Page 26 of Making It While Faking It
This is stress sick, right?
Unfortunately, I’ve run out of time to figure out the answer. I free my loose curls from my pineapple ponytail, slide into my favorite pair of closed-toe Mary Jane sandals, grab my purse, and rush out of the room.
I have eight minutes and counting.
The penthouse is as quiet as a church at midnight. I don’t think Achilles is home, and I’m not going to look for him either. But I walk light on my feet, just in case he’s creeping through his own house.
My heart thumps like a broken radiator as I ride down in the elevator. Jeez, I feel like crap. I really should stay in bed. I feel so weak. But the elevator doors slide open, and I choose to keep toughing it out.
Three minutes left.
Okay,so I’m late. I ran all the way from Achilles’s building to this one. Thankfully, it’s only four blocks away and on the same street. I’m still trying to steady my breath as I dash out of the elevator and down the final hallway that opens to the rooftop helipad. The bustle of getting here took a lot out of me, and I’m sweating like a racehorse. Thankfully, the helicopter is waiting. I check the time on the face of my phone. I’m three minutes late, which I think is pretty good considering how I’m feeling.
I’m groggy when we lift off. I really do think I hit rock bottom. I must be crazy, going through with dinner. I should know better than to push myself this way. But at least I’m putting more distance between me and Achilles.
My sigh of dread spills out of my nostrils. That’s right—I kissed him last night. I had forgotten all about what I had done until this very moment. What am I going to do about that? I have to explain to Achilles in depth why I did it. Maybe I owe him an apology for infringing on his personal space. Just because he’s a man doesn’t mean I get to kiss him without permission.
We’re in midair, and all of my crappy symptoms rear their ugly heads—nausea, headache, chills, and exhaustion. But it doesn’t matter. At least I’ve put enough miles between me and my new roommate, even if there’s a conversation we must eventually have. I don’t like the way we ended things last night. I have to fix it. Maybe we can talk tomorrow, or Tuesday.
I close my eyes, rest my head on the headrest, and whisper, “Wednesday.” Ambient noise starts to lull me to sleep. “No, Thursday.”
“Miss Grove, we’ve arrived,”Jim, the pilot, says.
My eyelids stick as I try to separate the top from the bottom. After another attempt, I succeed. Jim is positioned in the doorway, watching me with a friendly and patient smile.
I want to smile back, but I wince instead as I sit up from leaning against the window. Every part of me aches. And goodness, I must’ve been really out of it. I didn’t even hear or feel the helicopter land. Granted, the helicopter is silent. My parents shopped until they found one with the highest degree of safety, comfort, and noise-reduction. They certainly succeeded with this one.
“Thanks for the smooth landing,” I say, mustering a wry lift to one side of my mouth.
His warm chuckle lets me know he appreciates my joke. Then he helps me out, and I notice something very interesting. All five helipad spaces in the lawn are occupied. So maybe Pais and Hercules did make it after all. The thought of Paisley being here makes me feel much stronger as I head to the house.
Heart and Xan’s Greenwich, Connecticut, estate was once an enormous Victorian mansion owned by an extremely wealthy old-money family. I can’t recall which, though. However, Xan and Heart demolished that old house, much to the chagrin of their neighbors and the historical society, and built a home in its place that has lots of white stone and clear glass with the overall structure shaped like building blocks. The abode is modern contemporary to the extreme. It’s a smart home too, equipped with all kinds of state-of-the-art automated functionalities.
I stop to check the time on my cell phone before getting too close to the double doors, brass with centered slices of frosted glass. When I make it to the middle section of the stacked cement steps, which lead from the lawn, the doors will automatically swing open in a dramatic fashion.
It’s 8:31 p.m. My family should all be seated around the table. But before I go inside, I need to center myself. Also, my stomach feels heavy, and my nausea has returned with a vengeance. I sigh every ounce of breath out of my lungs and then think that it’s not too late to turn around and ask Jim to fly me back to the city. Then, on an intake of tepid and slightly humid night air, I think that I need a moment to recuperate before facing my family.
I turn to my left and peer across the brilliantly green grass. Whenever I sleep over at the estate, I stay in the room that lets me walk out and into a gorgeous Japanese garden with a koi pond with computer-generated fish swimming through it. The space is so surreal. Heart used the Japanese Garden at the Huntington Museum in California as her source of inspiration. The problem with using that restorative garden to clear my head and recover some strength is that it’s too close to the dining room.
I look to my right. The Northeast Garden is in that direction. It’s also beautiful and has a more relaxing feel. But the fireflies are the best part. Watching those insects light up an evening never gets old. Plus, that garden is far away from the main event, so I won’t risk running into anyone. I trot across the lawn. Healthy grass squishes under the soles of my sandals.
My cell phone rings. Still moving and not slowing my pace because I don’t want to be seen, I grimace at the screen.
“Shit,” I mutter, already feeling something is wrong. “Hey, Lolly, what’s going on?” My tone is rushed and business sharp.
“Are you running?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Okay. I hear it in your voice. I’ll get right to it. The numbers suck, again.”
I groan as I sigh but don’t stop moving. “But how?”
Lolly begins listing each exorbitant expense, comparing the numbers from last month’s expense report to the previous three months. Utilities, salaries, food costs, equipment, and so forth all lend to increasing my bottom line. At this pace, I’ll never make enough money to pay back the trust.
Finally, I walk past two tall privacy hedges and then through a short labyrinth that leads into the garden. A strange scent is in the air, one that I never smell on Heart and Xan’s property.
“Treas, are you still with me?” Lolly asks.
