The Truth

She was never dirty, just . . . cluttered. Though she swears she’s better since having a baby. My guess is it’s the maid coming through several times per day.

The apartment is more my style now, sleek and clean, the way I prefer it. Each surface gleams, the table is bare, and the couch has only one blanket, and that’s folded up neatly over the back.

It’s how I live. Unfussy, with no baubles and knick-knacks. I prefer function and form, with everything having a reason for being here, along with a place where it stays. Which is why I strip by the hamper before putting away my heels in their slot in my closet.

Once nude, I head for the shower. I might have washed, sort of, at Daniel’s place, but I need a good scrub after lying with the dogs all day, so I take my time, using a loofah and some body wash to really get the rest of last night’s drunk sweat funk and the dog hair off my body.

Actually, it’s a little disgusting watching my drain for a few minutes as the various colored hairs pile up. Surely, those white ones are Miss Havisham’s and not mine? But just in case, I look up, attacking my face with a microfiber towel to get the old makeup and dog spit off, scrubbing hard until it feels like I’ve given myself a total exfoliation. I then rinse in lava-temperature water before stepping out.

Once dry and dressed in my own jeans and a soft, cozy cashmere sweater from my organized closet, I wash Daniel’s clothes. He was so nice to lend me one of his T-shirts, and I have to admit the only thing keeping me from sniffing it like a weirdo is that I know it smells like dogs, not him.

I consider sitting down on the couch and watching reruns of Friends that I’ve already seen dozens of times, but I’m too mentally amped up, even if my body feels drained.

Last night was such a mess.

Once upon a time, I would’ve thrived in that sort of thing, taking advantage of the unexpected drunkenness to dance the night away. I had a strong wild and crazy streak, and Elle and I got up to all sorts of ridiculous antics. Never anything dangerous or stupid, but definitely fun.

But I left that behind ages ago. Honestly, I’m pretty boring these days. Without Elle to add a little spice to my life, I tend to work and go home, and that’s it. I deleted the dating apps off my phone after a particularly horrible experience with one guy, where he tried to impress me with his beamer, both his car and his dick.

On the first date. In the first fifteen minutes.

Neither were impressive, despite his reassurances that both offered a smooth ride. So, most nights, I sit here unless I’m hanging out with Ace and Harper.

But tonight . . . I can’t.

With a sigh, I order another Uber to take me back to work to get my car. I’m about to get in when Mac, our main onsite security guard, comes screeching to a stop next to me in his all-terrain golf cart.

“Hey, Tiffany! Fancy seeing you here on a Saturday night,” he says jovially. I think he might be thrilled to have some action, even if it’s just me getting my car.

Mac is a retired police officer whose wife told him to get out of her kitchen and leave her be, which is how he ended up at Fox Industries.

I support his wife because, judging by Mac’s waistline, she’s been feeding him just fine and doesn’t need his input on recipes she’s been making for decades. That and Mac’s a genuinely good guy.

“Hi, Mac! I took the team out for drinks last night—don’t ask—and so I’m coming back to get my car for the weekend,” I explain. “Safety first and all.”

He grins when I hold my palm up in warning about not asking, and I know it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask anyway. But he refrains with a chuckle.

“All right, I won’t ask. I’ll find out on Monday, anyway.”

He gives me a sly look, and I know he’s right. Mac and I are part of the background of Fox, the people who keep things moving and running smoothly but are largely invisible.

That means we see a lot, do a lot, and know a lot more than people give us credit for. I have no doubt that Mac has casual ‘drive-by’ friendly chats with people all over the building when he sees them and has a library of information about everyone and everything.

But I lift a wry brow, miming zipping my lips and throwing away the key. He’s not getting anything out of me today.

“Humph,” he says with a disappointed snort. But he lets it go, musing, “Only people I usually see here on Saturday night are the scuds like me and the Bossman.”