Caught by the Boss ✔️

17

LEILA

My eyes lock on the window. The knocking is still coming from my door, and I need to get away. If the fire escape is my only option, then so be it.

I only think to grab my phone as I go to the window and push it open. The old, tired thing squeaks and resists my pull. I haul a leg over and duck my head, smacking my forehead on the edge. My phone slips out of my back pocket, and I freeze when it lands between the gaps on the fire escape. It doesn't fall down. Finally, I'm getting some luck. I pick it up and rush down the stairs, trying not to roll to my death as I fight my tears. That's the frustrating thing about me. Whenever I get overwhelmed with anger, my eyes tear. I don't want to cry, though. I want to lose myself and throw fists. I want to destroy, not show weakness.

On the last floor, I jump off the fire escape and land roughly. The six feet I fell nearly broke more than just my cellphone, but my ankles are strong enough to carry me away from that bastard man and his ridiculously flashy sports car.

I run as fast as my converses can carry me. My hair is a mess, and the fucking milk stain on my slacks is still there. I run past three garbage cans, their pungent smells making my stomach roll.

But it's my discovery that's more likely to make me sick. The discovery that Grace had been trying to replace me. That the man I shared intimate moments with in The Making is my boss, and he remembers everything!

How? How. He's not supposed to keep his memories once he logs out. I had been cheating, and keeping mine, so I'm just as guilty as he is. But I still have a dozen more reasons to curse his name.

How dare he come to my home after firing me? He didn't even have the balls to do it himself. To look at me in the eye and tell me he distrusts me. He wants me to forget all that because he realized we played house together when we logged into the machine? Because we fucked a few times?

Forget that! He can have Grace, with all her shadiness and lies. They can enjoy their cabin trip together. They can enter The Machine and pretend that she is me.

I walk until I end up in an alley. There's no one around. No persistent knocking. Only my panting and the sunset in the sky. Orange like the rage inside of me.

I palm my thighs as I cry, the tears falling onto the pavement. I can't even fall apart in the privacy of my home. He took that from me, too.

I spend an hour roaming around the streets. What I should really be doing is searching for new jobs, but I barely have the mental strength to walk the street without getting hit by a car. I'm exhausted.

I head home, hoping that he has left. I don't see his car parked nearby, so I take that as a hint that he gave up. Good riddance. Hopefully he won't come back.

If only he could take my feelings with him. Beside all my rage and shock, there is a sparkle of awe. Because I've finally put a face to the man I made so many memories with. The man who I faked confidence with, and became stronger for it. Who I shared intimacy with. Getting over him won't be as easy as flipping a switch.

I feel like an idiot for not making the connection earlier. Henry and Hector both share mannerisms. The way they walk, the way they bend at the waist to look at me closer in the eye. The way they pull at the sleeves; so sophisticatedly like they're adjusting their cuffs. The way they lift their chin slightly when they hear something interesting.

He's no longer standing in front of my door. He left. But I realize I left my keys outside, and I'm locked out of the apartment.

I have to call my begrudging landlord, who isn't amused to be woken up from his nap. He shows up half an hour later, ripping me a new one while I stand there and take it. It has been a long day. I lost my job. My romantic fantasy. My best friend. I don't want to lose my home, too.

Once inside, I lock the door and lay on the couch. A glance in the bathroom mirror reveals puffy eyes and streaked mascara. A tragedy of a face.

And to think all I was worried about this morning was a fucking milk stain.

My thoughts crawl to Grace and they turn angry. Violent. Because somehow, she knew who I was. That's why she became so awkward and hostile. I was getting between her and her golden ticket. And even at the very end, she wanted to juice me of all the knowledge and tips I had, so she could pretend to be me.

I've always tried to not make rash decisions. To let my emotions settle before I take action. But today I want blood. Today I'm bleeding from my heart and I want to rip it out and shove it down that bitch's throat until she suffocates.

With trembling hands, I grip my phone and call her. It takes a few rings, but she picks up.

"Leila... hey." Her voice is guarded. Knowing.

"Did you know I met him in the machine? And were you planning on replacing me?"

There's a long stretch of silence, but I'm not having it. "Tell me, Grace," I order.

"I don't owe you any answers."

"No, you don't. And he doesn't owe you any engagement ring, or expensive dates or flowers or cabin getaways. Those perks are for deserving, honest women. And you couldn't even care to buy a helmet to test the machine. You planned on lying your way to the altar. That's how little you care about him."

She scoffs. "You're protecting him now, Leila? You were the one helping me to lie!"

"I'm not protecting him. I'm calling to let you know that you two deserve each other, and that you should lose my number. Who knew that all that red hair atop your head was a glaring red flag?"

I hear her gasp and wait for her to reply. Just to cut her off. Just to hang up and piss her off. It's time for her to feel disrespected, too.

"I know—"

I hang up the phone, smashing the red button gladly to sever my last tie with her.

Although she didn't say it, her plans were implied. She wanted to replace me, after all. Well, luckily for her, I've removed myself from the equation. Those two were made for eachother.

I call my sister, and ask if I could come over for the weekend. But as luck would have it, she'll be busy attending a friend's wedding.

I can't tell my mom about my drama. The woman has trouble using the microwave, so explaining The Machine to her would be fruitless.

I'm on my own.

Needing a distraction, I open the LinkedIn app and search for job postings. The anxiety is crawling up my throat, because I know the interview process will take a month, and rent along with my other expenses will deplete my savings.

I need to get another job as soon as possible.

A new text comes in. It's not from my sister or Grace. It's that wicked man.

Can I call you?

I block his number, and I block Grace for good measure, too.