As Right As Rain

by J. M. Maurer

  It’s too soon for that. And besides, he is my coworker.

  I no sooner have the thought than Eli stops and twists, lifts his sight from the floor, and shoots me a serious look.

  “Mind if I have your number?”

  I bounce to his side and ask for his phone, which he hands over without question. I type in my name and number and hand it back to him. “If you’re going to be writing my epitaph, I think you should definitely get to know me better. Text me tomorrow if you don’t mind me having your number.”

  “Assuming you haven’t given me the number to the unemployment agency, you can count on it.” He slides his phone into his pocket, ducks into an open elevator, and nods good night with a smoking hot smile.

  After the doors close, I pad my way back to my apartment. That smile—and our time together—is all I think about as I clean up and then slip into bed, only to be woken a short time later by screaming at the side of my head.

  “Wake. The. Fuck. Up!” screams the lead singer from Korn.

  Since I’m still adjusting to a dark winter in Cleveland, I often find it difficult to wake up. And with Ed’s words of promptness running a continuous loop inside my head, being late to work for any reason is obviously not an option. So I set the song “Wake Up” as my phone’s ringtone for all work-related calls and alarms. It’s not what I’d normally choose to listen to, but it’s effective for jarring me from the deepest sleep.

  Not fully alert, I roll onto all fours, reach for my phone, and inadvertently cut the call. On the bright side, at least I no longer have to listen to the wakening scream. I toss my phone to the bedside table, sink back down into bed, and nuzzle my face against a warm spot at the edge of my pillow.

  They’ll call back if it’s important.

  And they do. Or rather, Ed Richardson does.

  “Makayla, did you intentionally hang up on me?”

  I bolt upright, one hand pushing away a sizeable chunk of hair, the other pressing the phone a bit too close to my ear.

  “No, sir. I mean…” Think fast, Makayla. “I accidentally pushed the wrong button, which may have inadvertently made it seem as though I had intentionally hung up on you, but I didn’t intentionally hang up on you, sir. It was done purely by accident. Accidentally.”

  Now shut up, Makayla. Before you really tick him off.

  “Apology accepted,” he says, releasing a loud sigh. “Listen, get down to the station. We need to talk.”

  “About?” I ask, uncertain I really want to know.

  “My office in thirty, Makayla. Consider yourself lucky that I was snowed in at home this weekend. But when I text you, you should know it’s important, and that even when I’m not at the station, I expect you to call or text me back. We’ll discuss this more when you get here. And don’t be late.”

  Three beeps.

  Silence.

  I stare at my phone. Seriously? What the heck?

  Apparently, and although I’m forbidden from doing it to him, hanging up on me is perfectly acceptable behavior for my boss. I release a sigh of my own, clean myself up, and catch a bus down to the station, all while seriously contemplating how long it will be before I resolve to hitch a ride out of Cleveland. If the anger pumping off my boss in waves as I enter his office is any indication, it won’t be long.

  Nervous, I sit in the chair directly in front of his sparkling glass-top desk and cast my gaze onto the sweaty hands in my lap. While I wait, my mind starts the countdown to the shout-fest I know I’m going to hear. And it happens, confirming my notion that Ed is, in fact, none other than Ulysses S. Grant reincarnated.

  “Why didn’t you follow orders and report like you were told, at your assigned location?” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. “I don’t recall giving you permission to hijack primetime news to report on an accident that happened in the middle of the street. And for your information, it snows a lot here. This is Cleveland. Accidents are almost a given, and most of the time, they’re hardly newsworthy.”

  “Oh?” I cut in and release my hands from my lap, showing him my palms. “But what about a vehicle that has been crushed beyond recognition, underneath a tipped-over school bus full of children?”

  I cross my arms and lift a brow, concurring with my argumentative side that has, upon attack, and by lack of better judgment, effectively taken over. But judging by the way my boss lifts from his cozy leather chair and plants his fists upon his desk, I discern that my opened mouth is once again dragging me into an abominable snowman-sized mess. I drop my shoulders, move my hands back to my lap, and brace for the words that are sure to hit me with an aggressively loud slap.

