5

“No.” I blurt it before I can think better of it. “No. No. I’m not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I’m a—I mean, fuck you, I’m a person! I have a life and hobbies and people who depend on me. I’m real! So I’d appreciate it very much if you’d pull your smug head out of your smug asshole and treat me with some damn respect for once.”

Ruslan blinks.

Blinks.

Blinks.

“Is there something else, Ms. Carson?”

That’s when I realize that my whole little tirade took place entirely in my head. It wasn’t real. All imagined. Just a pleasant little detour to a fantasy land where I give him my two cents and then some.

I swallow past the nasty taste in my throat and stand. “No, sir,” I say quietly. “Nothing at all.”

EMMA

“I’m gonna piss on his car.”

Phoebe, my BFF, bursts out laughing on the phone. “You’re gonna what? Em, I love you to bits, but you wouldn’t even remind the bodega guy that you asked for no mustard on your sandwich last weekend. I don’t think you have a rebellious bone in your body. You certainly don’t have a ‘pee-onyour-boss’s-car’ bone in your body.”

I sigh. She’s right. I hate it, but she’s right. “It’s bullshit that Sienna got all the rebellious genes,” I mutter. “My whole DNA is wired to be compliant. Even the thought of talking back to him gives me hives.”

“Aw, babe, don’t sell yourself short. You’re a firecracker when you wanna be. You’re just sucking it up with Prince Douche Bag because you need this job to keep the kiddos in a good place. Food on the table, roof over their heads, all that. You’re a martyr, seriously. They should make statues of you.”

I snort and get off the train at my stop. “I’m good without that, thanks. I don’t need statues of me. I’d just like to not be treated like I’m a second-class citizen at my place of employment.”

“Well, if wishes were fishes, we’d all have something to eat,” Phoebe says sagely.

“The hell does that mean?”

I can hear the shrug in her voice. “Beats me. Something my mom used to say. People from Oklahoma are weird; what can I tell ya?”

Phoebe’s whole family is Dust Bowl-born and bred. She grew up outside of New York, right across the street from Sienna and me, but she inherited the accent and generations’ worth of nonsensical folk wisdom.

“Seems like a pretty reasonable wish, though. It’s just insane for him to tell me I’m not dedicated to his job. I’m there from dawn ‘til dusk every freaking day. I dream in spreadsheets—did you know that? I literally have dreams about Ruslan’s stupid color-coordinated calendar and to-do lists. Even when I’m sleeping, I’m working. It’s insane.”

“Preaching to the choir, baby girl. But go on; don’t let me stop you.”

People are looking at me funny as I mount the stairs from the subway station and climb back up to street level, but I don’t care. All the things I wish I could tell Ruslan are pouring like word vomit from my lips.    

“He’s just so freaking smug! Where does he get off on that? Like, do you think he just goes home and looks in the mirror to cackle and twist his mustache like some evil comic book villain? Like, ‘Muahaha, another successful day of ruining my secretary’s life. Well done, Ruslan, well done indeed.’”

“He has a mustache?”

“Pheebs. Focus.”

“Right. Sorry. It’s just that I had a very specific mental picture of him, you know? Tall, dark, that sexy, suggestive sort of smile that’s like saying You wanna get outta here? without actually saying it… Sixpack abs, forearm veins—oh God, I do love some sexy forearm veins—and like, maybe a hot tattoo somewhere, but in a place where you gotta undress a little bit to see it so it’s sorta like—” “Pheebs. Not helpful.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The problem is just how accurate her description is. I’ve known since the very beginning of my employment at Bane that Ruslan is an asshole. But I’ve also known that he’s a stupidly attractive one.

I’ve seen enough glimpses of his tattoos to want to see more. I’ve seen enough glimpses of that smile —it’s rare, but it exists—to want him to turn it in my direction. Just once. Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, the answer is a resounding “yes.”

Wearily, I thump up the stairs to my apartment. It’s odd to be getting home before the sun has set. The kids are still in afterschool for another forty-five minutes and Ben is at a “job fair” (which is what they should officially rename the neighborhood bar), so I have a rare chunk of time to myself.

“Tell me something about you,” I request as I unlock the front door.

“You’re changing the subject,” Phoebe accuses.

“I absolutely am. Indulge me.”

She exhales. “Let’s see, let’s see… Went out with that hotshot chef dude last weekend.”

“Oh? You do love forearms, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged. It was a good date, honestly. Oysters, as it turns out, are indeed an aphrodisiac.” “I take it you got lucky?”

Phoebe snorts. “He got lucky, you mean. It’s not everyone who gets a chance to dine on the sweet nectar of my—”

“Yup,” I interrupt hurriedly before she gets going too far gone to be stopped. “I get the picture. Also,

I’m not saying everyone gets to, but by my count, lots of people do. There was the accountant—”

“He helped me do my taxes!”

“The zookeeper…”

“He promised I’d get to see his pet monkey!”

“The therapist, the oil rig worker, the PhD student…”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m a filthy whorish witch and I should be burned at the stake,” she says hastily. “But one, it’s the Year of Our Lord 2023, so slut-shaming is no longer socially acceptable. And two, sue me for living a little. I’m young and hot and I want to see what’s on offer. You should do the same.”

I giggle. She knows I’m not actually shaming her—it’s mostly jealousy talking. I haven’t been laid in so long that I’m terrified I’m sprouting cobwebs between my thighs.

“I know,” I say with yet another weary sigh. “I should. I just… can’t, you know? I mean, I don’t have time and even if I did, I don’t exactly have prospects beating down my door for a chance to take me out on a date.”

“You would if you put yourself out there, babe,” Phoebe says in her soft voice. “I know it’s hard. I know you miss Sienna. I know you’ve got the kids to think about and Ben to ignore. But just… try, okay? Promise me you’ll try. If there’s anyone in your life who you could see yourself trying with, it’s worth taking a shot. Tomorrow’s never guaranteed, love. You and I know that better than anyone. So you owe it to yourself—and to all the people who love and depend on you—to be happy.”

I drop my purse on my kitchen table and plop down on the armchair. Something wet crunches under me, which turns out to be a half-eaten Taco Bell burrito. Ben’s handiwork, no doubt, along with the rest of the mess in the house that I literally just cleaned yesterday.

Grimacing, I extricate the taco and lob it into the nearby trash can. “You’re right. I’ll try.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Yeah. Pinky swear.”

“Okay,” says Phoebe, sounding satisfied. “I’ve gotta go to Hot Girl Yoga. I love you with the whitehot intensity of a thousand suns. Give the little ones my love, too. Ta-ta.”

Then she hangs up.

I let my hand fall into my lap. The phone slides into the gap between cushion and armrest, but I let it stay wedged there.

It’s silent without my best friend’s voice in my ear. Weirdly silent. I can’t even remember the last time there was this little chaos in my vicinity. And if I close my eyes and ignore the mess, it’s even more blissful.

For a moment, at least.

Then a face pops up on the black screen of my mind’s eye.