Chapter 35 #2
Then I drag myself to my desk, dropping the folder onto the already existing pile of papers, rubbing my eyes in exhaustion.
“Should I ask?” I murmur finally.
“It’s the package from Mexico,” she says as if I already know what that means.
Package. From Mexico. I force my mind to recall. The only memory involves Liz telling me the owners of the house called to ask what to do with all the stuff the cleaning crew found after we left. And, since I was the one who paid for the reservation, I was the one responsible for them, I guess?
“I told you they wanted the address to mail everything,” Liz clarifies, reading my mind. “The collection of phallic objects, I’ll save for Gina from accounting’s bachelorette party.”
Are there more straws?
She sets the bouquet of penises next to the box and pulls a chrome watch from inside. From the effort of her hand lifting it, I know it’s expensive.
“The watch is obviously from Andrew; he always had good taste,” she comments, cheeks flushing at the mention of him.
Liz apparently has a massive crush on Andrew, and they spend fifteen minutes chatting whenever he calls me, so at least this box is serving a purpose. “I’ve set it aside for a courier.”
She moves to the next item, but lifts it with the tip of a pen, like a crime scene object. In her other hand, she holds some twisted white clothing.
“Also…” Liz starts, grimacing, and all I can do is groan. It’s fucking underwear. Personalized. It says: Property of Connor.
“Should I return it, or…”
“Trash it,” I say immediately, not even blinking.
She walks to the trash, underwear dangling from the pen. Maybe Liz deserves a raise too.
“There’s pair of broken high heels, but it’s Manolo Blahnik, so I don’t know if I should…”
I examine it. Lace, white, rhinestones, a lot of mud. Easy to recognize as the bride’s shoe.
“Don’t return it. She’ll think it’s an insult and that you don’t believe she’s rich enough for new shoes. And that’s a problem for both of us. Keep it, if you want.”
Again: glad someone’s happy about it.
“A little tube full of shells labeled Cancún and Suzi. I’ll send to her,” Liz enumerates items, placing them on the desk. “An iPad going to Texas for the bride’s cousin. A leopard-print swimsuit belonging to…”
“The groom’s aunt,” we say at the same time.
“Three different chargers, one looks like it’s been chewed by a dog.”
Liz shows the tangled white cords with furrowed brows.
“There were no dogs in the house.”
“Wow!”
Which makes us both wonder what the hell happened that week.
“Also, a pearl bracelet I haven’t matched to an owner yet… and–” she then fishes the next item from the box. “A keychain from some player, number 9.”
Time suddenly stops.
My heart lurches like a punch to the chest.
And goddamn, it hurts like hell!
“I looked it up. Football, Bengals, quarterback, Joe Brow–”
“Burrow,” I correct, but honestly, nothing else she says matters.
My fingers go straight to my face, pressing both sides of my nose, a futile attempt to put my head together and prevent it from, I don’t know, exploding.
I blink. Slowly. For an eternity. Not even opening my eyes to ask, “Is there a key on that keychain, Liz?”
I immediately hear they jingle in the air.
“Two.”
I open my eyes, staring the keychain dangling between her fingers again trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
White rubber. Jersey number 9 in black and orange. The metal keys glistening against the office light.
I take a deep breath, cause I momentarily forgot to, and exhale sharply through my nose.
Then everything comes back.
Her laugh.
The car ride.
Fucking Backstreet Boys on the radio.
The deal.
Shit.
I snatch the keychain from Liz in one swift, frantic motion, fully aware she doesn’t understand any of this before she even asks, “Something wrong?”
Yeah, a million things. But none I can explain now, so I keep it simple, “Liz, I need to leave.”
“I know. I already ordered your lunch.”
“No, Liz!” I cut her off before she can mention any stupid appointment on my schedule today. “I need to leave. Now.”
“But you have the bail hearing for Mr. Romano in one hour. It was the only time the judge agreed to–”
And here we are, the stupid appointment.
I shove the keychain in my pocket, grab my phone, find my wallet.
“Remind me again who Mr. Romano is?!”
“The embezzlement case.”
“Embezzlement?” I ask in fake shock. “One of my clients?”
Liz gets my sarcasm.
“The one with the bank account in the Caymans,” she tries to clarify, but I just stand here, waiting. Could still be anyone, I swear. “Who got arrested because his wife found out about his affair with the nanny and reported him to the FBI.”
Ah.
“Reschedule for tomorrow,” I say, in a hurry, officially ready to leave. “He deserves more time in jail anyway.”
“And what about all this stuff?” She points at the box as she asks.
“Do whatever you want. I don’t really care.”
“And what do I tell Mr. Price if…”
“Whatever you want. I don’t care!” I just repeat;
“Mr. Hassmann!” Liz exclaims, her voice higher than normal. “Do you want me to at least call a car?”
I pause, hand on the doorknob, one leg inside, the other already out in the hallway.
“No, I’ll take the subway.”
“The… subway?” she chokes.
Even I don’t hear myself.
“I’ll manage, Liz. Thanks,” I reply, then bolt to the street.
Clearly, I’m not walking there. It’s a forty-five-minute journey from the Financial District to Greenwich Village and I don’t have that kind of time.
While I’m rushing down the subway stairs in heavy steps, with my heart racing and my body filled with so much adrenaline as if I’m about to run a marathon, I can’t help but laugh.
If there’s anyone in the world who would be happy to see this happen, it’s definitely her.