“Well, you did it this time and did it wrong.” She flips through. “It’s every page, Sarah.”
What is her problem? Maybe if I prompt her, she’ll laugh and realize her mistake. “I know. But that’s not my writing.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t mine!” she snaps. “What’s your agenda?”
“My what?”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you trying to get me fired or something?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why would you sign my name wrong in the book?”
“I didn’t! You did!”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m onto you. If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work.” She steps up to the counter and looms over me. “I’m telling you right now, I’m here to stay. Better bitches than you have tried and failed to get rid of me, because you know what? Ziggy and Fern love me. I’ve got them wrapped around my little finger.”
“Phyllis, you were the one who signed your name wrong. You signed your name on each page and left the rest for me to do.”
She sneers. “Everyone knows the massage therapists are the ones who are supposed to fill out the receipt books. You just enter the amounts and the clients’ names. And the date. And yet you filled it out and messed it up.”
“But you made me. Are you serious right now?” My hands shake from frustration.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the phone rings and cuts her off. “You’d better get that. Be a shame for you to lose your job like the last receptionist.” With a wink, she sashays into one of the massage rooms.
I take a deep breath, hoping my voice won’t shake when I answer. “Inner Space, Sarah speaking.”
“How’s my little girl?”
“Dad?” He never calls me at work. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Sorry to call you at your job. I know employers hate that.”
“It’s fine. I can talk for a minute. What’s up?”
“Well…” He hesitates for a long moment. “I hate to put you out, but there’s been a bit of a mix-up. I need my prescription and can’t get it.”
“Why can’t Mom get it for you?”
“Uh… She’s pretty busy right now.” I know that tone of voice. He’s covering for her.
My parents downsized and moved to Jersey to pay for the hospital bills after Dad’s last heart attack, but they have their own transportation. “Can’t you take the car?”
“Your mother’s got it.”
I sag in my chair, suddenly feeling tired. “She left you and took the car?”
“No, no. She was just going to your aunt’s for a while. I thought I had more pills than I do. It’s my fault, really.”
Tears sting my eyes and I can only shake my head, hating that this is his life. “Which pharmacy and when do you need them?”
He gives me the address. “Is Tuesday okay?”
That means he probably only has enough for Monday but doesn’t want to put me out.
“I’ll get them and stop by Monday.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it, honey.”
I hate the gratitude in his voice. My mom should be doing this for him, being his safe place to fall, taking care of him so he’s not so stressed out. He needs a real partner instead of my irresponsible mother who’s more concerned with finding a good time than being his wife—and my mother. This is why I can’t let myself fall for someone like Jack. “Love you, Dad.”
“I love you too.”
Chapter 9
Starbucks Beauty
I’ve started going to Starbucks again—after work or on days off only, because I took a cup into work once and got a lecture about the evils of big corporations and the consumer’s responsibility of only purchasing fair-trade coffee beans.
Long blond hair. You were checking your Facebook on your Mac.
Not me then. Can’t a brunette catch a break?
You are unbelievable, but I saw the guy in the orange jacket pick you up. I’m not into splitting up couples so I kept to myself. Hope to see you there again.
Interesting how he wants to see her again, if only from a distance. I can’t decide if that’s stalker-ish or romantic.
Sexy Neighbor
I just moved—what if someone saw me and fell in love? I may have seen him in the elevator or in the lobby where we get our mail. It could be so romantic if we’ve been eyeing each other for a while. But if he’s a creeper, he could be pressing his ear to our shared wall right now. For once I’m hoping it’s not me in the post.
To the sexy woman next door. I’ve wanted you for over nine months now.
It’s not me. Relieved, I read on, now curious.
But we’re both married, so I must admire you from afar. We’re both home during the day. You are on oxygen. You saw me recycling a lot of “special magazines.” Reply with your dog’s name if you want to see what could happen between us.
What the flaming fuck? My fingers take me back to the menu, and I scroll down, trying to find one that doesn’t sound so strange.
Then, stepping from the computer, I head to my kitchen and pour a glass of ice-cold milk so I can dunk a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. There’s a fancy grocery store on the same block as Inner Space, and while I can’t afford most of their prices, their bakery is worth it. Since moving out of Pete’s, my diet has been pretty lackluster. I miss his cooking almost as much as I miss him.
It’s sad how eager I’ve been for Saturday all week. The hippies are doing one of Fern’s courses, so I get Monday off as well—a much-needed mental break from Inner Space. Realizing how tense my shoulders are, I decide to head to the bathroom for a hot shower before my second cup of tea.
Dad’s prescription can’t be filled until Monday morning, so I’ll pick his pills up and take them to him Monday afternoon, just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t have enough and went without for a day or two, worried about inconveniencing me—which is ridiculous. I would do anything for him.
The water gently pounds the knots from my shoulders and back, but it’s way too hot, so I turn it down to tepid after a few minutes. Being a paralegal had me chained to a desk, which is hard on the body, but I wasn’t doing load after load of laundry all day like I am now. It’s the folding that sucks more than anything, but I’m faster at it than when I started. Not only that, but I’m constantly navigating unfamiliar territory, worried about what misstep I’m going to make.
