Page 75 of The Woman in the Warehouse

I was still trying to shake off the strange sadness clinging to me as I climbed into my SUV and started the drive back to Spanish Harlem, stopping only once when the traffic was at a near standstill, and I needed to get some coffee and something to eat if I was going to make it all the way from the port to my warehouse without some serious road rage.

I found myself only ordering a corn muffin because, get this shit, I didn’t want to fill up by myself. I wanted to wait to eat until I could share a meal with Anthony.

That was insane.

Or, at least, it felt that way to someone who almost always ate all my meals alone.

Suddenly, maybe for the first time in my life, I kind of wished I had a female friend to talk to about the whole situation with Anthony.

I mean, yeah, I had my mom. But I also knew what my mother thought about my, er, situation, with Anthony. She might not have said as much, but I could tell she was already picturing me in a white gown, and debating what kind of flowers would look best at my wedding. And, of course, how many grand babies she might get out of us.

I’d never even given kids a passing thought before. To be honest, I’d never even held a baby, let alone considered what it might be like for one to literally depend on me for survival.

But if I wanted to be with Anthony, that was something I would need to think on since, well, I didn’t imagine that a man coming from a massive Italian family wouldn’t want his own litter of children.

“Getting ahead of yourself here,” I mumbled to myself as I sat at yet another red light that had barely moved for three separate light changes.

Still, I couldn’t seem to stop my mind from running away with me once the idea planted and started to take root.

Suddenly, we were adding five more branches to the Costa family tree, and I was having to learn to cook, so none of us starved.

Some part of me expected those thoughts to create panic or disgust. I never saw myself as someone who would want to be in the kitchen with a baby on her hip, stirring homemade sauce as a couple of other kids pressed slime into the living room carpet.

Those weren’t the dominant feelings, though.

No. If anything, it was curiosity and interest. Something I wanted to give more thought to.

Weird.

Especially for someone who never really had the urge to be a mother. Hell, I’d never even been a pet-parent until, what, a few days ago. And Fury didn’t even live with me full-time yet.

I was pretty sure I needed to be able to keep a dog alive and happy for a few years before I could even consider a child.

Somehow, though, the fact that there was time to think, to explore things with Anthony, to plan a future, made the whole prospect of marriage and children a lot less scary.

I parked the SUV behind the warehouse, and made my way around the building to the front door, hearing Fury’s protective barking through the thick walls before she heard the beep of the keys, knowing that meant it was me there to see her.

“You’re a smart girl,” I greeted her, rubbing her big head as her tail wiggled wildly side to side.

She darted away from me, grabbing her gutted lamb, and bringing it to me to throw. Once, twice, three times before I reached for the leash, and she rushed over and sat to let me hook it on her collar.

“Ready for a walk?” I asked, reaching for her little travel water bottle/bowl combo. “I think we should make it a long one. I need to clear my head,” I told her, and she looked up at me with apt eyes as if she was listening.

“What do you think of Anthony, girl?” I asked her as we moved out of the front door.

She sniffed at the air, likely smelling the tacos from the cart down the block, completely ignoring me and my dilemma.

We both seemed content to walk almost endlessly, stopping only when she had to do her business or get a drink of water.

Eventually, I had to take her back to the warehouse for dinner. Afterward, I sat on her giant bed with her, giving her scratches as she dreamt happily, her little legs running, her jowls lifting, her tail waggling.

I snuck back out, heading toward the studio for a bit to take a shower, wanting to wash away the ick I still felt like was clinging to me after walking through the house of horrors on Staten Island.

I’d like to say I didn’t check the time and my phone constantly, wondering if Anthony would reach out, or if he was on his way home. Even if, objectively, I knew it would take hours to clean up the house. And that was if they didn’t take any breaks to rest or eat. I probably wasn’t going to see Anthony until late.

I tried to distract myself with watching the row house, jotting down notes, and taking pictures of anyone I saw, though it was really only the guy who stepped outside to smoke and the one who went out to get food that ever seemed to go anywhere.

What the hell were they doing in there?

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