Page 75 of Ivory Ashes

I point to the black car idling outside the double doors. “Mr. Novikov assigned me a driver.”

It’s the sanitized version. Telling her my new boss is also my new husband and the father of my child seems like the textbook definition of an “overshare.”

She whistles. “That’s nice. New guy is sparing no expense. Is he treating you better than Mr. Fredrickson?”

Well, it depends. Mr. Fredrickson never put me up in a bonafide mansion or gave me a personal driver or more g-spot orgasms than I knew what to do with.

Then again, Mr. Fredrickson also never kidnapped me and my son from our home and then gave me emotional whiplash until I couldn’t decide whether I hated him for being cruel or for making me want him anyway.

“In some ways,” I conclude with a smile. “If you ever want a ride, just let me know. Your place is on the way to?—”

My old apartment.

The apartment I do not live in anymore and may never return to.

Before I need to finish the sentence, Jackie waves me away. “It’s okay; I’m actually headed to my first tap class today. It’s in the opposite direction.”

“Wow! Tap dancing. That sounds fun.”

“Probably not.” She lugs her duffel bag over her shoulder. “My therapist suggested I ‘try new things.’ Embarrassing myself in front of other adults isn’t new for me, but doing it while wearing tap shoes is.”

Jackie and I walk out together. I wave as she heads in the direction of the train station and then climb into the back seat of the waiting car.

“Home?” Pyotr asks.

Home is wherever Dante is. But I also feel a tug towards the apartment where we spent the last few years.

“Actually, I want to make a stop,” I tell him. “There’s something I need at my old apartment. You know where it is?”

Pyotr stiffens. “I know where it is, but we don’t have a guard with us. Anatoly should be here if you’re getting out of the car.”

“I was out of the car all day and Anatoly wasn’t with me,” I point out. “For the last half-hour, Mikhail wasn’t in the building, either. I think I can handle walking up to my own apartment for a few minutes. I’ll be quick.”

Pyotr seems torn, his hands drumming on the wheel while he thinks.

“I thought transportation was your job,” I remind him. “Wherever I want to go, it’s your job to take me there, right?”

I feel bad for putting Pyotr in a weird spot, but luckily, any hint that he might not be fulfilling his duties to the highest caliber is all it takes to kick him into gear. He shifts the car into drive and gets me to my apartment faster than I thought was possible.

“I’ll be in and out,” I promise as I slam the door closed and cross the cracked sidewalk.

Really, I’m not even sure why I’m going in at all. I guess, after the day I had, being somewhere familiar sounds nice.

My mailbox is overflowing. It’s mostly coupons and weekly deals for the grocery store around the corner, but there are a few overdue bills in there. I need to remember to forward my mail to the mansion. I don’t think I’ll be moving out anytime soon.

I tuck the stack under my arm and climb the three flights of stairs up to my floor.

There are four different door hangers for the takeout place across the street on the doorknob. Also a note taped to the frame.

Give me a knock when you’re back. —T

I rip the note down and duck inside. I don’t have the bandwidth to explain this hot garbage heap of a situation to Tommy today. Maybe ever.

The apartment smells musty, the same way it smelled when Dante and I first moved in. We lived here for years, but it only took a few days to revert to its former state. I try not to take the betrayal personally and dump the mail on the counter.

I crack open the fridge and see a bag of shredded lettuce that has liquified on the top shelf. And one look at the milk is enough to tell me it’s hours away from growing legs and claiming squatter’s rights.

I could clean it all out… but why? I won’t be back here again.

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