My wardrobe, my opinions on feminism, dryer sheets, and dishwashers… More often than not, I have to be on full alert for potential land mines with my bosses. Despite my research into energy work, I don’t know the rules yet, and Ziggy and Fern are so different from me. They’ve noticed my tension and encouraged me to get massages from them, but the thought of either of my bosses or my coworkers getting me naked and rubbing away my tension weirds me out. Some lines can’t be crossed, and I’d like to keep it professional.
Maybe not with yummy Blake…but he’s still a coworker and off-limits. Why are all the guys I could be into off-limits to me?
I dry off before wrapping the towel around my hair and walking to my bedroom naked. Another perk of living alone. Not that Pete would have cared, but I’m not an exhibitionist. Besides, just because you’re besties doesn’t mean you need to parade around naked in front of each other. There’s such a thing as oversharing.
I have three glorious, hippie-free days before me, and I’m going to yoga-pant my way through them like a boss. I pad back to my computer, now dressed, and look through the job postings for something a little better suited to me, but there’s still nothing.
Might as well head back to my favorite place.
Eye Contact Extraordinaire
A hot guy in a business suit totally eye-fucked me at the bodega last night.
I was caught in your gaze as we left the movie theater last night.
Not me. Damn.
Maybe we can share popcorn and our own matinee sometime. T
ell me what movie we saw and what I was drinking.
I like how people leave instructions like this, but sometimes they’re so vague I doubt the person involved would remember, even if they were interested. “We met at the Summit bar. You had a brunette friend; I had a friend with a green hat. Would have loved to get to know you better. Tell me what my friend was drinking.” Like, what the hell is that? I pay attention to what people say, not what they drink. Especially strangers. And if I like you, I’m not paying attention to your friends in minute detail—though, if two people were really into each other, I’m sure there’d be other ways of establishing identity.
I move on to the next ad.
Not too late for us. It’s been way too long since I’ve gotten to use your nickname. We keep going around and around, breaking up and reuniting.
Not me then; I don’t recycle exes—they’re exes for a reason.
So many amazing memories. There could be so many more if you’d let me back in. You’d be proud to know I haven’t crashed my way into any cabbies this year. Every day, I wake up hoping to find you on my doorstep, knocking to get back into my life.
Next!
If Only You Knew
There are a lot of ads like this, from someone the person knows. A lot are from strangers, but the ones where the admirer is someone in their life really make me sad. To go through life wanting someone you know to the point that you’d write a Missed Connection makes my heart hurt a little for them. They have different reasons for not declaring their love, but at the end of the day, the longing is what gets to me. Sort of like with me and Jack.
I push him from my mind and read on.
Hopefully you find a piece of happiness. I hope that lying to me was worth it. You took advantage of me, Jill.
Oh, so not what I thought this was going to be. What did Jill lie about?
You are everything they said you are, and I hate that they were right, and I hate that it took me this long to see that about you. Good-bye, bitch.
Wow. I doubt Jill will ever see this, but ouch.
I reach for my drink, then realize I finished my milk before my shower. Someone knocks on my front door just as I grab the milk and bite into another cookie. Damn it. The relaxation my hot shower bought me evaporates, and my shoulders tense up again.
The worst thing about working reception is that when the phone rings, I have to get it. When someone comes in, I’m the one who has to rush back and deal with them. I have to jump at the whims of other people even when someone else is standing right there and could grab that phone themselves.
But that’s my job. I’m away from the office now.
Can I just not answer? Pretend no one’s home? I’m not expecting anyone, so technically, I don’t have to open my door. Ever. Or answer the phone. That’s it! I’ll stand here quietly eating cookies until whoever it is gets tired of waiting and goes the hell away. Relief fills me.
Being a receptionist is giving me social anxiety.
More knocking. “Sarah, open up.”
Jack? I take a step in one direction, then another, and another, smoothing my hair and brushing crumbs from my mouth before I remember I’m not supposed to care what Jack thinks I look like. Why is he here? Curiosity wins out and I open the door.
Why does he have to be so sexy? Why? Damn you, summer! Jack is wearing a pair of worn jeans and a bright-white tank top that shows off his tanned, muscular arms. He is my type. The way his physique is muscular but lean so his muscles seem casual and dangerous, instead of the result of spending hours at the gym. And then there are his stupid cheekbones and dark-blue eyes and his silky brown hair that I want to use to pull his mouth toward mine… “Jack.”
“Hey.”
I nod at the box in his arms, using the opportunity to ogle his biceps. “What’s that?”
“A few things you left at Pete’s. He asked me to bring it over.” He hands me the box.
“Come in.” I hold the door for him with my foot. I still remember the way his lips felt on mine, the way he seemed to focus every cell in his body on me, on joining together in that kiss like it was the only thing he was meant to be doing for the rest of his life.
