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The next day, I wake up with a brand-new phone next to my pillow, and I start to think that it wasn’t given to me out of generosity. He wants to control me better; otherwise, he wouldn't have given me an iPhone, the account of which he probably has access to. I unlock it and see a message with an address. Judging by the name, it seems to be the salon where I had an appointment this morning.
He really is on top of everything.
I put on a white, floral dress that I managed to bring with me last time, in my sports bag. Then I slip on my sneakers and leather jacket and leave Manasseh's house with a backpack on my back, realizing that my dad's car is no longer parked in front of the house. When I call for a taxi, a car stops by the alley in front of the house.
“I'm at your service today,” Peter opens the car window, and I get in.
“I forget,” I say as I cancel the ride and I get in the car. “Let's go to this address first, then to the clinic,” I say, showing him the phone, stretching over the seats from the back.
“Very well, ma'am.”
“It's Rebecca, Peter,” I correct him, and he nods, understanding that I don't need him to assert himself that way, just like that brute Manasseh.
I'm scanning him for the first time since we met. Peter is a tall, lean boy, his hair styled akin to Arthur Shelby's from Peaky Blinders. He's dressed in a simple black suit with a white shirt and tie. His blue eyes are likely akin to those of most blonds, and he doesn't seem older than twenty-five, maybe thirty.
“Are you married, Peter?” I ask, glancing at the ring on his left hand.
“I was about to be,” he replies, gazing at the broad ring on his ring finger and candidly kissing it. “My fiancée died in a car accident. She was eight months pregnant.”
I swallow hard and place my hand on his arm.
“I'm genuinely sorry,” I murmur, sensing his discomfort as he gazes at the spot where my hand rests on his arm.
“Thank you,” he responds, and I retract my hand.
“How long have you been working for Manasseh?”
“Since college. We were classmates.”
“Surely you could have gotten a better job then. Why are you here?”
“I find solace in knowing people are safe when I'm behind the wheel. And it's comfortable working for him. We're friends.”
It sounds so painful. Every thought leads him back to his wife and unborn child.
“What did you major in?” I shift the topic.
“That's the issue. I didn't finish, Masse did. I didn't enjoy the finance field that much, but I'm skilled at driving. We both studied Business Administration.”
“Of course that’s what he studied,” I snort and slump against the seat.
“We're here,” he points to the salon, and I step out of the car along with Peter, who leans against the hood, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He nods at me to go in, as he'll wait outside.
“Hello,” an impeccably groomed young woman greets me at the reception, but my attention is stolen by the luxury of the salon.
“Hello. I have an appointment, Rebecca Godwill.”
“Rebecca...” the girl glances at the computer and scrolls. “Rebecca Morgenstern.”
I bring a hand to my forehead and shake my head.
“Sorry, I can't get used to it,” I shrug, feeling embarrassed.
“I understand. I was the same way after marriage. Every time I introduced myself, I always used my maiden name.”
“Marriage? Maybe divorce,” I burst out laughing, and the girl's enthusiasm fades.
