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Still idling in the parking lot, I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel and exhaled. A normal person would break down at that point, but nothing came. There were two reasons I could identify easily: I hated that fucking job and wasn’t really sad to be leaving. The second was the more mature reason. I deserved to be fired. I was a shit employee with shit attendance habits and very little field experience to offer the team. I’d fire me too.
The drive home went by in a blur, and I made the turn into our long driveway before I could register where I was. The dangerousness of my actions only got a moment of airtime before I dismissed the thought. I’d had enough of a beating today already to add to it myself.
After reading the comments Marla had left on the pink slip, I’d be lucky to get another job in journalism. I certainly wouldn’t be using the past two years as a professional reference, and then I’d have to explain the gap in employment. It was a screw-over no matter which way I dealt with it.
The house was quiet and empty. My mom went to Pilates religiously, and she would probably run errands after her class. Some people loved routine like that—my sister Hannah was the same way.
Not me, though. I loved surprises and spontaneity. Sure, we all had responsibilities to handle, but why not have fun in between? I was sure a person could be both responsible and exciting. I just had to figure out how to accomplish both, keep my parents off my back, deal with Carmen and this ridiculous marriage mistake, and not call too much attention to myself.
That’s when people started offering opinions I never asked for. About my career choice, about my job—well, my former job—about my love life. Hell, even about my clothing and eating habits. How did my family become self-appointed experts on my life? On my likes and dislikes? On my needs and wants? Did I come off as the lost soul who needed their expert guidance? Well…there might be something to that theory, but I wasn’t in the mood to hate myself today.
From the moment I declared a major in college, my parents disapproved of the decision. They weren’t very good at hiding their disappointment, either. Especially my dad, and that one stung more than I cared to think about. He had his hopes set on my following in his accounting footsteps. Early on, I showed a natural gift with numbers, but I didn’t enjoy it the way I did writing.
“There’s no money in journalism, darling,” he’d said in his official fatherly voice. He had his heart set on me doing an internship at his accounting firm and one day taking over the reins. I had zero interest in any of it.
“Don’t you want to be an independent woman?” my mother had questioned when no one else was around. Obviously that was her lost dream, and she was trying to pin it on me now. It didn’t take Freud to explain that one.
My parents fell in love and married in a whirlwind of a few months. Within a year, she was pregnant with Hannah and spent the next three decades raising children. I didn’t mind kids. They were okay. If that was the path to happiness at some point, then I’d be open to having a family. It just wasn’t on my radar now, and my mom wanted grandbabies to coo over and spoil more than anything.
At least with Hannah already knocked up, that weighty sack was lifted off my wagon. My parents didn’t pin many expectations on my oldest sister because they were consumed with guilt from an incident that was decades old. At the precious age of five, she was the victim of an attempted kidnapping. My parents never forgave themselves for it happening, especially my mother. One hour out of a lifetime changed everything for our entire family. The rest of us girls were barely affected because we were so young. But Hannah had dealt with residual mental health problems ever since.
My phone dinged in my bag, and I knew the sound meant I had a text message. Since no one else was home, I flopped down on the sofa and carelessly tossed my bag onto the coffee table. I grabbed my phone and situated the three hundred and sixty-one throw pillows to make a comfortable nest. Half landed on the floor, but I was too busy with my phone to fuss about it.
How is the day treating you?
Can’t wait to see you later.
The message was from Carmen, and my body turned traitor in a second. No one was around to hide my true reaction from, so I let the giddy smile loose. The damn thing spread from one side to the other until I subconsciously raised my hand to protect myself from being exposed.
But then I dropped it again and tossed my head back farther into the pillow pile and giggled. I had no idea how badly I needed someone to care about me right then, but it felt like a wonderful hug when I read those two sentences.
He was probably waiting for a reply while I had this prolonged moment of discovery, so I tapped as quickly as I could.
Like a redheaded stepchild. You?
Carmen’s reply came quickly.
Do you need to talk?
No.
Thanks, though. You’re sweet.
Was that corny to say that? I didn’t know the guy well enough to trust how he’d take it. My eyes bugged when I read his next message. It came almost simultaneously with an incoming call.
I’m calling.
The smile was back, and I fought the urge to cover my mouth with my fingertips.
“Hello?” I didn’t have my husband built into my contacts, so the number wasn’t identified as his.
“Hi,” he said in a voice that was both smooth and rough at the same time. Just beneath the surface, blood rushed to my cheeks, increasing my body temperature to an unbearable degree.
What the hell was this guy doing to me?
“Hi,” I repeated his greeting, and my own voice sounded like a sexy night shift deejay for the local jazz station.
“Are you okay? Tell me what’s going on,” he issued. Though his voice was quiet and calm, a note of authority underlined each word.
