When Kinzi starts to snore, I slip out of bed and throw on some jeans and a white t-shirt. I find a pair of white socks and dig through my closet to find some shoes. It’s annoying that I don’t invest in tennis shoes or something along those lines. I toss pairs of heels around like they’re worth nothing before giving up and walking to the kitchen.
It’s not clear why my legs take me here, but when they do, I find a shoebox on the counter, like a sign from God or something. I'm not sure what the sign really means but give me time, and I’ll figure it out. All I know is that this wasn’t here when I walked in, but it’s altogether possible I missed it in my pursuit for the shower. I open the box and see a fresh pair of classic vans and a little piece of paper folded over them.
I pull it out first and open it, reading,
“Jess, you really need to get actual shoes. How do you walk anywhere in heels? Sorry, that’s insulting. I got these for you so we can match. I also wanted to thank you for letting me stay with you and giving me a chance to become a real Agent. I hope everything works out for you and Vince. You both deserve to be happy.
XX Agent Jack Beys
P.S. You ran out of pop tarts.”
I shakemy head and roll my eyes— a response Jack often evokes, but I feel the pull of a smile as I lift them out of the box and slip them on. Now I’m emotional, crying tears I really didn’t think I would have left. Before I realize it, I’m heading back out the door and calling another Uber, but I don’t realize where I'm going until I type in the address. The office will have a lot of work piling up, and I know Vince wouldn’t want to get behind, so I guess that’s why I jump into the Uber I called, and they drop me off at the front.
I glance to the ground as I walk inside, remembering the last time I was in this particular spot, I was shot. I shake my head and push through the front doors, going straight to the office building where Vince's private office is. When I open his door, I see his paper-stacked desk, and I am glad I came because I wouldn’t want him to return to this mess. If he does come back.
I musterup the courage to push the thought away and plop down in his chair, beginning to sort through the papers before something peculiar catches my eyes.
“Possible Suspects” is at the top of a note written in Vince’s cursive handwriting. The rest of the page has little notes and names of people according to what gang they’re presently in. There are numerous slashes through many of the names, and I realize what this is by one of his side notes.
“What the hell?” I whisper as I read his note that is the date of my parent's death and the day my world flipped on its head, never to turn right-side-up again. He had to have seen my brother. There’s no other explanation for how he would have acquired these details. But he was getting rid of me before everything went down. Why would he want to figure this out?
Unless he cared for me… Or maybe felt bad for my brother or the pain I felt having to hear him say he intends to send me away. A tear comes to my eye, and I know it’s only because I’m pregnant that I cry this much. Good lord, I’m pregnant. I breathe out through the small opening in my mouth as a tear rolls down my cheek.
The paper is shaking in my hands, and I set it on top of his keyboard, keeping it safely out of the way as I continue to organize his desk. When everything looks spotless, and it’s close to the time that people will begin to trickle into the office, I decide now is best to leave. I turn off the lights and slip out of the office, calling another Uber on my way down.
Even though I didn’t sleep, and the sun is beginning to rise, I feel completely ecstatic that I beat the night, and I can finally go back to Vince’s side. The Uber drops me off at around 8 o’clock, and I run inside, passing the front desk with a wave and heading straight to the elevator.
The moment I reach his floor, I leap from the elevator and cross to his room. He’s still asleep, and my heart aches all over again, but I push past the pain and sit back down next to him. My fingers find their way to his, like tracing over the lines of a paper. It’s definite, comfortable, known. I take my other hand to his cheek and lean in, kissing his forehead softly as a tear drops from my eye.
“I love you,” I whisper, and then my heart pounds out of my chest when his eyes begin to flutter in response.