The Long Fall
Nikki
Someone knocks on the door. I groan, nudging Townes. “Babe, someone is here. Did the doorman call up?”
“No,” he rasps. “Did you order bagels or something?” He opens his eyes, his glazed blue-green trained on me.
I turn away, lifting my phone from the bedside table. It’s 7:23 a.m. “No.”
“Well, are you going to get it?”
I throw an arm over my forehead, praying that whomever it is just goes away. The knocking doesn’t stop. In fact, it gets louder. I exhale, rising. Putting on a white terry-cloth robe Townes recently bought me from The Peninsula Hotel spa; I make my way out of the bedroom and into the spacious living area. I bite my lip and pause, noticing mounds of Townes’ files from work splayed across the kitchen counter. Even though he easily makes a mess, he hates seeing his world anything but spotless. As his assistant, it’s my job to organize his life. Naturally wanting to straighten it all up, I step toward the piles. But the knocking continues, and I walk away.
“I’m coming!” I yell.
I open the front door to Tinsley Norming, Townes’ mother, who is smiling tightly. Behind her is her driver, who doubles as her bodyguard, clad head-to-toe in black with his hands filled with brown paper bags.
“Well, move over,” she snips bossily, straightening out her cream tweed Chanel jacket and stepping forward before I even have the chance to step back. “I brought breakfast.”
With my jaw practically unhinged, I step aside. She struts through the door, her high heels clapping against the wooden floor like she owns the place. Okay, fine, maybe she does technically own this apartment. But I’m the one who actually lives here. Townes and I have been engaged for three months with no wedding date in sight. But we’ve been busy, and life has been good. At least... it’s been good when it’s just the two of us. When his family is involved, it’s another story entirely.
Tinsley makes herself comfortable in the apartment, brewing herself a cup of coffee in the Miele built-in coffee maker before eyeing the mess of files. I should go back to the bedroom and let her do whatever it is she came to do, but instead, I’m standing here, waiting for the drama to unfold. I can feel the tension from her body, and it isn’t the pleasurable kind.
“Isn’t it your job to take care of this?” She points a French manicured nail at the scattered papers.
“Well, I was going to. Last night Townes worked late, and I fell asleep—”
She inhales a sharp breath. “Fell asleep? You fell asleep before cleaning up?”
Normally, I would smile. Say something to pacify her. I mean, I always assumed that in time we’d find a way to get used to each other. ‘Kill her with kindness,’ as my mom used to say. But it’s been five years I’ve been with Townes, and her disrespect is becoming impossible to manage. Maybe it’s just the early morning. Or maybe it’s her expensive suit and perfectly blown-out blonde hair at too-early o’clock. But I can’t take it anymore. I take a deep breath, telling myself to remain calm. Nothing good can come out of an argument.
“Listen.” I clear my throat, tightening my robe. “It is a bit early. Why don’t I just give you a few moments in my kitchen while I wash up—”
“Your kitchen?” She laughs haughtily, as though this whole thing is a big joke. “This is my apartment.”
I squint my eyes. “Excuse me?” My voice comes out in a barely audible whisper.
“You heard me. This apartment,” she points to the darkly stained oak floors, “belongs to Morris and me. Townes lives in it currently, as he has a right to. You, however, are a guest.”
“Well, I will be family.” I lift my finger, the shining three-carat Tiffany diamond sparkling.
She laughs, moving her hand in front of her face as though swatting a fly. “Oh, no. That’s just a consolation prize. You can take that with you when you go. You think we would ever actually let him go through with it? A small-town Colorado girl, with my son? We both know that Townes is a prince of New York City. And you? You’re a penniless nothing.”
Her words burn like acid on my skin. I once told Townes that I felt embarrassed beside him—because she is right, he is a prince, and I am penniless. But it’s the fact that she is quoting, verbatim, an intimate conversation I had with my