Thoroughly Whipped

Mom and Dad shared a look I couldn’t decipher. “What?” I pushed. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” Papa said, holding the letters. “I shut the shop because it couldn’t pay the rent. And we received a cash offer for the apartment. We said yes, of course. It was even over what we had asked for it.” He rubbed his head, stressed. Or maybe confused, I wasn’t sure. “Then these came today.” Papa held up the letters. I moved across the room like my ass was on fire and opened them.

“Deeds?” I asked, reading the addresses on the documents. “Papa, these are in your and Mom’s names.” My heart started racing seeing the address of Papa’s shop on the paper too. But not just his shop, the entire building. The entire fucking overpriced New York building.

“There must be some mistake,” Mom said. “Who would buy our house and then give us the deed? And who would buy the entire building for your papa, and gift us that too. Nothing makes sense! We’ve called the lawyer who dealt with it. They told us there was no mistake. Even pushed the sale through in a couple of weeks instead of the usual allotted time.”

Mom laid her hand on Papa’s shoulder. He placed his hand over hers. There was a static feeling zipping through my veins, telling me to see something. Reading the letter again, I froze when I saw the initials of the buyer…

H.A.S.

“Oh my shitting Christ,” I whispered and my hands shook. “Oh my fucking god!” I said louder and Mom rushed to my side.

“What, Faith, what?” Mom asked, trying to keep me steady.

“Harry,” I whispered, and I saw my mom’s expression change from confusion to understanding. H.A.S…Henry Auguste Sinclair… “It was Harry,” I said, choking on the emotion clogging my throat. “He saved your house.” I looked to Papa, who had turned white. “He bought you a building. An entire fucking building!”

“Why?” Mom whispered, her trembling hand covering her mouth.

“He loves her,” Papa said, getting to his feet. His gaze locked on mine. “He loves you, doesn’t he, mia bambina?”

“Yes,” I replied, feeling my heart expand so big in my chest I thought it might break through my ribs. “He loves me,” I whispered.

Papa put his hands on my arms. “And you, Faith. Do you love him?”

“Yes,” I said, tears spilling from my eyes and down my face. “Yes, so damn much I can hardly bear it.”

“Faith,” Mom said and wrapped her arms around me.

“I need to go.” I was already backing away toward the door. “I need to find him.” I raced from the door, only stopping long enough to give back the deeds. The deeds to their home. Papa’s building. Harry. Harry saved their home and business.

My Harry.

I waved my hands in the air, trying to flag down a cab. When one finally stopped, I gave him the address to Harry’s apartment building. It was too late for him to be at work; he had to be at home. I bounced in my seat when the chaotic New York traffic was bumper to bumper. The cab driver beeped the horn and I rolled down the window, screaming, “Get the fuck out of our way, assholes!”

“You wanna ride with me every day, lady?” the cab driver said, but I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. Harry had bought my parents’ house and business premises for an ungodly amount of money. Because he loved me. Because he loved me.

I burst out crying in the back seat, loud sobbing mixed with laughter of pure disbelief. The cab driver, who’d been inviting me to join his business a second ago, was now looking at me as though I had escaped an insane asylum and was about to wreak havoc in his city.

The driver, looking mightily pleased we had reached our destination, unlocked the doors and I burst onto the street. I ran to the glass doors and to the concierge desk in Harry’s building. “I need to see Harry Sinclair,” I said, repeatedly hitting the top of the desk. The concierge looked at me the same way the driver had. Pure fear in his gaze.

“Miss, are you okay?” he asked.

“I need to see Harry Sinclair. Can you please call to see if he’s in?” The concierge did as I said, and I turned to the mirrored wall beside me. My mouth dropped open seeing my mascara running down my face.

Grabbing a tissue from the concierge’s desk, I ran to the mirror and began wiping my cheeks, but I was unable to do anything about the red in my eyes and the flush on my cheeks.

“Mr. Sinclair is not in,” the concierge said.

Spinning around, I said. “Are you sure?” I wasn’t entirely convinced he didn’t think I was a stalker.

“Mr. Sinclair is not in,” he repeated.