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Maybe I’m going to be able to live under the same roof as him and not be hypnotized by his soft smile, his guarded eyes, or how he melts in front of my little brothers.

Maybe whatever infatuation infected me the moment I met him has finally left my system.

Maybe I’m a liar.

10

SUNNY

June 10th

I’m dead sure I’ve seen about a dozen movies with this exact scene in them.

Mostly lighthearted rom-coms where someone from a small town moves to The Big City and overcomes trials and tribulations that teach them lessons about life and love before they inevitably end up fucking everything up, then miraculously get the people they hurt to forgive them, then live happily ever after.

I’ll see pigs fly before my life turns into any of . . . that.

The scene is cinematic enough, though . . . standing on a Manhattan sidewalk with two big suitcases at my sides, the rustle of the wind shaking the tall trees lining the street, and the gentle breeze giving me a minuscule respite from the already hot day even though it’s not even officially summer or even seven a.m. yet.

I hear the rumble of the yellow cab drive off behind me and take a moment to look up at the brownstone where I’ll be working and living for . . . however long I work and live here.

It’s the corner building, which only means that unlike the rest of the houses lining the rest of the block, it actually looks like the mansion it is.

I’ve seen enough movies, shows, and reality TV to know all of these homes are mansions, but the one I was dropped in front of is more obviously big.

It’s twice as wide as the rest, to start, but it also has curved windows that face the intersection. The brick seems to gleam and the glass of the windows are spotless. I suppose that if not brand spanking new, then they’re at least extremely well taken care of.

I went to college in Rhode Island where there are mansions littering the coast, despite my middle-class upbringing, so I don’t think I’m new to obvious displays of wealth. Hannah’s married to a damn millionare for fuck’s sake, and there were plenty of rich and famous people around in Miami, especially where Henry and I . . . where Henry’s condo is . . . was . . . Ugh, whatever.

I will not be thinking about him or whatever it is he’s thinking, getting yet another number to text me from.

Deny, deny, deny. That’s my new mantra.

I’m only looking forward now—only my asshole brain can force me to look back, and these days, I won’t let it.

What’s in front of me is what deserves my attention, what matters is that I’m not normally struck dumb by a big house, by luxury brands, or the usual behavior of the rich, but I know that this isn’t rich.

This is wealth—generational wealth that’s beyond anything my mind can probably comprehend in a literal sense.

Right or wrong, though, I’ll have to get used to it and be fine living within it.

I will.

I straighten my spine with a determination I wish wasn’t fake, and grab the two handles of the suitcases then carry them up the dozen or so steps to the front door.

The months of rest at Hannah’s and the previous years Henry made me—no.

I let my preferred gym routine slide. I allowed it to happen.

And all that time away from the gym means I need a fucking minute to catch my breath before I’m ready to face what the next couple of months of my life will be like.

Memories of harsh words and debilitating and repeated failures fill my mind while I fight to get my breath back. It makes me feel dirty, like I need to scrub my skin raw, but I wrestle my mind into submission and push all of that away once my lungs are back to normal.

No matter what my mind wants to conjure up, I know, I’m not there anymore. I know I’m safe and not a failure.

I lift my hand to the little old-school ornamental doorbell but freeze when wailing sounds through the white front door.

It goes on for a good few seconds and my hand moves to ring the doorbell before I consciously think to do it. Because this is my job now.