  “Did it not occur to you to obtain informed consent from a parent or guardian before interviewing a child on television? Did it not occur to you that these kids needed comfort, not questions? Did it not occur to you that the photo of a child with blood smeared across his forehead might be traumatic or embarrassing? Did anything you were taught while obtaining master’s degrees in both physics and meteorology even once cross that brilliant mind of yours? Perhaps something from your internship? Makayla? Anything?”

  “I… I just—”

  He holds up his hand; the lines on his palm are as clear as the special code implied within them. In bright, flashing red color, the boss-to-subordinate warning shouts, For God’s sake, woman. Shut up. And listen!

  Taking the hint, I slouch and obey the order. I’m usually good at obeying orders. After all, my whole life has revolved around obeying my mother’s orders.

  So much for moving away and being my own self.

  Ed leans forward and shoots me the grim look of death. “Even traumatized adults often get the facts wrong. And children,” Ed straightens his spine, and as if acting against an overwhelming urge to strangle the life right out of me, takes quite a significant step back, “can’t always be relied upon to provide detailed factual accounts. What on earth were you thinking? That poor boy could have had a head injury. And there you were, breaking the rules, live on TV, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, sir, I highly doubt God has time to watch a nobody like me on TV. He’s got more important things to do. And—”

  Up goes the palm again. Ed’s nostrils flare.

  I sit back in my seat and unseeingly stare. Makayla, why can’t you just keep your mouth shut?

  Even worse, the thought crosses my mind that my brief stint with the station just might be over. My chest tightens with a tinge of pain. As much as I dislike Cleveland, I don’t want to have to crawl my way back to Oklahoma, much less wallow in self-pity the entire way home to Momma. I need this job if I want to make it on my own. Because of that, I need to do something to fix this, and I need to do it now.

  Ed clears his throat. “This is your first warning, Makayla. You’ve been here all of two weeks and you are already in the hot seat. From here on out, stick to the guidelines and follow the rules. We’ve got a long winter to get through, and I don’t want to have to fire you.”

  Unconsciously, I lift out of the chair and stand. “But I only asked a couple of questions, none of which implied blame on anyone. And I made certain to keep the interview brief.” The words spill past my lips, and despite my brain’s attempt at talking some sense into me, I can’t seem to stop myself from arguing. “I even comforted him. I—”

  “You put your arm around a child after he said ‘shit’ on live TV.” He turns the screen of his computer, enough that I have a clear view, and taps a rigid index finger on one of the keys on the keyboard. “Watch this and tell me what you see.”

  The screen lights up and promptly replays the entire segment. Without audio, it appears as though the boy is voicing an objection to my hug, not waving his hands as he profusely apologizes for his slip of the tongue. Instantly, I understand what Ed is thinking.

  “See what I mean?” he seethes.

  I jerk my gaze back to him, completely disliking his tone. “But I also helped paramedics clean up his wound. And Eli and I got them all to a warm shelte
r, none of which aired on TV.”

  “I’m only saying this once, Makayla.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Stick to your orders and don’t touch anyone again. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Richardson,” I say, lowering my chin to my chest.

  “Now, go spend the rest of the week reviewing our policy manuals. I’ll make sure you get copies to keep at home.” He gestures toward his door. “Go on. See you back on Thursday.”

  I force a stoic reply. “Thank you, Mr. Richardson. See you then.”

  With one foot in front of the other, I leave.

  The station.

  Not Cleveland.

  For now.

  This job is a stepping stone. Nothing more.

  I remind myself of this when I pop in at the café and stare indecisively at too many options on the menu. My mind is off in too many places, going back and forth with decisions. Do I take the first flight out of Cleveland or continue to look for some sort of balance point on the wobbly stone I’m currently standing on with my job? As it is, I feel like I’ve entered a logging contest that takes place on a gigantic pond, where the instant I step out onto the log, I know it’s going to spin out of control and I’m going to fall.

