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Rafael
Today was a rare morning where I got to spend most of my time diving into spreadsheets and figures like I used to. Normally the small team of finance employees that works under me at Define are the ones producing the reports, but with two of them out on vacation this week, I’ve been able to dig my fingers in like the old days.
Financial math has always clicked for me. I like how I can find answers to real-life problems through it. Struggling to make ends meet? Look at your spending and adjust. Maybe that means cutting back on the amount of food you DoorDash to your best friend’s cat, or maybe that means getting a second job.
In this case though, it looks like Define’s misfortune has turned around. Ever since our company was hit with that lawsuit and we lost clientele, we’ve slowly but surely made our way back into the community's favor it seems. Based on the figures on my screen, I’ll be able to let Cora know we can hire more staff for the increase in business we’ve accumulated. I’m excited to tell her.
I’ve been working my ass off here—partly to prove to Cora that she made the right choice in hiring me, but also because I took over during a tumultuous time for Define. I took over from a well-seasoned CFO and I needed to prove that I could do it. Taking this job was a huge step up in my career, and even now, with good news for the company on the horizon, I still manage to feel like I’m not doing enough.
Will I ever?
There’s a soft knock at my open office door. “Hey, did you bring gym clothes today?” Jay asks, leaning against the frame. We’ve been working out in the small office gym together a few days a week during our lunch break recently. It’s usually a quick thirty-minute run on side-by-side treadmills, just enough to keep up my cardio during rugby season between practices.
I quickly look at my watch. “Oh shoot, is it that time already?” I ask, standing up and collecting my phone, wallet and keys. “Sorry, I can’t today. I have to make a quick trip over to Chestnut Street to talk to the contractor. Joaquín can’t be here and they need approval before installing the kitchen counter tops.”
Jay chuckles, “Oh yeah. What is this, the third time they’ve tried to install it now?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know,” he muses. “I think you should have kept the pink marble they tried to give you the first time.”
My trip to the property proves successful and worthwhile. The countertop installers had the right lightly veined stone this time and did a perfect job.
This house is starting to grow on me. I was considering selling it after a couple years, but now that the floors are in, the casework has been renovated, a new roof, the kitchen is almost complete and the bathrooms totally overhauled, there’s a soft spot growing in my heart for it. Joaquín knows what the hell he’s doing, that’s for certain.
I have a few more minutes before I need to drive back to work, so I take the opportunity to look around at each room. Even through the heavy thumps and bangs from the crew working inside the house and scraping cadence of the masons working on the exterior, everything falls away as I walk through the top floor bedrooms, envisioning my babies in here. Angie sent me several articles saying even if the space is available, keeping twins in the same room helps with anxiety for both the parents and the babies.
But what I see even clearer is her.
Here.
I see her in my bed after we’ve finally put the twins down to sleep, both of us exhausted beyond belief but happily curling into one another. But then I remember she won’t be in my bed and I won’t be in hers, and somehow that feels utterly wrong. I know living together is the right move for us and our family for now. Between her comfortable bed and comfortable body, I’ve fallen into a comfortable pattern with her, just like I’ve always done with Angie. Everything about her is my comfort zone—even when we’re trying some new kinky fantasy involving me pretending to be a duke with a penchant for tavern wenches tying me up—even then I find comfort in her attention. Comfort is not something I have ever found with sexual partners.
I think about her more as I walk down the refinished stairs. Maybe this arrangement between us will end like we agreed, but I cannot let her move out. I want her to stay. I want her to want to stay.
When I reach the main floor, the light pouring in from the sunroom on my right catches my attention. Whenever Angie comes over, she gravitates to this space. So far, there hasn’t been a plan for it other than a new floor and windows, but as I stare at the blank walls, an idea comes to mind.
There’s enough space for that, I think to myself, then shoot off a text to my brother with the change order. Right as I hit send, a call comes in from Angie, her picture lighting up the screen. She says it’s the worst photo ever taken of her, but I think it’s hilarious and perfect. It’s a candid shot of her vulgar gesticulation on the sidelines of one of my games years ago. It was taken by our team photographer and it makes me smile every time I see it. She looks more like a fuming coach rather than a spectator.
“Hey, what’s up?” I answer.
Her audible groan sets me on edge. “Ugh. I’m about to call a tow truck.”
Even though she is talking to me and sounds safe, my heart plummets as I think of her mom. How can I not? We’ve been spending almost every night reading her journal entries since she got them. We read about the love she had for her family and her life. But as soon as I imagine a tow truck, it’s only Zofia’s death I picture, and this time, Angie’s in the car.
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m in the parking lot at work,” she says casually. “I tried to leave for lunch but my car wouldn’t start, and when my coworker gave me a jump, it turned on, but before I could even get to the road, it started smoking and died again.”
All I can envision is her car aflame as sweat begins to form all over my body. “Is it currently smoking? Are you inside it?”
“I’m walking back into the building right now,” she sighs, unaware of my turmoil. “Yeah, it’s still smoking.”
I sag in relief and I’m already running out of the house and hopping into my SUV. I’ve had enough of that piece of shit car of hers. “I’ll be there fifteen minutes, Angel. Just stay inside and rest. I’ll call the tow truck,” I say, but when an idea pops in my head, changing my mood, I smirk.
“What? No. You have work. I can handle this.”
“Ang,” I deadpan. “Last time you called a tow truck they tried to charge you fifteen hundred dollars to tow it five miles.”
