Page 83 of When You Left Me Speechless

“No, it’s fine. You said you needed to check the mail anyway. Go, go. I’ll be right down.” She disappears around the corner.

The bell on the elevator chimes, and the doors open. I step inside. On the ride down, my mind drifts back to last night and this morning. For the first time since this all began, I’m not just hopeful, but I am sure that she is ready for more.

I step out of the elevator and head towards the mailboxes when I see her.

Mrs. Wilson. The woman who berated Poppy a month ago in that meeting. The woman who caused her to have that panic attack.

What the fuck is she doing here?

She is standing outside the sliding glass doors of my complex. From my vantage point, it looks like she is tearing into two men dressed in matching green jumpsuits. One of the men turns slightly, and I can see the words “Mighty Movers'' written across his back. I recognize the other as the driver I helped parallel park yesterday when we got here.

Is she moving into my complex? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I have to warn Poppy. Running into Mrs. Wilson, together, would be a disaster. I pull out my phone to call her. If she can just wait up in my place until I can give her the all-clear, then we can get out of here unnoticed.

I dial her number and immediately hear her phone ring from the front pocket of her purse that she handed me.

Fuck.

Not sure where to go or what to do, I try to turn to head back to the elevator. If I can’t call her, then I will go upstairs and stop her from coming down. I spin around to head in the other direction. I’m so set on getting the hell out of the lobby I don’t see the bright orange cone warning me the floor is freshly mopped. I turn too quickly and immediately lose my footing on the slick tile and completely bust my ass. “Shit,” I yell as I drop the bags I’m holding and attempt to catch myself.

I try to compose myself. I do a quick mental check of mybody, ensuring nothing is broken. I reach out to grab the bags and my eyes meet a pair of black high heels.

“Mr. Peterson,” I hear a shrill voice say. My heart drops. I stand to meet Mrs. Wilson eye to eye.

“What a small world.” I laugh, surveying the small lobby, hoping Poppy hasn’t somehow appeared out of thin air. I try to focus on Mrs. Wilson instead of the throb in my left glute that took most of the fall.

“It sure is. Do you live here?”

My throat is dry, and my heart is racing. “Oh, um, yes, fifth floor. Are y’all moving in?” I begin to back up toward the mailboxes that line one of the walls in the lobby. Mrs. Wilson's eyes look at me and then down to the bag I’m holding. Poppy’s future speech therapist keychain hangs off the side of her purse, and like the universe is trying to fuck us over, it seems to almost shine in the light. Mrs. Wilson’s eyes land on it, and her eyebrows raise.

“Alone?” she asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you live here alone?”

I nod my head. Between the dull throb in my ass from the fall and Poppy somewhere in the building, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything else. I open my mouth to say something whenone of the movers interrupts me, pushing a dolly loaded with boxes.

“Excuse me, ma’am, is your apartment unlocked?” He looks terrified, like she may eat him alive if he asks the wrong question.

“No, you imbecile, I told you to tell me when you were ready, and I would escort you up.”

“Good luck with the move,” I say through gritted teeth. I watch them cross the lobby. I take a few steps towards my mailbox. Poppy still isn’t downstairs, and my only hope is that she is still in my apartment and not about to walk off the elevator and smack into Mrs. Wilson.

I watch as the mover leans forward, pushing the button to call the elevator. My heart stops as I read the number above the door.

Five.

The floor my apartment is on. I watch as the numbers begin to count backward. My thoughts race as I try to think of a way out of this situation.

Four.

There is a chance it’s not her, and they may be gone before she ever comes down. “Excuse me, you're blocking my mailbox,” I hear a man say. I ignore him, my eyes locked on the numbers above the elevator door.

Three.

“Sir, if you could please move.” My feet are frozen on the floor. Mrs. Wilson stands there waiting, tapping her foot impatiently. I’m not breathing. My heart feels like it might burst through my chest.

---