Page 2 of The Boss Upstairs
I’d often wanted to introduce myself, but he was impenetrable. Although polite, he gave off a standoffish air. So I quietly contented myself with gossiping about him with my girlfriends. Mr. Dark & Mysterious quickly became a frequent topic of conversation. We’d get so excited at sightings of him, as if he were some kind of celebrity.
I knew nothing about him, save for the fact that he lived in the penthouse of our building, and that he was all class, extremely shy, and perhaps the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
Abigail keeps insisting that Mr. Dark & Mysterious likes the looks of me too. Apparently, he always stares a little too long. I usually just blush at her silly observations.
Yes, some might say I’m cute, but I’ve never been beautiful. I’m not as gorgeous as Claudia or Abigail, and not as classy as Mischa. I’m just me, quirky, awkward, and perhaps cute on a good day. What the heck could someone like him possibly ever see in me?
Ethan throws his bowl of yogurt on the floor. That’s his way of saying “I don’t like.” And he always smiles wide when he does it. Unfortunately I don’t find it nearly as amusing as he does. I grunt as I pick up the mess, but I’m used to it. Just another day in my life.
I’m not upset. He’s a toddler. And I thank the Lord every day that he was spared, that I was spared, that we are both here today, together, and that God has left me with a small part of Donovan.
I’ve never been very religious, but lately I’ve been talking to Him at night. I used to be angry for the longest time. I was mad at God, mad at the whole world, but mostly, at myself.
It was my fault.
I close my eyes and draw in a long breath. Every time I start thinking this way, I shake my head, and try to knock the thoughts right out of my mind. I can’t possibly function if I go there again. And I need to function. Ethan is all I have, and I need to be there for him.
We’re both standing in my closet, and Ethan has grabbed a pair of my heels and is happily clapping the soles together, delighting in the sound they make.
“So what do you think, buddy?” I ask him. “Demure and librarian-ish, or vampy and sexy?”
He laughs and keeps clacking the shoes.
I pull out two dresses, a blue conservative number and a flowy black and white polka dot wrap dress. “Well, since I don’t have anything sexy in my closet, librarian dressy will have to do.” I hold both of them on display. “Which one?”
He eagerly points at the polka-dots. I smile.
“Polka-dots, it is.”
He’s still clapping my shoes.
“I think the polka-dots need a little color.” I reach for a pair of pointy red kitten heels and a pair of butter yellow rounded toe Mary Janes.
“Which ones?” I ask again.
He grins and points at the yellow heels.
“Yes,” I agree. “The red pointy toes might be a little too sexy for a job interview.”
I stare at my reflection in the tall mirror. I should probably wear my hair up. The blue strands might send the wrong impression, that I’m some kind of wild artsy type. Not really. I just like to add a little fun in my life by dying the ends of my hair. I also like to play with my nails and experiment with different colors. And I occasionally have a little too much fun with my nail art pen. Today, my nails are painted a classic pink.
I smile, remembering our first meeting.
He kept staring at my hands. I was holding a glass of red, and he seemed quite fascinated with that glass of wine. Perhaps it was the little cat charm around the stem, the kind your glass wears to distinguish itself from others at a party. Or maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with me. I can’t, in a million years, imagine why. Someone like him would have no reason to be intimidated by little old me.
I already knew he was shy, but he seemed even more so, in this environment. He was clearly ill-at-ease, and I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him it would be okay. How could someone as beautiful and clearly successful as him be that bashful? It still baffles me.
“You live on the second floor, right?” he asked.
I smiled. “Yes. And you live in the penthouse.”
He blushed, and stared at the floor again. “Yes… I do.”
“You have two children, right?” I asked, curious.
He smiled proudly. “Yes. Ashton is fifteen and Elizabeth is thirteen,” he told me. “Their mother and I were divorced a few years ago,” he added, volunteering the information I so desperately seeked.
I nodded quietly.