  I also know I’m not the first rookie to get her feet wet in this manner. And no matter how many attempts it takes, I don’t have it in me not to dry myself off and get back on. Because despite my large-scale unhappiness, I need actual on-the-job experience in order to move on. That means I also need to find a way to deal with my boss.

  With a double side order of chopped salad and a couple panini in a to-go bag, I head back to my apartment, leave everything on the kitchen counter once I get there, and then cover myself up with a blanket after plopping onto the couch. I settle in and stare out the sliding glass windows. Snow. It’s everywhere I look. It fills my balcony to the point there is no escaping through that door, even if I wanted to.

  I hear my phone buzz and let the sound draw my attention away from all the white. I figure it’s my mom. The last time we talked she was giving it all she had in her to get me to open up about what had transpired between Caleb and me. I mostly deflect each time she asks, and reroute the conversation onto my little sister who is finishing up her first semester where it’s warm and sunny and far, far south of Cleveland at the Georgia Institute of Technology.

  It works every time, except the vision of all things bright and sunny typically ushers in a wave of homesickness. Today is no different. More than I could have imagined, I miss my family and Oklahoma—a lot.

  I lift from the couch and shuffle my feet to retrieve my phone, but the buzzing stops shortly after I start digging through my purse. When I find my phone, a surge of joy jolts me alive. I gaze down at the unknown number on the screen and wonder if it might be Eli’s.

  With a pattering in my chest, I finish waking up my phone. I missed the call, but not the text that pops in. My heart beats even faster. It’s Eli.

  ELI: Do you want flowers at your funeral?

  I laugh through a smile. As his first message to me, it isn’t what I thought he would say. But then again, it sounds just like Eli. I tap out my reply and hit Send.

  MAKAYLA: It depends.

  ELI: On what?

  MAKAYLA: On whether or not I die before Valentine’s Day.

  I bite my lip and wait for his response.

  ELI: Do I need to add a well-fought battle against a terrible terminal illness to all the kind things I’m going to say about you?

  MAKAYLA: If Death by Boss counts, then yes.

  I stare at my phone for several minutes, waiting for his reply. Up until now, he’s replied rather quickly. I’m not sure where he’s gone, and feel a tinge of sadness as the smell of the paninis begins to bother my stomach. I move them to the fridge since I know I won’t feel like eating much of anything soon.

  Back at the couch, I turn on the TV and flip through a few channels, looking for anything I think might help lift me out of my gloomy mood. When nothing seems appealing, I shift to reach for my laptop sitting at the edge of the coffee table. About to pick it up, I hear my phone again, snatch it up instead, and peer down at the screen in disbelief.

  ELI: I’m downstairs. May I come up?

  If there is anyone in Cleveland who can help ease my blues, it’s the man downstairs.

  MAKAYLA: Of course you can.

  I quickly send my reply and move to buzz him in.

  Hanging out in my doorway, I smile the moment Eli’s six-foot frame appears. He has a wide smile of his own, and his gaze locked on mine nearly makes me miss the bundle of pink and white flowers he’s holding in his hand.

  “Am I dying today?” I tease with a grin and then heartily accept the bundle.

  “There are over four hundred thousand varieties of flowers out there. I’ve only got a very short time to figure out your favorite.”

  “You could just ask.”

  “And miss out on the way your beautiful face lights up when I give them to you each time?”

  “Well since you put it that way, you should know that I do love flowers and that I’m quite thankful for this lovely surprise.” You really have no idea just how grateful I am, I think, my cheeks heating as I usher him into my apartment.

  I walk Eli past an empty guest bedroom and bathroom, and then down toward the main living area that shares an open space with my kitchen. Smelling the flowers, I dart toward a kitchen cabinet and grab a couple tall plastic glasses I know will hold the roses if I split the bundle up. It’s not ideal, but given what I have in my cupboards, it’s the best I can do.

