Chapter four

TANISHA

Plans for my weekend, were already made. A full weekend of no Pepa, no errands across Manhattan, no Christof’s icy blue eyes. Just me, my bed,  and maybe three days’ worth of greasy comfort food. I was going to binge-watch my favorite movie.

A few more feet, just a few more feet to my car, to my home, and my bed. I’d barely reached for the door handle when his voice slid through the air behind me.

“Tanisha.”

I halted. Every bone in my body sagged at once. I turned around, wearing the same polite, professional expression I’d mastered over the last year. What else could he possibly want from me? I completed all my tasks for today.

“Yes, Mr. Gustavo?”

He stood beside his car, wearing the same blank expression he used around me. Hands in his pockets, suit immaculate like the stress of the day didn’t dare wrinkle him.

Christof jerked his chin toward me. “You’re not going home yet.”

My heart fell straight through the pavement. I imagined it rolling straight towards Christof’s shoes, and him smashing it into pitiful pieces.

“Oh.” My head flinched back slightly, I tried to rearrange my face into something that looked like I hadn’t internally died. “Did you…need me to reorganize tomorrow’s schedule before I leave?”

“No.” His tone was clipped, efficient. “There’s a business dinner. You’re coming.”

My brows squished together in confusion. “Um…tonight?”

“Yes, tonight.” He said it like the concept of time was irrelevant to him. It probably was. “You’ll accompany me. Strictly in a professional capacity. Take notes, handle calls, the usual.”

I tightened my grip on my tote bag and tried to find the courage to speak like a human being instead of the dead plant I currently felt like.

“Mr. Gustavo,” I began carefully, “I’ll need to run home first. Just to get ready. I’m not exactly dressed for a business dinner.”

He glanced at me with all the emotional investment of someone checking the weather app, then he laughed. A loud reverberating sound which took me by surprise. What could possibly be so funny about what I said?

“No one would even notice you’re there, who cares what you wear? You look fine.”

I looked down at myself. My skirt was crumpled like I’d slept in it, my blouse had a grease stain, my mascara had definitely smudged into “tired raccoon chic.” I didn’t even want to think about what my hair would look like.

“I—sir, I really don’t think—”

He waved a hand without looking at me. “Well,” he said dryly, “I’m sure they’ll survive the trauma of your pantsuit.”

I stared at him, stunned. I was obviously wearing a skirt and did he just insult me?

Before I could think of a response he added;

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t wander off.”

And then he walked away, into his mansion. Leaving me behind like a stray cat that followed his car home.

I stood there in the driveway, blinking, holding onto sanity by a single thread. Fifteen minutes, no change of clothes, no makeup fix, no shower to wash the sweat of Manhattan’s entire emotional burden off me. I lifted my face to the sky like a tragic Victorian widow. “Why?”

I allowed my imagination to take over, my rage needed an outlet. I fantasized about him. About me drowning him, choking him, running him over with a bulldozer. I fantasized about slicing him open from groin to chest, so I could see whatever darkness the devil concocted in there.

All violent, deeply therapeutic thoughts. I exhaled through my nose.

Fine. Okay. Business dinner, I could do this, I could survive this. I could simply channel the professionalism of a woman who was absolutely not imagining slicing her boss open.

I checked my reflection in my car window. Oh no—oh my God. This was tragic. Maybe I could salvage it. I pulled my curls into a bun so tight it gave me an instant facelift. I wiped my under-eyes with an emergency makeup wipe I found wedged under some receipts. I slapped on lip balm. As for my outfit, there was sadly nothing I could do.

Seventeen minutes later, I had to blink thrice to confirm what or who walked out the doors. My eyes were certainly malfunctioning from exhaustion.