Trillion(52)

I read once that Stevie wrote Dreams as a diss track to Lindsey Buckingham after he broke her heart. If she can get through that, I can get through this.

I cue the music, place Emmeline in her favorite corner of the room, and crawl into my messy bed, staring at the ceiling as the familiar snare drum kicks off one of the most famous breakup anthems in existence.

Closing my eyes, I let Stevie’s words saturate every fiber of my being, head to toe, heart to soul.

When the rain washes you clean you’ll know …





Forty





Sophie



Present



“Oh my god. So get this … I heard Westcott is screwing that girl from Payroll.” A nasally voice steals my attention Monday afternoon.

I stab my salad with a plastic fork, nose buried in a book as I take my lunch solo. On the other side of the break room, the gossipiest women on my floor are in the midst of a conversation about me.

I lay my fork down and close my book, giving them my full attentiveness. They’re oblivious to my presence, which means nothing is off the table. This could get interesting.

“You’re kidding,” the other one says. “The blonde one who always dresses like it’s 1950?”

Rolling my eyes, I let the comment roll off my shoulders. I’d take my chambray, gingham, pencil skirts, and tea-length dresses over their off-the-mannequin outfits any day of the week. Outside the office, I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. At work, I like to have fun with my wardrobe.

“That’s what people are saying. Heard from an extremely reliable source that she’s been going into his office a lot lately,” the first one says, pointing her spoon at her friend. “And someone said he took her to Seattle for a weekend. Why else would he do that?”

When he had me added to his flight manifest, someone must have leaked the info. I’m sure Trey would be livid if he knew, but I’m not trying to get anyone fired. Nobody got hurt. Plus the engagement announcement will be public soon enough.

The first one leans in, sweeping her inky black flat-ironed strands off her shoulder. “I don’t get it. I don’t see what’s so special about her. I mean, she’s cute, yeah, but he can have anyone he wants. Literally. Supermodels. Movie stars. Me …What does she have that we don’t?”

Her friend chuckles. “It’s probably the sex.”

The dark-haired one dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Isn’t it always?”

Tucking my book under my arm and depositing my lunch in the trash, I stride to their side of the break room. “I’m sure he’ll get sick of her and move on eventually.”

Doe-eyed and silent, it takes them zero point two seconds to realize who I am.

“Especially if it’s just about the sex.” I lift my left hand to my hip so my trillion-cut diamond can glimmer at their eye levels. It’s a catty move, sure, but apparently that’s the only language these women understand.

The first one swallows, lips pressed flat like she’s about to lose the contents of her stomach. The second averts her gaze to her half-eaten bowl of broccoli cheese soup. I could have them canned if I wanted, but that’s not the person I want to be.

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to impose on your conversation.” I wave my hand. “But if you have any questions about Mr. Westcott’s personal life, I’d be happy to pass those along for you.”

The raven-haired one begins to say something, but her friend kicks her under the table. I’m not sure there’s anything either of them can say to save face. They’ve said what they’ve said, and I heard every word of it.

With that, I show myself out and return to my office to finish the rest of the day. While I don’t normally let other people’s opinions weigh on me, their words replay on a loop as I run my reports.

This arrangement isn’t about sex. At least not on paper. And neither one of us could have anticipated the animalistic magnetism that washes over us the second we’re alone lately, but those women weren’t wrong when they said he could have anyone he wants.

If he knew about my past, about the baby I gave up in exchange for an education and financial security, would he think less of me? Would he still want me? In a way, I’m repeating history, only I’ll get to keep my child this time.

The lingering slickness of his seed from this morning dampens my panties. I’m on my final week of birth control and, at the rate we’re going, we’ll be pregnant before the wedding.

I need to come clean to Trey.

I need to give him a chance to back out before it’s too late.





Forty-One





Sophie



Past



Music blasts from the other room. A couple on the sofa jam their tongues down each other’s throats like no one’s watching. In the corner, someone’s setting up beer pong.

It’s the first of November, which means my monthly stipend has been deposited into my bank account. Three thousand dollars. It’s more than I need given the fact that my room, board, books, and tuition are all covered.

I don’t bother checking my balance anymore. There’s always enough in there. More than enough. And every time I see that money, I think of him and everything I sacrificed to get here.