Then the words I said to him crash over me, and I feel awful all over again. “Jack, I’m sorry for the things I said to you.” I don’t mean to blurt it out, but every syllable is sincere. “I was an asshole.” I clutch the box. “It’s all my shit, you know? Issues because of my parents and their fucked-up relationship, but that’s no excuse. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. For everything. No qualifiers or buts. I just want us to be okay.”
He gives me a small nod. “We’re okay.”
Relief makes my legs shake. “I was just having milk and cookies. You want?”
The look in his eyes burns my skin, but it disappears beneath a friendly smile. “Sure, I could stay for a cookie.”
For a cookie—meaning there’s somewhere he needs to be, or he’s making it clear that there’s an expiration date on this visit. Maybe I’m not completely forgiven, but he’s giving me a chance to be friends again. Whatever it means, I’ll take it.
“Pete says hi.”
I step past him into the kitchen. “Yeah, I’ll text him later. We’re hanging out on Monday. I get the day off because the hippies are doing a course.”
“Ah, yeah. So.”
“So.”
Neither of us says anything for a moment. He bites the corner of his mouth, and I’m filled with the urge to feel his teeth on my lip. My manners show up then. “Thanks for bringing me my stuff.”
“Sure. I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
“Help yourself to a cookie. Glasses are in the left cupboard. Or there’s juice in the fridge if you’d rather.” While Jack grabs a glass, I fold back a flap to see what I left at Pete’s—I was sure I’d brought everything—and grin at the Tupperware container of his killer taco salad that he’s placed on the top. “Awesome.”
“Food?”
“Yeah. Taco salad.”
“Nice.”
I move the container to the fridge and look in the box again. Next, I pull out a half-used bottle of shampoo. Pete’s hypercritical of my brand, saying it’s not up to his high standards and salon quality, but I love the black cherries and vanilla smell of the cheaper brand. Perfect and not sickly sweet. Beneath the shampoo is a plastic grocery bag tied with three knots. I can’t undo them, so I tear the bag.
A couple pairs of panties fall to the floor. Thankfully they are pretty ones, but my face heats in a slow burn as I bend to retrieve them before Jack does and stuff them back into the box.
He says nothing, only grabs a cookie and takes a bite. “What are you up to today?”
“Not a lot. Just hanging out.”
“Job hunting online?” He points to my computer, and I blush harder, but luckily the writing is tiny and he can’t see that it’s not an ad for a job.
“Yeah, I need to see what else is out there.”
“Things not working out at Inner Space?”
“It feels like a waste of my degree, and there’s no real opportunity for advancement.” I grab another cookie. “I mean, it’s okay for now. Other than them being slightly crazy hippies.”
“There’s that. Pete was telling me about Phyllis.”
Of course I’d told Pete about Phyllis and the receipt book. It was too crazy not to. “Yeah, it’s nuts. That one’s not playing with a full deck. But a job’s a job.”
“True.” He nods and sips.
Nothing was casual about us the last time he stood here. I’ve apologized and he’s forgiven me, but I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Maybe it means more to me than him. Maybe it was better for me than it was for him.
Do I even measure up to the other women he’s been with? He’s a sexy club owner with impeccable taste in music and rock-hard abs. Women swarm all over him. Irrationally, I want to prove that I’m just as good as they are.
But mostly I’m horny as hell and he’s my sexual kryptonite, bu
t neither of those reasons justifies ruining our friendship for a quick roll in the sack. Unable to think of anything else to talk about, I grab my glass, and we stand a couple of feet apart, sipping milk and drowning in all the words we’re not saying.
My phone rings, and I jump to answer it, thankful for the break from the silence. “Hello?”
“Sarah.” Fern’s voice is flatter than usual.
“Hey, Fern. How are you?” My boss, I mouth to Jack.
“We have a little issue.”
My heart falls. “What’s happening?”
“There’s a problem with the receipt book.”
Oh, that. “Ah, yes. Phyllis’s right?”
“Oh good, you’re aware of it. Though I’d have preferred you come to me with it, instead of waiting for me to discover the problem.”
“I didn’t know about it right away either, but—”
“So would you rather pay us for the book when you come in next, or just have us deduct the cost from your next check?”
My face stiffens from shock. “What?”
Jack sets his glass down with a concerned expression.
Fern sighs. “For the receipt book.”
I don’t want Jack to hear this, so I slip into my bedroom and close the door. “Why would I have to pay for the receipt book?”
A heavy sigh. “Sarah, I’m getting a lot of tension and defensiveness from you right now.”
My nails cut into my palm. “I’m sorry, Fern, but I don’t understand why I have to pay to replace a receipt book that Phyllis wrecked.”
“Sarah, the writing in the book is yours.”
“The writing is, but the signature isn’t.” My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it calm.
“Why would you write in Phyllis’ book?”
“She had me do it after she signed it.”
“I doubt that she’d make you do anything. Besides, I find it hard to believe that Phyllis would spell her name wrong on every single page.”
Missed Connections Page 7