I thought you had some great summer plans with Bobby?
Angela, you’re such a nice roommate. We had plans with other players and their wives to go to a lake in Wisconsin. I’m probably off that invite list. So much for any summer vacation. I can’t afford to do anything.
How does any man compare after dating an NFL quarterback?
John, you broke up with me and only wanted me back when you found out I was dating him. Bobby wasn’t perfect. But I liked that he made twenty million a year and was four years younger than me.
I put my phone on mute and toss it in my purse. I can respond later. It suddenly occurs to me that none of the other players’ wives or girlfriends sent me texts. We were all planning for the game on Sunday. I guess in the back of my mind, I thought a few of them would stand by me, but apparently not. That might hurt more than the breakup.
Gabby is ready to go find Damien, so we say our goodbyes. As I walk out of the bar, I look over at Jackson and his date and wave. She scowls at me. Whatever.
I take a rideshare across town to my meager apartment in Presidio Heights. It’s a fancy way of saying I live behind the old Army base, the Presidio, and in the Avenues. The beautiful people look down on those of us who live in the Avenues, but it’s considered affordable. I don’t consider it affordable. I share a three-bedroom apartment—my bedroom used to be a closet—with two others and pay an entire half of my monthly salary toward my portion of the rent. But I do it on my own.
I let myself in and crawl into bed—still wearing my dress and without washing my face or brushing my teeth. That’s very unlike me, and I cry myself to sleep. He broke up with me on the news.
***
My alarm sounds, and my eyes are crusted shut from my tears. My mouth feels like a cat strolled by while I was asleep and took a crap. I roll over and look up at the stained ceiling. Bobby Sanders is not going to get to me. Taking a big breath, I sit up. Oh, I can’t move that quickly.
I go slowly into the bathroom and wash my face, determined to make today a better day. I can’t let this keep me down. I’m better than this.
As I do each day, I stop at Starbucks and pick up Jackson’s and my coffee order. He likes a double espresso with steamed milk, and I treat myself to a mocha cappuccino. No one’s going to see me naked for a while anyway. Who cares about the extra calories?
Jackson typically beats me to the office, as he works nonstop, and today is no exception. Placing the cup on his desk, I remain standing and prepare for our brief morning meeting. “Here’s your double espresso.”
He nods without looking at me.
“Thanks again for the drinks last night.”
“Glad you enjoyed them,” he says, still not looking up from the spreadsheet he’s studying.
He doesn’t elaborate, so I begin to walk through his calendar for the day. “You’re all set for your Tuesday meeting with your team. You have lunch with Mason Sullivan at noon at Quince regarding your business plan. If you don’t have any changes, I’ll get that bound and ready. Your afternoon is full, and I’ve marked you busy from two thirty to four to return phone calls.”
“Thank you, Ms. Woods.”
He still hasn’t looked up, so I turn to leave. He’s in a bad mood today—like most days. As I open the door, I hear, “Oh, I almost forgot.” I turn, and he’s pointing to a box by the door. “That was delivered to you this morning.”
“Okay, thanks.” I pick up the lightweight box and carry it out to my desk. Before I tackle it, I take a big swig of my mocha. “Ahh.”
“I saw the piece about your boyfriend,” my officemate, Heather, says. “I guess he moved on.”
“They always do,” I say.
Heather is the executive assistant to Jackson’s chief financial officer—the fourth one he’s had since I’ve been here. We get along okay and will occasionally grab lunch together. I made the mistake of telling her about Bobby, and she shared it with the entire building. Lesson learned. If you don’t want anyone to know your business, don’t mention it.
Pulling the scissors from the top drawer of my desk, I cut the seal on the box, and immediately the wretched smell hits me. Before I can even discern what’s inside, I slam the box shut. The overwhelming stench fills the office.
“What the hell is that?” Heather asks. Her face is scrunched up, and we’re both breathing through our mouths.
“I have no idea.”
I carefully pick up the box, walk it to the elevator, and ride down to the lobby. The smell is still escaping, and it’s just awful. I want to vomit.
As the doors open, I see our security guard. “Tommy, can you call maintenance? We got a package that I think is full of dog poop. Can you have them fumigate the executive level and the elevator?”
“Dog poop?” He cocks his head to the side.
“Yes, someone sent me a package. I’m going to open it outside.”
“Don’t! That could be a bomb! Put it down and back away.”
I’m already mostly outside, so I set it on the sidewalk and look at him, confused. Why would anyone send me a poop bomb?
When I walk back into the lobby, Tommy is on the phone to 9-1-1. He gives them our address, and I watch him pull the fire alarm. It’s barely eight, and people are still arriving. It’s quickly chaos.
He stands with me as we look at the box. “The police are on their way.”
He moves right into leadership mode and keeps repeating, “This is not a drill. Please leave the building.”
I look at him in panic. “This may have been a threat to Mr. Graham.”
As the crowd grows outside, I watch Mr. Graham exit the elevator with his bodyguard at his side.
People are piling out of the building. Some seem thrilled to have a free morning, while others are clearly perturbed.
Mr. Graham walks up to me. “What the hell?” he says. “First, our office smells like shit, and now this?”
“The box you gave me was filled with something disgusting. Tommy thinks it might be a bomb.”
“Sir,” Tommy interjects. “The box was filled with manure, and it can be used in bombs.”
A uniformed officer pushes us away from the doors. “Please step back.”
Mr. Graham looks at me. “Why would anyone want to send you a bomb?”
I shake my head as the police come racing up in a van that says Bomb Squad.
People give them a wide berth, and an officer approaches the three of us.
“Tell us what you know,” Mr. Graham’s bodyguard prods for the police.
I walk them through what happened. More of Mr. Graham’s security team arrives, and they usher him away. Great. At least he’ll be safe. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in the superhero costume hiding under my clothes.
The bomb team pushes us farther away from the door. “Don’t leave,” one of them tells me.
I nod and shiver against the cold. I left my coat upstairs.
The news vans have arrived and are setting up. This is not the kind of publicity Mr. Graham is looking for. If I have a job after this is over, it’ll be a miracle.
I watch the bomb team examine the box from afar. They seem to agree on something, but I’m not sure what it is until I see a robot wheeling out to the sidewalk.