The Bodyguard (3)

Yes, please.

But that’s when I noticed Robby and Glenn looking at me funny.

“What?” I asked, glancing between them.

“It’s going to be one of the two of you…” Glenn said then, gesturing between Robby and me.

Of course it was. I was the protégée Glenn had been grooming for years, and Robby was the sexy hotshot he’d stolen away from the competition. Who else would even be in the running?

I still didn’t see the problem.

“And that means,” Glenn went on, “that whoever doesn’t go will need to stay here.”

But that’s how much I loved my job: Even the prospect of a two-year separation from my boyfriend didn’t faze me. Like, at all.

That’s also how desperate I was to get back to work.

“I’ll announce the London decision after New Year’s,” Glenn said. “And until then, consider yourselves in competition for the spot.”

There was no competition. I was getting that spot.

“It’s fine,” I said with a shrug, like What? “We’ve competed before.” I nodded at Robby. “We like competing. And two years is not that long, no matter who wins. We can make that work, right?”

If I’d been paying better attention, I might have noticed that Robby was less eager about everything than I was. But I was a little too desperate in that moment to think about anyone but myself.

I was afraid to feel the full impact of losing my mother. I was terrified to get stuck at home with nothing to distract me. I was tunnel-visioned on escaping—preferably to a distant country—as soon as possible.

Next week, Robby and I were scheduled for a three-week assignment in Madrid together, but I wasn’t even sure how I’d make it that long.

First, I had to survive my remaining bereavement days.

“From what I just eavesdropped,” I said, gesturing back at the doorway, “I was expecting bad news.”

“That wasn’t the bad news,” Robby said, glancing at Glenn.

I looked over at Glenn, too. “What’s the bad news?”

Glenn refused to hesitate. “The bad news is I’m taking you off Madrid.”

Looking back, me showing up at the office like that—all wild-eyed and bed-heady and desperate—probably wasn’t helping. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming.

But I didn’t.

“Off Madrid?” I asked, thinking I must have heard wrong.

Robby fixed his gaze at the window.

“Off Madrid,” Glenn confirmed. Then he added, “You’re not in the right headspace.”

“But…” I didn’t even know how to protest. How could I say, That’s the only thing I have to look forward to?

Glenn shoved his hands into his pockets. Robby stared out the window.

Finally, I asked, “Who are you sending in my place?”

Glenn glanced at Robby. Then he said, “I’m sending Taylor.”

“You’re sending … Taylor?”

Glenn nodded. “She’s our next best thing,” he said, like that should settle it.

It didn’t.

“You’re sending my best friend and my boyfriend away and leaving me alone for three weeks? Just days after my mother died?”

“I thought you said you weren’t that close.”

“I thought you said we were close enough.”

“Look,” Glenn said. “This is what they call a business decision.”

But I shook my head. This wasn’t going to work. “You can’t just ground me and dismantle my entire support system. That’s my trip. Those are my clients.”

Glenn sighed. “You’ll go next time.”

“I want to go this time.”

Glenn shrugged. “I want to win the lottery. But it’s not going to happen.”

Glenn was the kind of guy who believed adversity only made you stronger.

I took a minute to breathe. Then I said, “If Taylor’s going on my trip, where am I going?”

“Nowhere,” Glenn said.

“Nowhere?”

He nodded. “You need to rest. Plus, everywhere’s full.” He scrolled through his laptop. “Jakarta’s taken. Colombia’s taken. Bahrain. Those oil execs in the Philippines. All taken.”

“But … what am I supposed to do?”

Glenn shrugged. “Help out around the office?”

“I’m serious.”

But Glenn kept going. “Take up knitting? Start a succulent garden? Double down on personal growth?”

Nope, nope, nope.

But Glenn held fast. “You need some time off.”

“I hate time off. I don’t want time off.”

“It’s not about what you want. It’s about what you need.”

What was he—my therapist? “I need to work,” I said. “I do better when I’m working.”

“You can work here.”

But I also needed to escape.

Now I felt a flutter of panic in my throat. “Hey. You know me. You know I need to move. I can’t just sit here and—and … and marinate in all my misery. I need to be in motion. I need to go somewhere. I’m like a shark, you know? I just always have to be moving. I need to get water through my gills.” My hands gestured at my ribcage, as if to show him where my gills were located. “If I stay here,” I finally said, “I’ll die.”