Good Pet

Isabella turns to me. “Huh?”

I freeze, realizing I’ve just let slip something I promised I wouldn’t. Quickly, I turn to her and turn the tables on my admission. “Oh, nothing.” The way Isabella looks at me, I’m not sure whether she heard or not. “It’s nothing.”

Isabella frowns. She lets her expression darken with worry and frustration. “Okay.”

I just nod, turning back to my work. Back to the calendar, I’ve opened. Next week, Kane, Ashton, and a few others are marked as being “out of the office” for a day. Some are marked off for two days, and I know that’s for a conference coming up where they are hoping to expand and incorporate new companies. I don’t know which companies very well, apart from the fact that they are more technology-based.

I don’t have much time to look at the calendar after that. My phone pretty much rings off the hook for the next few hours. Each call seems to be punctuated by some kind of appearance from one of the heads of the company. Either on their way to or from the conference room, and I can’t help myself: I end up counting them. Noting a time for each, just in case Kane asks.

The end of the day comes slowly but inevitably. Finally, it’s time for me to pack up and go home, but by the time I step out into the parking lot, it hits me that I have nothing to look forward to. No Tommy. While I had been maybe hoping that he’d be off work at the same time as me this afternoon, and maybe be interested in having an early dinner, he isn’t anywhere to be seen.

Immediately, I know that Vanacore’s probably asked him to stay longer and “put in more hours” so she can get him busy with something outside of work, so, as I’m getting in my car, I decide to send him a text. It reads simply: Heading home. Call or text me if you get into trouble. Otherwise, let’s make a plan for tomorrow. Meeting for lunch or something. I send the text.

I’m not expecting to get a reply, but I do get one. Not right away, but as I’m pulling into the parking lot of my condo community.

It reads: I’m fine, Melissa. I’ve got this. I’ll call you when I get home. As far as lunch plans, I better not. Tell you more later. Love, Tommy.

While I don’t like hearing that my idea for lunch plans might be already out the window, I love the fact that this text is signed with “love, Tommy.” I don’t think even Dennis did that. That little thing is enough to warm my heart and take the edge of fear away from me as I leave the car and head inside.

While I tell myself logically that I’m going to use the next few hours to get caught up on laundry and other chores, I know the truth. I’m going to be thinking and worrying about Tommy until he calls me and lets me know he’s truly safe.

****

However “late” I thought he would stay at work; it’s early compared to when he actually calls me that night. Around ten o’clock. When he does call, Tommy sounds tired but pleased with himself. When I ask him what he and Vanacore were doing at the office so late, he says, “Telling me her life story. Where she started out, how she got into law. Turns out, she comes from a long line of professional abusers.”

I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Professional…abusers?” I’ve never heard the term before, and I have a great dislike for it already.

Tommy chuckles, but I don’t see anything funny. “Bad term. People who abuse their professional status,” he clarifies. “People who know how to skirt the lines of the law and get away with sustained, calculated abuse of the people under them, as well as the company they work for.”

“You would, studying law so long,” I say, wandering into my kitchen and finding my favorite wine glass. Next, I pull out the wine bottle from the fridge I didn’t finish and pour some of it into my wine glass. The rest of it.

“Yes, well, it gave me a lot of insight into her. She truly fits the case of the abused becomes the abuser.” Tommy sighs here, and I can tell he doesn’t like the reality he’s been faced with. That Vanacore is a result of what was done to her. “I’m hoping that this will help me do what I need to do, but I’m not going to lie. It makes it harder to do the job I’ve already decided needs doing.” He pauses, growling into the phone. “I hate myself for even feeling anything for her, but I do. I feel sad, but if I used my past as an excuse for my present the way she does, I wouldn’t be working as a lawyer. I’d require a lawyer.”