Having lived in New York for the last five years, I was no longer used to silence. Even when you were alone on a weekday afternoon, living on the sixth floor with the windows shut, some sort of sound inevitably found its way to you—like boots thumping up the stairs, a car horn beeping in the distance, or the fridge-freezer combo buzzing in the kitchen slash living room slash office. But that was the danger of living in an overcrowded, overpriced metropolis. While I loved New York with its stunning skyline and busy nightlife, I was more than happy to get away from it for a while and enjoy the solitude of the Italian countryside. So, naturally, the sudden blaring sound of my cell made my heart jerk in my chest.
I peered from the caller ID to the closed door, making sure Jett wasn’t around, and pressed the respond button.
“Hey, you’re harder to reach than the president. How’s my favorite chief secretary?” Sylvie shouted with a slight slur. Earsplitting music, voices, and laughter echoed in the background. Judging from the noise, she was in a club, and it wasn’t the kind you frequent to play bingo. I swear I could almost smell the booze on her breath and the cigarette smoke clinging to her expensive clothes—clothes she’d end up taking to the dry cleaner’s and forget about them.
“Personal assistant,” I mumbled, harboring no doubt that in her current state, she’d forget it the moment she hung up. I peered at the time symbol on my MacBook. It was a few minutes past ten here, minus a seven hour time difference. “Sylvie, why the hell are you calling me from a bar at three a.m.? You’re obviously drunk, and I’m at the office, working, during which I’m sure you know you’re not supposed to have private conversations.”
“You never called.”
It was true. With the stunning scenery outside and Jett around, I forgot to call her. Or my mother. Even Sean was history, which was great. I was moving on.
“I’m so sorry, Sylvie. I meant to, but there was lots to do. But you could have waited until tomorrow.”
A pause, then, “I was lonely.” Her voice raised a notch, making her statement sound like a question.
The throb in my head intensified, but Sylvie was my best friend and she obviously needed me. My fingers began to massage my temples as I mentally prepared for a long talk. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Sylvie, I know your bizarre mood swings and behaviors better than the back of my hand, and right now you’re lying. So, spill before I take the next flight up there, bind you to a chair, and torture you into confessing.” I didn’t mean it literally. It was our inside joke since college when Sylvie ended up drunk on my couch, bawling her eyes out, and wouldn’t tell me what was wrong with her.
“Shit. You know me so well, I hate you renting space in my head.” She let out a long sigh that turned into a whine. “I’m such a fuck up.” Not really, but I didn’t interrupt her lest she got sidetracked. She hardly ever talked about her problems, and when she did she barely elaborated on the real issues bothering her.
“Ryan offered me my job back,” Sylvie said.
“Ryan—as in the a-hole boss who fucked you, and then broke up with you the moment he feared his wife had found out?”
“Uh-huh. That one.” Sylvie didn’t fall into a tirade of expletives, which could only mean one thing.
I shook my head, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “No, Sylvie, you didn’t listen to that idiot, did you? You might be my best friend and I love you to bits, but you’re a moron.”
She let out another long sigh. “I know.”
“What were you thinking?”
“He sent over flowers and I thought he was serious about it, so I caved in and listened to his crap. You know I lose my head around guys and make the worst decisions ever. None of this would have happened if only you were here.” Now it was all my fault. I rolled my eyes. “You’re so lucky your boss plays for the other team,” Sylvie continued.
My former boss, I mentally corrected her. The current one was far from it. This was my cue to assure her I was the even bigger fuck up but a.) the contract clearly stated I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about my arrangement with Mayfield, and b.) I seriously doubted Sylvie would be shocked. In fact, she’d probably cheer me on and expect a sex tape after I was done with Mayfield.
“So, what exactly happened?” I asked. “Because if you believed one word that lying, cheating bastard told you, I swear I’m cancelling our friendship this instant.”
“I told him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.” She hesitated, adding something that sounded suspiciously like, “After.”
“After what?”