Her eyes roll. “Expressing gratitude isn’t exactly an exchange program.”
“I won’t take your word for it.”
She laughs as she bends over her desk, giving me a prime view of her firm backside while she scribbles something on a sticky note. Heat spreads from my chest to places that have no business being turned on at the moment.
For some god-forsaken reason, I’m suffering from some kind of physical ailment in her presence that makes me act like a sex-deprived lunatic. My fingers tap against my thigh to keep my hands to myself.
You should be keeping an eye on her motives, not her body.
There’s something not right about her. Maybe her niceness is a front for what really lies beneath the surface. I don’t believe for a second that she hasn’t thought about exploiting me because of my position after I kissed her. Anyone in her kind of financial position would.
She turns and passes me the hot pink sticky note. “Here.”
Don’t grab it. Tell her no and leave before you make a big mistake.
My hand swoops in and plucks the sticky note out of her hand before I give it a second thought.
13
Rowan
I stop at a trash bin near the entrance of the warehouse. Accepting Zahra’s stupid note was only meant to appease her and save me the awkwardness of denying her.
Right. Because you care so much about making others happy all of a sudden.
I linger by the bin, staring down at the hot pink note like it holds my fate. Look who’s believing in destiny now, you broody, hypocritical asshole.
Zahra’s dainty cursive handwriting sticks out to me.
I’d love to say thank you if you are willing to text me （that is if Rowan wasn’t annoying enough to throw this out before you got it）。 -Zahra Gulian The sticky note crumples beneath my fist. What’s so damn difficult about throwing this away? She would never find out. I covered my bases and made sure she understood that the Animator values his privacy and that he’s busy, which is the truth.
You could find someone to work with her with a snap of your fingers. A good solution as any, yet the idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth for some unknown reason.
I pocket the sticky note and step away from the trash can. The walk through the Catacombs is a decent trek. Fewer and fewer employees pass by me as I near the underground gated tunnel entrance to Grandpa’s old house. When I was a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing to explore the tunnels with my brothers at night. Our father would make it into a game, with Mom and him making spooky noises. It was their failed attempt to scare us into never doing it again, but it only worked until the next time we visited Dreamland.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to ease the pressing weight against my lungs. Reminiscing only leads to one thing and I’m not interested.
I enter the gate code, walk up the stairs and toward the house. It’s an old colonial-style home with a wraparound porch. I divert my eyes away from the porch swing to avoid the pinching sensation in my chest. No matter how many weekends I’ve told myself I’m going to grab a drill and take down the damn thing, I always find a reason to leave it up. Whether it’s a new pile of papers to sift through or a last-minute meeting with a manager, I’m never able to confront the swing.
Out of all the Dreamland memories, I hate that one the most.
You’re so fucking weak. My father’s slurred voice booms through my head.
I jam my key into the lock and open the door. It smacks against the wall with a bang before I slam it shut. My heavy footsteps echo through the house as I walk up the stairs toward one of the master bedrooms I’ve taken over as my own. I throw my wallet on my nightstand before dumping the crumpled note next to it. Before I think to stop myself, I grab my phone and add Zahra’s number to my contacts before I do something idiotic like rip up the note.