  After closing the door, I proceed to the sink. Since Eli is all about knowing a team’s emblems, as soon as he looks, he’ll immediately know where the cups came from. Stealing a glance at him, I push aside all memories of the professional basketball game I brought them home from, and add some lukewarm water to each of the cups.

  “Thank you again, Eli. These roses are beautiful.” They are more than gorgeous, and I go to work rinsing and cutting the stems, just the way I saw my mom do every time my dad brought them home for her. Thankfully I paid attention because, while I possess many of my mother’s traits, I’m certain I didn’t inherit her green thumb. “Make yourself at home while I get these in water.”

  Eli places a backpack I missed on the floor and peels off his coat, leaving on a thin white long-sleeved shirt that showcases his toned body. He hangs his coat on the back of the stool at the small peninsula that sections off the kitchen from the living area. In equally tight and wonderfully sexy denim jeans, he takes a seat and watches me while I finish up with the flowers.

  I shift my sight from the sink to Eli and notice his expression is flat. I have a hunch something’s bothering him, but decide not to pry and start placing the roses in one of the cups. Knowing one can never go wrong with a welcoming dose of Southern hospitality, I opt to initiate a simple conversation instead.

  “Picking out flowers as pretty as these must be hard work. After I finish, what can I get you to drink?”

  Eli slides off the stool and moves to the cabinet I snatched the cups from. A delightful dose of his rain-like scent mixes into the air as he glides past. “How about I get us drinks?”

  “That would be great.”

  He opens the door, takes a long moment to stare inside the cabinet, and eventually brings two glasses down.

  I’m not sure what took him so long. Now that he’s brought down the glasses, my cabinet is empty. “Should I tell you what I like, or are you banking on having four hundred thousand drinks with Makayla?”

  “Four hundred and one thousand. How did you guess?” He sets the glasses on the counter.

  “I’m just clearly a better guesser than you are,” I say, then push the last rose into place. “Drinks are in the fridge. Given how well you did with the roses, I can’t wait to see what you pick.”

  He moves to my fridge and peers inside with a chuckle. After a brief look around, he reaches in and pulls something out. I move
so I can’t see him. I don’t want to ruin the fun. There is just something wonderful about the element of surprise.

  With the cups in my hands, I place one on the credenza that holds my TV and the other on the mantel over my fireplace. That way, I can admire their beauty and appreciate the smell throughout my sparsely decorated apartment. “I have to thank you again, Eli. They look perfect.”

  Eli doesn’t respond, so I turn to see what he’s up to. He has both arms outstretched, his hands on top of the counter. I don’t see our drinks, but his gaze is directed at me.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, hoping he’ll curl his lips into that charming smile I know he has. “I really do love the roses.”

  He blinks, then smiles as if he’s heard my inner thoughts. “I’m glad you like them.” He draws in a breath and stands up tall. “I’m debating on two choices,” he adds and waggles his brows.

  I know in my fridge I have lemonade and sweet tea, which I often mix together, but there is also milk, juice, and a large bottle of liquor. I hope he’s considering two of the non-alcoholic drinks, since I’m not sure how I’ll handle myself around him once I’m under the influence. I don’t need alcohol messing with my judgment. Being around Eli causes enough of that as it is.

  “Go with your gut,” I say, unsure what has taken over my brain. I guess deep down I’m somehow comfortable letting him make the decision.

  Eli perks up. “Okay, beautiful. Let’s see if I can get this right.”

  Warmth moves through me just like it did the first time he called me photogenic. I don’t think I could ever tire of hearing him say those sweet words to me. I can’t help but hope I hear them from him often.

  While he finishes pouring our drinks, I sit on the couch and ask him what he likes to watch on TV. I assume he enjoys all things macho, but I’m not in the mood to watch anything related to sports.

  “I’m not here to watch television.” His soft tone filters in from the kitchen, and for the first time since he got here, I wonder why he showed up when he did.