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My fresh start keeps getting staler.
I slip my phone into my bag before turning the corner to approach the elevator bank.
Margot cheers when she sees me. “You ready?”
“I’m ready!” I push my worries away like they’re a physical layer I can shed, determined to be a non-pregnant, non-cheated-on woman for the night.
It takes us a half hour to travel to a bar in Greenwich Village. They’re known for going over the top around holidays, Stella tells me, and the interior doesn’t disappoint. Fake cobwebs cover the ceiling. Drinks are being served in miniature cauldrons. A smoke machine is set up in one corner, sending billows of gray mist into the air, and a spooky soundtrack pipes through invisible speakers.
We snag and settle at a large high-top table in one corner. The wooden surface is scarred from years of use, plus several sets of initials enclosed in hearts.
Everyone else reaches for a laminated menu, so I do the same. I pretend to scan it but mainly zone out, listening to the creepy soundtrack of creaks and groans.
“You okay?” Margot asks, bumping her shoulder against mine from her spot on the stool beside me.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Just tired.”
I yawn for emphasis, and it’s not even fake. I almost fell asleep standing in the shower this morning.
“What’s it like, working for Christopher Kensington?” Aimee’s question burns with curiosity.
She’s an attorney, part of Kensington Consolidated’s legal department. I’d never met her before tonight, much less told her whose assistant I was. Which must mean people are gossiping about me.
Suddenly, I’m the center of attention, everyone abandoning their side conversations to hear my reply.
My fingers fiddle with the firm edge of the laminated menu. “It’s fine. He’s pretty easy to work for.”
“Pretty easy on the eyes too,” someone—Caroline, I think—comments with a laugh.
Fervent agreement echoes around the table.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten trapped in a conversation that included some mention of how gorgeous Kit is. The topic has come up at every event I’ve attended that he’s also been at, including the party where he got me pregnant. He draws attention anywhere he goes.
But Icancount the number of times there’s been a hot twist in my chest that feels a lot like jealousy. A recent yet recurring occurrence that started when Sadie Carmichael showed up. The thought of Kit with other women bothers me, and that realityreallybothers me.
“Is he dating anyone?” Stella wonders.
I shrug. “I don’t know. We talk about spreadsheets and earning statements. Not his personal life.”
Mostly true.
Ever since our dinner last month, my conversations with Kit have remained totally professional. Aside from Sunday mornings, when he texts me the size of our baby in food terms. I’m currently twelve weeks—a plum—almost through the first trimester.
“You manage his schedule and screen all of his calls,” Aimee argues. “You must have some idea.”
“Nope. Sorry. If he’s seeing anyone, it’s after hours and on his personal phone.”
Everyone at the table appears disappointed by my lack of juicy gossip. God, if they only knew.
This is one of the few times I’ve been grateful for the frequent urge to pee. Hopefully, they’ll have moved on to a different topic by the time I return to the table.
I lean closer to Margot. “I’m running to the restroom. Order me a ginger ale?”
“A ginger ale?” Stella’s nose scrunches across the table. “What about the Halloween menu?” She waves it around like a sparkler. “At least get an apple cider spritz or something.”
“Headache,” I explain. “Alcohol will just make it worse.”
“I think I have some painkillers in here …” Margot reaches for her purse.