Page 7 of Boss Me

Without Jackson, Synergy would be a painful reminder of everything I’d lost. It wouldn’t be fun anymore. It would be work.

Weston’s eyes bored into mine like a drill, mining for my secrets. Then he reached over and clasped my shoulder. “Think about it. Take some time if you need it. After Boston.”

I stood. “I will.”

I strode out of his office and straight to the stairs, not meeting anyone’s gaze, afraid I’d crack the faux-stone veneer I’d plastered over my volatile emotions. For the first time in months, I left the office while the winter sun still hung above the horizon.

When I walked in my front door, Norma took one look at me and crossed herself. Rolling up her brown eyes, she muttered something—a prayer, I was sure, since she was always praying about something—then held out her hand.

It was no use resisting, so I laid my hand in hers, palm-up.

“Boxing again?”

“Jiu-jitsu,” I reminded her. “And no. I—” I couldn’t tell her. She’d say something to my mother at church. “I cut myself at work.”

“You work at a desk.” She clucked her tongue as she took in the bloody handkerchief. “Not a factory.”

“It’s a paper cut?”

She didn’t so much as smile at my weak joke. But I’d never tell no-nonsense Norma—my employee for whom I was responsible—that I’d slammed my hand onto my desk because my best friend had slipped under my defenses and hurt my feelings. Feelings I didn’t think I had anymore.

She bent her head over my hand. Not one hair escaped her tight, gray bun, but her fingers were gentle when she tugged at the handkerchief.

I flexed my hand around it, gripping the cloth. “It’s fine.”

Her lips pressed into a pale line. “We need to wash it out. And put on a fresh bandage. It’s not deep enough for stitches, is it?”

“No.” Still, I followed her to the kitchen and let her unwind Ben’s handkerchief over the sink. Briskly, and not gently, she washed my hand with stinging soap. I gazed at the bloodstained handkerchief she’d dropped so carelessly beside the sink. It wasn’t anything special, just the kind you bought in packs at a department store. Yet, it was special. Because it was his. I had to return it.

“You’ll get that laundered for me?” I tilted my chin at the cloth. “I borrowed it from someone.”

“Yes, yes. Just like all your stinky workout clothes and the sheets you barely sleep on.”

She was patting my hand dry, so she didn’t see me roll my eyes. She released me for a second to pull the first aid kit from under the sink. “You burn yourself out, you can’t work anymore. And then what happens to this place?” She waved a hand at the gourmet kitchen she used to prepare my meals, at the elegant, adjoining dining room I used only for catered business dinners. “You must take care of yourself first, Lito.”

I didn’t bother explaining that if I resigned today, I’d still be a wealthy man due to my Synergy stock holdings and other investments. Like all the housekeepers and cooks and gardeners Mamá sent me from church—hardworking, down-on-their-luck women—she understood cash flow but not much else.

Norma, who’d lost her husband of twenty-five years six months ago in an accident, was better than most. She made my house hum like a Ferrari’s engine, unlike her predecessor who’d forgotten to pay the light bill and left me in the dark for one chilly January weekend, which happened to be my birthday weekend. But I could never fire one of Mamá’s people. Unlike at work, I was at the bottom of the church-lady hierarchy. I put her in charge of the laundry and hired Norma as my housekeeper.

After Norma slapped a piece of tape over the gauze to secure it, she picked up the bloody handkerchief and shoved it into her apron pocket. I eyed the bulge. It wouldn’t be clean until tomorrow, and I’d be in Boston.

Which reminded me… “I’m leaving tonight for a trip. I won’t be back until the weekend. Take some time off.”

She frowned, halfway to the laundry room. “Another trip? You just got back from Asia last Friday.”

“I know.” I traced the gauze on my hand, willing the surge of anger back down. “Something came up.”

“I worry about you, mijo. You work too hard.”

It was what I’d been telling Jackson when I broke the desk. The anger pulsed again, quietly. I needed to call Dr. Pradhi.

“I’ll heat up your dinner for you before I go.”

“Thanks, Norma. And thanks for this.” I gestured with my bandaged right hand.

She waved away my thanks as she set one of my pre-portioned meals in the oven. “You need a vacation, not another work trip. A massage. Some sleep.”

“Mamá and I went to the island over Christmas.”

---