Page 9 of A Convenient Secret
I take a deep breath in and rush to my wardrobe. Grabbing jean shorts and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, I get dressed in record time.
I open my door carefully and tiptoe to the bathroom.
“Good morning, Lily.”
Goddammit. “Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker.”
My landlady stands in her kitchen doorway, sipping coffee. Rollers in her silver hair, she is wearing a pink housecoat and channeling all her nosy energy.
“You’re up early. I thought you had a day off.” She takes a sip.
The woman knows my schedule better than me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitaker, but I’m in a hurry.”
“I can make you breakfast.”
She is nosyandlacks boundaries, but I guess it all stems from her loneliness. And while I indulge her more often than I want to, this morning is not one of those days.
“I’m sorry.” I push the door to the bathroom open and grab my toothbrush.
How did I forget to book the nanny?
The fire alarm.
I practically scrape a layer of skin from my gums as I vigorously run the brush across my mouth. What am I going to do?
Brushing my hair, I regret for the gazillionth time that I chose a pixie cut when I decided my New York look. It would have been easier and faster to pull my hair back.
I’ve been trying to grow it, so I lose another precious second gathering it in my hands and pulling it back as if I could stretch it longer.
“It’s still too short.”
I jump and hit my elbow on the shower door. It’s the same nerve I already abused this morning in my small bed. “You’re here, Mrs. Whitaker,” I state the obvious, rubbing my hurting arm.
“You know, Lily, I was so happy to share my home with you, but you’re never here.” She stands in the doorway, blocking my only way to escape. Her guilt-tripping is next-level passive-aggressive.
“I’ll be here tonight. We can have dinner,” I blurt out, more to get rid of her than because I really want to spend any time with her.
The problem is, Mrs. Whitaker is lonely because she’s just not nice. And as much as I try to bring some positivity into her life, I’ve learned it’s a lost cause.
“Will you bring takeout?” She finally moves, and I step around her. “Let me get you a flyer from this new place four blocks from here. It’s Indonesian.”
I get to my room and grab my glasses and my purse. Turning, I collide with Mrs. Whitaker. She pushes aleaflet into my hands. Using the time I don’t have, I lock my room. I don’t have proof she’ll snoop around, but I’m not taking a chance.
Not that she will find anything.
“See you tonight.” I practically sprint from the apartment.
Tonight is far away. I’ll worry about it later. Right now, I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to solve my problem.
I open the app on my phone to order a taxi. Where am I even going? I put the phone away and run to the subway. By the time I reach the platform, I’m soaked in my own sweat.
The waiting makes me sweat even more. Summertime underground isn’t fun. I roll up my sleeves a bit, but it’s no help.
Twenty-five minutes since I spoke with Aaron. Not good. I dial the childcare agency but get their voicemail.
By the time I reach the Upper East Side, it’s almost eight o’clock. My hair plastered on my forehead, I feel like I’m swimming in my own juices. Attractive as hell.
My phone rings. I don’t want to answer, but Aaron doesn’t deserve to carry the consequences of my actions.
