Chapter 284
**Sara**
I stepped out of the office building, scanning the street for Tom's familiar sleek car. The evening crowd rushed past, everyone eager to escape the corporate grind, but no sign of my professor's car. My heart sank a little. I'd gotten used to his surprise pickups.
Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I joined the stream of people heading toward the subway station. My heels clicked against the pavement – these shoes were definitely not made for walking.
A businessman nearly knocked me over as he barreled past, phone glued to his ear. "Watch it!" I called after him, but he was already lost in the sea of suits and briefcases.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
I dug through my bag, fishing out my phone while dodging another rushing commuter. Tom's name didn't light up the screen – instead, "Mom" flashed across it. Guilt twisted my stomach. When was the last time we talked? Two weeks ago? Maybe three?
The last conversation had been the usual twenty questions about my love life, job hunting, and whether I was eating enough vegetables. I hadn't even told her about landing the position at Westbridge.
I swiped to answer, opening my mouth to apologize for being MIA.
"Hello? Is this Sara Parker's phone?" Mom's voice crackled through the speaker.
"Yes, Mom, it's me—"
"Oh, thank goodness. Listen, have you seen my daughter? She's been missing for three weeks. Not a call, not a text, nothing. I'm starting to think she's been abducted by aliens or joined a circus."
I stopped walking, causing someone behind me to bump into my shoulder. "Mom, it's me. Sara."
"Young lady, how dare you pretend to be my daughter? I know Sara's voice, and you sound nothing like her."
"Mom, I swear it's me. I've been meaning to call, but things have been crazy. I actually got a job!"
"You what?" The screech made me pull the phone away from my ear. "When did this happen?"
"At Westbridge Capital. I started last week—"
"Last week? LAST WEEK?" Each word got progressively louder. "So you've had time to work at this fancy new job but no time to call your mother? What about your father? Your brother? Do they know?"
I winced, sliding onto a nearby bench. "I was going to tell everyone soon..."
"Soon? When exactly is soon? Next Christmas? Your wedding day? When you have grandchildren, I don't know about?"
"Mom—"
"Don't you 'Mom' me. Your father's been asking about you. He keeps saying, 'Has Sara called?' And I've been sitting here like an idiot saying, 'Oh, she's probably busy with job hunting.' Meanwhile, you're already employed!"
"I was going to tell you all this weekend—"
"This weekend? Oh, how generous of you to pencil us into your busy schedule." The sarcasm dripped through the phone. "What happened to my sweet little girl who used to tell me everything? And now I'm lucky if I get a text message saying you're alive every three weeks."
I rubbed my temple. "I'm sorry, okay? Things have been complicated."
"Complicated? Are you in trouble? Are you in witness protection? Have you joined a cult?"
"What? No! Nothing like that. Just new job, new schedule, trying to figure everything out."
"Well, you better figure out how to use a phone soon, young lady. And you're coming to dinner this Sunday. No excuses." She wasn't asking - her familiar stern tone made it clear this was a command, not a request.
"Mom, I'll be there. I promise."
"You better be. And bring an appetite – I'm making lasagna."
"The one with the extra cheese?"
"Don't try buttering me up, missy. But yes, extra cheese. And garlic bread. And tiramisu."
My stomach growled at the mention of Mom's cooking. After weeks of takeout, quick meals, and my cooking, a home-cooked dinner sounded like heaven. "You're the best, Mom," I said, already imagining the savory aroma of lasagna filling the house and the comforting warmth of family around the dinner table.
"Oh, now I'm the best? A minute ago, I wasn't even worth a phone call." She paused for dramatic effect. "You know, I saw on the news the other day about this mother who hadn't heard from her daughter in weeks. Want to know what she did?"
"Filed a missing person's report?" I ventured, already knowing where this was headed.
"Exactly! The police found her daughter living perfectly fine just three blocks away. Can you imagine? The embarrassment? The officers' time wasted?" Her voice took on that particular tone that meant business. "So help me, Sara Parker, if you don't show up this Sunday, I will march down to the police station myself."
"Mom, you wouldn't."
"Try me. I'll bring those awful photos from your eighth-grade dance recital as evidence. The ones with the purple tutu and the glitter makeup."
I gasped. "That's blackmail!"
"That's motherhood, sweetheart. And I've got twenty-three years of embarrassing photos ready to go."
"Fine, fine! I'll be there. Just please keep those photos locked away where they belong."
"And don't you dare be late! Dinner's at six sharp." Mom's voice softened. "Love you, sweetie."
"Love you too, Mom."
The call ended, and I slumped against the bench, exhaling dramatically. Between Mom's guilt trip and the promise of her lasagna, my evening had taken an unexpected turn. At least the threat of those dance recital photos was enough to keep me in line.
I hauled myself up, adjusting my bag strap, which seemed to get heavier with each step toward the subway station. The evening rush hour was in full swing, and bodies pressed together like sardines as we all shuffled down the stairs.
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please," the automated voice droned as I squeezed through just in time. Finding a spot to hold onto, I checked my phone again. Still no message from Tom.
My mind wandered to his usual pickup routine. He'd text something cheesy like "Your chariot awaits, m'lady" or "Need a ride, stranger?" Complete with those dorky emojis he pretended not to love using.
When I reached Tom's building, my feet were screaming at me.
I dug out the key Tom had given me last week. "For emergencies," he'd said with a wink, suggesting he had more than just emergencies in mind. The doorman nodded as I walked past – I was becoming a regular fixture here.
The elevator ride-up gave me time to conjure up various scenarios. Maybe Tom got caught up in a faculty meeting. Or maybe he was planning some elaborate surprise. Or – knowing him – he'd fallen asleep grading papers again.
I unlocked his apartment door, already calling out, "Tom? You here?"
Silence greeted me. The place was dark except for the city lights streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows he loved so much.
"Hello? Anyone home? Any billionaire professors hiding behind the couch?"
Nothing. Not even the sound of the shower running.
I kicked off my shoes and padded to the kitchen. His coffee machine – my true love, if I'm being honest – sat there tempting me. Well, he did say to make myself at home.
While the machine worked its magic, I checked my phone again. Still radio silence from Tom. This was unusual for him. He usually couldn't go more than a few hours without sending me some random fact about economic theory or a terrible finance pun.
"Just you and me tonight," I told the coffee machine, which responded with a satisfying gurgle. At least someone was talking to me.
I settled onto his ridiculously comfortable couch, cradling my coffee mug.
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