“That dumpster?
?s disgusting.” She leans closer, a posture of someone about to share classified intel.
Of course it is. But that’s where Aaron’s going to be dining if he does anything he shouldn’t with the video he made. Dumpster dining. The idea makes me smile. Thank you, Edgar.
The girl continues, “And I heard a body got left there once.”
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows and nod. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to avoid it.”
She glances out the front windows. “Yeah. Who wants to get caught up in that shit, right?”
I load the boxes into the trunk of my Lexus and go back home. I need to finish packing everything up before Hugo comes. But knowing him, and the fact that he works for one of the most infamous workaholics in the city, he won’t darken my doorstep until at least six.
Hands on my hips, I peruse my purses, assess my accessories and survey my shoes. How can I have so much stuff? But at the same time, how can I throw anything out?
Marie Kondo says to hold an item and see if it brings joy to decide if you should keep it. But I don’t have to hold anything. Just thinking about my wardrobe brings me joy.
All right, I’ll just take them all. Or at least all the latest from each designer, plus my favorites. How else am I going to look fabulous? No client wants fashion advice from somebody who doesn’t look like she’s ready for a Vogue photo shoot.
When I get to my home clothes, I hesitate. Old but comfy yoga pants and ratty T-shirts. I love them to pieces, but should I wear them in front of Edgar? It’s already bad enough he’s going to see me without makeup or perfectly styled hair.
Only my family gets to see me in my comfiest clothes. Edgar is…
Well. He’s not. I’m not sure about letting him see me like that. It’s entirely too…casual. And naked. Well, not really naked, because I’ll be in clothes, but I might as well be from the level of vulnerability and bareness I’m going to feel.
Okay. So my old, comfy home-wear stays here.
When I’m almost done packing, the intercom buzzes. I see a mildly annoyed Hugo on the screen and let him in.
“Do you know how busy I am? I’m working for one of the most important people in the world,” Hugo whines the second he walks into my apartment.
“When did a divorce attorney become so important?” I say.
“When it’s Samantha Jones!” I can hear the unspoken duh.
“Uh-huh. You mean she’s important because she’s the hottest woman in the world in your mind.”
“That too. And she’s working late today. Do you know how low I felt, asking if I could leave early?”
“As low as a summer cloud? As a satellite? You didn’t leave until at least five!” I gesture at the clock on the living room wall, which is reading five after six.
“She doesn’t go home until ten,” he says like he’s trying to explain the simplest fact of life to a four-year-old.
“So?”
“So I should’ve stayed.”
“Somebody should forward her a copy of the labor laws. Apparently, that’s something she really needs help with.” I put a hand over my still-flat stomach. “Now stop whining. Do you want me to carry heavy stuff when I’m pregnant?” Take that knife of guilt to your gut!
Hugo’s mouth tightens and flattens into a stubborn line.
Time to twist. “What would your mama say?”
“Argh!” he growls. “Fine, fine. She’d want me to help you.”
“And flay you alive if you didn’t.”
“You suck. Samantha’s working on a really important case today. She needs all the help she can get.”