Un-Tying the Knot {h.s.}

Chapter 60

I'm not going to lie, I'm slightly ashamed of myself. What self-respecting twenty-something holes themselves up in their boss' kitchen on a Saturday morning?

This one.

I can't help the sarcastic thoughts spinning around my head, my pride bristling slightly, but it lays quiet at the remembrance of my arrival this morning.

Eleanor had been in near hysterics, tearing around the apartment fluffing pillows and shaking out the drapes, complaining about paint fumes — although I could smell nothing but gardenia blossoms and fresh baked pastries. The new Great Room is as awe inspiring as ever, just decorated differently. The new furniture is rearranged, new light fixtures and drapery, giving the room a light modern feel while still retaining that certain French elegance that Eleanor is known for.

I have to admit that I envy Eleanor's design sense. Of course, it couldn't have been that hard with the team of interior decorators she employed to assist with her vision of "the perfect Great Room." But with Eleanor, nothing is ever deemed perfect, no matter how close it comes to her plan.

I had been moving things and rearranging chairs while Eleanor barked orders, nearly running smack into the decorating team who had been busy laying out trays and tidying place settings right up until the guests began to arrive. I probably would have been impressed with how quickly Eleanor went from psychotic bosszilla to gracious hostess if I hadn't been near hyperventilation from stress.

I know I should be upstairs hovering around in the shadows, waiting for Eleanor to beckon, but I can't seem to summon the strength to care at the moment. I'm sure that if Eleanor were to come down to the kitchen to find me, I'd care a whole hell of a lot, but I'm playing it fast and loose these days — or at least as loose as I feel comfortable with given Eleanor's volatile temper always near the screeching point.

It's all about baby steps, this is what I keep telling myself.

Since my earlier revelation about my changing life habits, I've been slowly coming back to myself, finding that spunky small town girl that interviewed for this job, the one Eleanor had commended for my ability not to buckle under pressure, the one who doesn't hide in the kitchen to avoid being humiliated in front of thirty or so of New York's highest society ladies. How I long to be the girl who couldn't care less about such things again.

It's all about baby steps.

Right now, I am simply content to drink my tea and pretend to be catching up on some paperwork. I'd even had the foresight to scatter it around my laptop in case someone should come down here looking for me.

I'm quite the clever revolutionary.

The thought causes me to snort, clearly far too amused by my own inner sarcasm.

I sigh, opening a new browser window and the cursor blinks back at me in the Google search bar, as if daring me to ask another question. I had been searching with reignited fervency over the past several days, looking for any way to pull myself out of my rut, surveying community colleges and other universities in the city that might offer some interim classes — or anywhere that might accept me for a spring quarter. I am determined to figure out my life, my focus unwavering — and while I don't know where it's going to take me, I know I can't stay where I am, can't be Eleanor's slave or Harry's toy forever.

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down, forcing myself not to wonder what he's up to this morning — where he is, or who he's with.

I stare gloomily at my screen, typing "solution to my fucked up life" while shaking my head slightly. I hear a snort from behind me before: