Purposefully Accidental

Chapter Twenty

Even though I didn't ask him to, Peter made sure to have someone pick me up from JFK. I both lecture and thank him nearly all the way from the airport to my destination—a humble little townhouse in Upper East Side, Manhattan.

And I'm saying humble and little with as much sarcasm I can put into my words, right now.

Peter left the keys to the house to Walter, the chauffeur, who hands them to me as soon as we arrive. Just as I expected, the house is spotless, as usual. The fridge is freshly stocked with the best stuff. My room is cleaned up, all neat and tidy, my bed made up with my favorite set of bed sheets and matching duvet. I can't say I didn't miss this fluffy bed, because I really, really did. The first thing I do after rinsing off the grime from the 5-hour flight is jump onto the bed, sigh to myself contentedly, and not move for at least an hour.

It's past 5 p.m. now, so I head down to the kitchen to prepare dinner. As I make myself two healthy portions of pasta with grilled chicken—closely and methodically following a recipe from the book I brought with me, of course—I call Peter one more time, to check on his boss. Peter says he's still tied up at work, and probably won't be home tonight. Says his boss often does this—every once in a while, when things get heated up at work, he'd just sleep over on the couch in his office room.

I'm both glad and disappointed; glad that I get to enjoy the house to myself for a little while, and disappointed because I do actually miss him. I haven't seen him since New Year's Day.

"He still doesn't know I'm here, right?" I make sure one more time.

"Yes, Ma'am." I've told him a thousand times to drop the Ma'am, but it keeps falling on deaf ears that I've stopped trying. I'm only 25, for God's sake. "He has no idea. It's just me, like you asked—oh, and Walter. Nobody else knows."

"You don't need to make it sound like I'm conspiring behind him or something," I joke. "I'm just being silly. A little surprise, that's all."

"Of course, Ma'am." I fight another eyeroll at the formal address.

"Guess I'll just drop by the office tomorrow, maybe for lunch," I say to the speakerphone as I plate up my food. I'm keeping the leftovers in the fridge, in case he does come home tonight. "Does he have any free time tomorrow?"

"Um, hold on, Ma'am." I hear a few taps, as he probably scrolls through his journal. "He has a lunch meeting with a potential feature. I can have his schedule cleared at 10 a.m.?"

"Alright. Make sure it stays clear at 10, please. How long does he have? Half an hour? Fifteen?" I ask, already preparing for the worst—five minutes. "Wait, why is he meeting with a feature? That means, like, a person who's gonna be featured in the cover story or something, right? Is that even his job? What does he actually do, anyway?"

"Umm." Peter pauses. Probably confused as to why his boss's wife doesn't even know what he does for a living. Oh, well. "He has thirty minutes, but I can max it to forty-five. And as of right now, he's the deputy chief communications officer, Ma'am."

"... Right." I could ask Peter for further clarification, but seeing as I'm meeting the man himself tomorrow, I don't really feel the need to bother his poor assistant. "Okay, thank you so much for your help today, Peter."

"You're welcome, Ma'am. Walter will be ready for you anytime from 7 a.m."

"Right. Thanks again."

I end the call and return to my dinner. The house, now silent, already starts to feel too big for one person.

I wonder what it feels like for him, living in this house all by himself.

It's a beautiful house. A really, really beautiful luxury estate in Upper East Side. It's a five-story townhouse within a short, walkable distance from Central Park, and it has more bedrooms than we'll ever need—six!—and all kinds of rooms you never thought you'd need in a house—such as three different living rooms, two studies, and two kitchens. It even has what I believe is called a solarium—basically a sunroom, except fancier. I think.