Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“Let’s head back to my office.” Ralph, my estate lawyer who came with me to Calypso Hall to give me a ballpark estimate of what this shithole might be worth, gestures to the street.
We’re standing on the pavement outside the place I’ve inherited from Grace. I’ve been ignoring this financial pit for the better part of the year, while I worked extra hours to reinflate my client list and deploy different mathematical models to make investment decisions with mouthwatering returns. Business is booming, which helps me forget that Grace is no longer here, at least until the night crawls in, and with it, the memories.
“Give me a second to think.” I raise my palm to Ralph, massaging my temple with my free hand.
I don’t particularly enjoy plays, or any form of nonprofitable art, and I’m no sentimentalist. There’s no reason for me to keep this theater. The only person who liked it was my late mother, and as far as humans go, she had a reputation for being a terrible one.
This is why I came here today. To get a number I could later give to potential buyers and get rid of it. Sticking it to my dead mother is just a bonus.
“Sure thing. Coffee while you put your gray matter to work?” Ralph throws a thumb behind his shoulder, pointing at a Krispy Kreme.
“Black, no sugar.”
Like your heart, Winnie’s annoying voice points out in my head. She’s there now?
“Gotcha.” He salutes and disappears inside.
Ralph pops back out of the Krispy Kreme to hand me a white cup. “Ready to talk some hard numbers?” He flashes me a jovial smile. “Let’s walk. My office is down the block, and Becky always nags me about my ten thousand steps a day.”
“Actually, I decided to think it over.”
Choking on his coffee, he coughs out midsip. “Think what over?”
“Selling.”
“What? Why?”
“Didn’t realize I needed to rationalize my decisions with you, Ralphy.”
“No!” He waves a hand, pinking. “You just seemed so sure—”
“The only thing I’m sure about right now is that I don’t care for your opinion.”
“All right, all right. Just keep me in the loop, will you?”
I pivot on my heel and stride toward my apartment.
The reason why I decided to spare Winnifred’s job is simple. I still have questions about the night that changed my life.
And Winnie? She might have the answers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WINNIE
Chrissy slides a piece of her rosemary focaccia onto my plate. I finish slurping my pasta napolitana. “Thanks. Want some of my pasta?”
“Want? Always. Should? Not in this lifetime.” Chrissy moans, taking a sip of her fat-burning tea. “You need to eat, and well. Otherwise, your family will hold me accountable.”
“Ma’s all bark and no bite. Don’t pay any heed to her.” I know my shameless family emails Chrissy about me, asking for weekly updates about my life. I also know that Chrissy basks in it. She loves being my designated BFF/savior.
“She’s not wrong, though. You’re all skin and bones.” My agent throws me a worried look. “Didn’t you hear heroin chic is out? This is our era, girl. Curves for miles and appetite are in.”
“Like I’m going to let the people at Vogue tell me how much I should weigh,” I huff.
We decided to have a quick brunch before my rehearsal. We invited Arya, but she was too busy with work to come. It’s been a week since Arsène strode into the theater and left me reeling. He hasn’t visited the place since, but hasn’t fired me either. When Rahim, Sloan, and Renee asked me why he took me aside, I lied and said he wanted to ensure I was okay after my cramping leg.
You know, health and safety liability. The last thing he needs is for us to get injured and complain about the sagging wood on the stage.
I hate lying. Not just because of the moral implications. I’m a terrible liar. Comes with the territory of having a really bad memory. But no one can find out what binds Arsène and me together. I don’t want to be pitied, whispered at, judged; most of all—I don’t want them to think the worst about Paul. Not when even I still can’t digest the idea that he was unfaithful.
Chrissy puts her fork down and gives me the Stare. The one Ma perfected when I was in high school and snuck out to make out with Rhys right after Sunday church.
“Winnie, we need to talk.”
“Oh, I know that line.” I break another piece of bread, dip it into the olive oil and vinegar, and pop it into my mouth. “You can’t break up with me, Chris. You’re the only friend I have in this godforsaken city.”
“You have to move on.” She remains serious.
“Move on?” I choke out, genuinely appalled by the idea. “It’s been less than a year!”
She cannot seriously mean I should date again. Maybe she is thinking I should adopt a pet or get out more. Not that these ideas seem more appealing than dating—nothing has sounded appealing since Paul’s been gone—but at least they’re not outrageous.