Page 10 of The Housemaid's Wedding
Thankfully, the cafe has a bathroom in the back where I can change. I excuse myself from the table and hurry down a long, dimly lit hallway to get to the single-person restroom. There’s no indication whether it’s vacant or not, but I knock several times, and when someone doesn’t yell that the room is occupied, I try the knob and find it empty. This isn’t exactly where I hoped to be changing into my wedding dress, but I’m just grateful that I didn’t have to change in the middle of the cafe or at some McDonald’s.
I step out of my skirt and blouse, being careful not to let them fall on the floor, or God forbid, inside the toilet. The restroom is clean, at least, which is more than I can say for a lot of restrooms in New York City restaurants. I slip the dress on over my head, and the blue fabric drapes over the curve of my belly and hips. It seems to fit well enough, but the real test is whether it zips in the back.
I position my hands behind me, locating the zipper with my fingers. Here we go—moment of truth.
I tug on the zipper, and to my utter relief, it slides up easily. It doesn’t fit quite the same way it did before, and my belly does have a somewhat noticeable bulge, but that’s fine. I’m not ashamed of the baby growing inside me. I think the dress looks fantastic, although it’s hard to tell since all I’ve got is a vanity mirror.
Enzo solved the problem, just like he promised he would. I’ve got a perfect dress, as well as something new and something blue.
My phone rings inside my purse, which is balanced on the edge of the sink. I assume it’s Enzo, asking if the dress fits, so I answer the phone without thinking aboutit. It’s only when I hear the low, menacing voice on the other end of the line that I realize my mistake—I should have blocked the number earlier.
“Nice dress,” that now-familiar voice rasps into my ear. “I can’t wait to see how it looks with your blood spilled all over it.”
I grip the phone in my right hand, too surprised to speak.
“Don’t blue and red make purple?” he asks in a mock innocent voice. “You would look great in purple, Millie.”
“You need to stay away from me,” I croak. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“I’d love to find out…”
“Too bad.”
“Oh, I think I will,” he says. “After all, I’m right on the other side of the bathroom door.”
And then the doorknob starts to turn.
8
I locked it.Of course I locked it.
Like any sane person, the first thing I did when I went into the public restroom was lock the door so nobody else could get in. But the lock is considerably less sophisticated than the deadbolt on the door to our apartment. It’s one of those hook-and-eye locks, which looks like it’ll come loose with one good rattle. The knob turns counterclockwise, and I step back, pressing myself against the white tile wall of the bathroom, as whoever is trying to get inside shakes the door.
My purse. It’s on the edge of the sink, and I’ve got my can of Mace inside. If this asshole wants to hurt me, I’m going to put up a hell of a fight.
I grab my purse and rifle around inside. I feel for the reassuring bottle that I keep with me at all times. But to my frustration, I can’t seem to find it. Where is my Mace?
Then I remember. I was talking to a friend in one of my classes last week, and she mentioned she was goingout with a new guy she met on some dating app. I got bad vibes when she said he wouldn’t give her his phone number and would only message through the app, but when she insisted on going on the date anyway, I forced her to take my bottle of Mace. Just in case.
She survived the date. (The guy turned out to be a jerk, but not dangerous.) But I told her to keep the Mace, figuring I’d get another bottle. Then I forgot.
Shit. What am I going to do?
Before I can descend into panic, a voice from behind the door calls out: “Hello? Anyone in there?”
It’s a female voice. Definitely not the person on the phone. It’s just a woman who wants to use the ladies’ room.
That man is not on the other side of the door.
“Just a minute!” I call out.
Okay, he was full of shityet again, at least about being behind the bathroom door. But at the same time, that call was incredibly disturbing. He knew about the blue dress. He knew I was in the bathroom. He is watching me.
He’s here.
I grab my purse and the clothes I had been wearing, and I come out of the bathroom. The woman standing on the other side of the door flashes me an apologetic smile, but I’m too upset to even return it. As much as I don’t want to, I have to tell Enzo what’s going on. He needs to know I am being threatened, and that this is a credible threat. We need to figure out together how to handle it.
When I get back into the dining area, Enzo is stilldeep in conversation with his friend. But when he sees me, he rises to his feet and straightens his tie. A smile lights his face.
