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“You’re still there. She’s pregnant and sick, and as much as she tries to hide it, she’s heartbroken. Focus on what you can do. What does she need?”
“A security system. Anyone could break in here.”
“That’s ironic. Did you test that theory?”
Is semi-forced entry and non-compliance in leaving considered a break-in?
“Wasn’t necessary. I practically walked in.”
“Sure you did,” he says sarcastically. “Go make yourself useful. If you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t mind being spoiled.”
An unexpected chuckle vibrates in my chest. I created a monster. “You’re welcome.”
We hang up, and I wander through the apartment, allowing my chaotic thoughts to settle. It’s an open space with tall, industrial windows overlooking the terrace. Modern and well-appointed, but cozy.
She has stacks of fashion magazines on the coffee table and racks of clothes in the front room. Her favorite pair of Converse is lined up next to the door, and her worn leather jacket hangs on a hook.
A bottle of prenatal vitamins sit on the counter, sonogram pictures pinned to a corkboard on the wall above. I remove thetacks from one and hold the paper to my chest, tears prickling my eyelids—fucking depression.
I can’t miss this. I have to do better. I have to get control of myself.
Carefully, I slide the photo into my pocket, being sure not to crease it.
I check out the food situation. The fridge is stocked with prepared meals with sticky notes on them. I pick them up individually, reading what can only be Ricky’s handwriting.
Breakfast. Don’t forget your prenatal pill and one coffee!
Lunch. Drink a bottle of water. Take a nap.
Dinner. Another water. Text me if you need me. I’ll be close.
Snack. Go to bed! Don’t sleep on the couch.
This fucking guy. His “I’ll be close” comment seems suspicious, especially since he walked in on Aurora and me arguing.
I send a picture to Ethan.
Can I fire him?
Coach
No, that’s his job.
“He’s a little too good at his job,” I grumble.
After I search her entire apartment, order groceries, and put them away, there’s nothing else for me to do. The place is spotless; Aurora has never been messy.
I stare out the window, restless, at the bleak, rainy night. Does it ever stop snowing or raining in New York? Why would she want to stay here? She loves the ocean.
Is it work, or is she avoiding LA…and me?
That depressive thought leads me back to her door, and I quietly turn the knob.
Warmth fills her room, the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the white walls.
Snuggled in a blanket, she sleeps soundly, her arms wrapped around a fluffy pillow. Thick lashes rest on blotchy cheeks, her full, red lips slightly parted.
She’s so fucking beautiful.