a home together.” I glare at her. “You’re my family. I’ll be damned if I’m leaving you or that kid behind! And all the money in the world won’t change my mind!”
Tracy rubs her hands over her face, before sighing. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“Tracy…” I sink onto the couch, next to her, my lower lip trembling. “You’ll come with me. Hell or high water, we stick together.”
She drags me into a hug, and I end up sprawled over her, as she laughs. “Fine, but if your boss kicks me out, you’re hooking me up with a new apartment, using that fancy-smanshy salary of yours.”
“I’ll hire you as my live-in chef,” I say, cheekily.
She pinches me in retaliation.
I settle back into my seat.
She asks, “So, this new wardrobe of yours.”
Giddiness courses through us at the prospect of shopping and we spend hours online just looking through formal attire.
A day later, as I’m standing in front of Lana Hill, signing the contract, I can see almost immediately that the woman doesn’t trust me or like me. Having grown up in an orphanage, my defenses rise up almost instinctively, so I become sullen and silent, as I wait for her to scan the document.
The machine behind her is scanning the contract and she sits back down, her pretty eyes cold, as she hands me an envelope. “I’ve been told to give you this. For your ‘shopping’.” She almost sneers the last word.
I flinch, drawing into myself, my voice exceedingly small as I reply, “Thank you.”
Maybe she sees the way I react, but something that could be guilt or annoyance, flashes behind her eyes, and she says, “Open it. It has instructions as well.”
A letter falls from it, along with a black card with my name engraved on it.
With quivering hands, I pick up the card and study it, curiously. Then, I look at the letter.
“I’m not privy details on that,” Lana tells me, stiffly. “But you’re to sign for it. You may use it as you see fit, but I will warn you. At the end of every month, I will know exactly what you’ve spent money on. And if you even think of squandering away any of it, it will come from your salary.” Her tone is harsh.
I try to keep my face composed. I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant such a vivid dislike of me, but years of being taunted and abuse, have me biting my tongue to hide a whimper. “I understand,” I hear my voice saying while I’m curled up in a ball, somewhere deep inside, trying to struggle to stave off a panic attack.
She gives me a suspicious look.
I just lower my eyes.
‘Just don’t make eye contact with them,’ a child’s whisper in the night from the bed above mine. ‘They’ll get bored and leave you alone.’
By the time, I leave her office, my face is hot and my hands are trembling. I keep my eyes on the ground as I hurry along, desperate to get out. I bump into someone and mumble an apology, trying to keep the tears from falling.
I hate being like this!
A voice calling my name.
