The Next Mrs Russo

I spot his car and walk over. As soon as I open the door, he raises his eyebrows.

“It’s really inappropriate of you to ask a child to pick you up at this hour.”

I groan. “Ugh, Miller. Now is not the time. You do nothing but brag about not going to bed at nine p.m. so I know you were awake, and besides, emotionally you’re forty-seven.”

“Still,” he says. “What happened? I know you wouldn’t willingly humiliate yourself by texting me unless you had to.”

“I’m not talking about it,” I insist, wishing tears weren’t filling my eyes right now. “Just drive. Please.”

“Hmm. I will drop the conversation permanently if you give me a raise. And by permanently, I mean twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

Ugh, opportunistic little bastard. But I have to admire his grit. And after everything, I can’t deny that he deserves it.

“Done,” I say. “Specifics can be discussed later. Now, please—”

“Drive,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “Yes, I know. Though where exactly am I taking you?”

“My place,” I say. “I don’t care if I have to pee in a bucket. I’m never going back to the mansion.”

He arches an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“I plead the Eighth,” I mutter, resting my head against the driver’s side window.

“I think you mean the Fifth.”

“The Eighth Amendment protects me from cruel and unusual punishments, which surely covers me from being interrogated about my broken heart by a teenager.”

“Damn.” Miller grins from the driver’s seat. “Well played.”

For a few minutes, Miller doesn’t say anything. We cross the river from Rensselaer into Albany, which is dark and gloomy to match my miserable mood. I’m content to wallow when, unfortunately, Miller speaks up again.

“But there’s no way you’re just going to walk away from that guy. Or, at least, he’s not going to walk away from you.”

Now the tears are really coming. Miller doesn’t know. Innocence has blinded him. He doesn’t get that some things you don’t get to come back from.

“That’s over,” I say, and when Miller opens his mouth to say something, I just shake my head.

He bites his lip like he wants to say something, but in the end, he stays quiet. The car carves through the empty streets. It’s late enough that no one’s out, and it does make me feel a little guilty for calling on Miller.

Ugh. I have too much guilt already. Does the world really need to drown me in it?

We pull up to my place, and the first thought I have is that there’s someone hanging out by my stairs. It’s not totally abnormal. Sometimes lost drunk people like to use my stairs as a place to drink. But this person seems like they’re standing, and there’s not a bottle in sight.

And then I realize who it is, and my stomach drops. Not really. My stomach mostly feels like I ate six cupcakes. So, not good.

It’s Warren.

Miller grins, triumphant. “I told you soooooo,” he sings.

I swallow, forcing myself to be cool. “He’s just here to get his key back.”

“Did you even have a key?”

“No,” I huff, exasperated. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re a child.”

“You literally just referred to me as forty-seven.”

“God, stop nagging me. Also, please take the rest of these cupcakes.” I shove the box at him.

He gives me a sad smile. “If you’re trying to pretend you didn’t eat half on them on the train, I should probably tell you that you have frosting in your hair.”

I groan and flip down the car visor. He’s right. It’s bright blue frosting, and there’s no coming back from this. He offers me a napkin, and I do my best to get the blue out of my hair.

I catch Miller watching me. “It was a long train ride,” I grumble, defensively.

“No judgies,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to face your boyfriend like that, anyway.”

I glare at him. “You know what, Miller?”

Miller rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m—”

“—not fired,” I finish for him.

He gasps. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I say. “You’re the best. And I said as much in your letter of recommendation for F.I.T.”

“You actually did that? Before the deadline? Without a reminder? You ran it through spellcheck, right?”

I smile, giving up on the frosting situation. At least I got most of it. I glance at Warren, who’s still standing there, watching patiently. I flip the visor back up. “I sure did,” I say. “There’s no way you’re not getting in, Miller. Your potential is off the charts.”

Miller shrugs, but I can see that he’s smiling. “Well, you’re pretty laid yourself.”

I stare at him. “I’m what?”

He sighs. “You are hopelessly unhip. It means you’re perfect.”

I shake my head. “Then why didn’t you just say perfect? Why do you kids have to make everything so complicated with all these newfangled words that mean the exact same thing as old words but require a secret handshake to figure out?”