“Which means we only have ten months left.”
“Looking forward to divorce?”
She laughs, running a hand through her messy dark hair. Gone are the low ponytails and tight buns. I approve of that. Long live the free, tumbling waves. I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around my hand. “I’m just surprised at how smoothly it’s gone,” she says.
“Did you expect us to fight?”
She snorts. “No. But I expected more hiccups. We have less friction than we did when I worked for you.”
“We had friction?”
“Yes. Maybe you didn’t notice it.”
I pull up to the garage in my apartment building, watching the steel door rise inch by inch. “We got a lot done.”
“Yes, that’s true. We certainly did. I don’t think anyone who works for you can do anything else.”
I park the car and walk around to open her door. But she’s already stepped out, bare-footed, onto the concrete.
“Cecilia.”
She laughs and bends to slide her heels back on, stretching out a hand to support herself. It lands on my arm, and I hold still. “You’re a handful when you’re drunk.”
Her eyes fly to mine. “I’m not drunk, and I’m not a handful!”
“Sure you’re not.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking in a straight line. I can recite the alphabet backwards and forwards—no! I’ll do you one better!” She straightens, and to my amazement, she recites my social security number and my birthday. “Oh, and you’re a Taurus,” she says, “but you don’t believe in astrology.”
I stare at her. A million responses flit through my mind. I choose the safest one. “That does not prove you’re sober.”
“Come on, even you have to admit that was a little impressive.”
“Sure.”
She walks past me to the elevator, arms loose at her sides. “I shouldn’t have asked. I know better than anyone that you have a no-praise policy.”
“I don’t have a no-praise policy.”
“Ouch,” she says. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
I can’t think of anything to say to her teasing, but then I don’t have to, because the elevator doors open and she bounces out to open my front door. Her front door.
Our front door.
I should head straight upstairs, but nothing about this night has gone according to plan. So I follow her into the kitchen. She turns on lights as she goes and opens the fridge, surveying the contents.
I watch her. “What did you mean by that?”
She gives a low hum and takes out a packet. “Do you like this?”
“I can’t see what it is.”
“Hummus.”
“No.”
“I figured,” she says, and digs through a box to find baby carrots. “I want to make sure I don’t accidentally ruin Bonnie’s planning by snacking on something she’s set aside for you.”