CHAPTER ONE
Bridget
Way before I even have to be at work tomorrow morning, let alone thinking about it, I’m getting those passive-aggressive little reminder texts from my boss, Karen.
The ones that match the emails and those stupid sticky notes she insists on putting on everything. Telling me three different ways what I already know.
Fire drill in the morning at the office, and it’s on me to make sure it goes off without a hitch.
I wouldn’t mind normally, but apart from having my night ruined by messages from the boss, I know it’ll be Karen who tells the branch manager it was all her doing.
She’ll take the credit, and I’ll be ignored as usual.
As many people do nowadays, working from home would be perfect for me, except that the bank I work for said no. And then there are my parents….
Trying to get anything done around them on a good day is impossible.
So, I'm thinking about work despite my best efforts to enjoy my TV series binge and finish the last of the half-gallon of Rocky Road I bought.
Karen.
Work.
Freaking Karen.
Work.
A gentle rapping on my door makes me look up from my phone. My Mom always knocks as she opens the door.
Gotta love living at home….
“Honey? Don’t forget…,” she starts, crimping her mouth and lowering her face so I can see her eyes.
“I know, Mom,” I drone, fighting the urge to growl at her.
“Fire drill tomorrow. Karen just texted me like three times already.”
“You’re lucky she looks out for you, Bridget. I was only trying to help,” Mom clips, looking further down, pouting now and letting me see it. Letting me know I’ve hurt her feelings.
“I haven’t forgotten, Mom,” I sigh, forcing a little smile, screaming in my mind.
I wonder if I’m the only sane person on the planet, let alone in this household.
“That’s better,” Mom says, easing herself into my room just enough to lift the ice cream carton out of my hands.
“I don’t think this is gonna help you lose that puppy fat now, is it?” she asks me. “And it’ll play hell tomorrow with your allergies,” she adds.
Again with that look.
Even though I know she’s right. I just wish they’d stop treating me like I’m twelve. Mom and Dad are great, really supportive. But they’re just so…I dunno.
Weird.
Always fussing over nothing, sounding like they’re waiting for the world to end if we don’t all follow the rules. Do the right thing, including taking my job at the bank’s office where one of dad’s friend’s arranged an interview for me.
His daughter Karen is my boss.
Yay, me, so I can’t tell Karen what I really think of her without my parents finding out and probably losing said job in the process.
Ugh.
I feel somewhat trapped, but every time I bring up the idea of moving out, both Mom and Dad start acting even stranger. Worrying about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘don’t I know how dangerous it’s out there?’ Blah. Blah. Blah.
I’m nineteen, for god’s sake, and I work full time. Handing over most everything I get to my parents anyway. ‘For your future, sweetie. We won’t be around forever…,’ Dad likes to remind me. But I know they don’t spend it.
“I’ll get an early night then, I guess,” I shrug to my Mom, faking a yawn and only mentioning it to save her from saying it anyway.
Even though it’s practically still daylight outside. At least I’ll be left in peace if I just go to bed.
“G’night, sweetie. Dad will drive you in the morning,” Mom chimes in her sing-song voice again before closing my door.
I slump back in my bed, turning down the TV volume and wondering and hoping that someday, I’ll somehow find a way to get out of here.
Despite everything, I fall asleep quickly. A faint smile plays on my lips as I imagine a tall, dark, well-built, handsome hero coming to save me.
Somehow.
Just like in those shows I watch. All those romance novels I pretend not to be engrossed in every lunch hour.
True to his word, and just like any other weekday, my Dad drives me from the burbs into the city first thing in the morning. A good forty minutes out of his own way, but like me moving out, the idea I could actually get myself to work seems impossible to them.
It’s just easier to have him drive me.
Saves me the stress of hearing him list off all the things that could go wrong. How much extra it would cost, that sort of thing.
“I’ll see you at five,” Dad says absently, glancing up at the darkening sky through the streaming drizzle on his windshield.
“I told you to bring an umbrella,” he murmurs. “Take the one from the trunk.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad,” I remind him, leaning over to peck his cheek. I tell him he’ll be late, which shifts his attention from the rain to the time.