Heidi's Guide to Four Letter Words

by Tara Sivec

  “Oh, I’m just going to throw this whole box away. No research needed. Nothing but junk here. I might even light a fire out back and burn the whole thing. I don’t have a fire pit, but I’m sure it’s fine and I won’t light my entire yard on fire.” I laugh uncomfortably.

  “Looks like you’ve got some nice equipment in there. Podcast stuff, right?” he asks, leaning closer to me and peering into the box. “I have a friend who records a podcast. It looks like outdated stuff, but you could probably still get it to work.”

  “I don’t think anyone would want to listen to me talking to myself. What would I even talk about? My life isn’t exciting or interesting enough for something like that,” I reply quietly, looking down at myself.

  I’m wearing a dress with yellow pencils on it, for goodness sake. My entire closet is filled with dresses covered in the alphabet, apples, and other kid-friendly designs that were appropriate to wear to school. My thoughts immediately turn to Laura and all the skin she was showing on her date with Brent, and how she wouldn’t have any problems working at EdenMedia. Now, I just feel like a child standing next to a man who is out of my league and attracted to women who don’t get embarrassed just by having a dirty book in her general vicinity.

  “I think you’re pretty interesting. You could talk about your new job,” Brent suggests with a shrug, giving me a wink before he turns and starts walking back over to his yard.

  I’m so busy being shocked by the fact that he thinks I’m interesting and that he winked at me that I never take my eyes off him as he walks away. I watch the muscles in his back ripple as his arms swing down by his sides. I don’t realize I’m still standing on the sidewalk next to my car, watching Brent start pulling weeds again, until a car door slams a few houses down, making me jump and scurry up the walkway into my house.

  Yep. It’s official. EdenMedia has corrupted me. I don’t know whether to be worried about it or look forward to what the future might bring.

  As soon as I get inside my house and set the box on top of the kitchen table, my cell phone starts buzzing with an incoming call. When I pull it out of the front pocket of my dress and see I have seven missed calls from my mother, I’m thankful I had the foresight to pick up wine the other day when I was at the store.

  Nothing bad ever happens when a woman is contemplating her entire existence and where she went wrong, home alone with a brand new box of wine chilling in her fridge and a dirty romance novel she’s afraid to even touch, let alone read, which is suddenly calling her name after she heard her extremely attractive neighbor read the blurb on the back cover.

  Said no one ever.

  Chapter 5

  Heidi’s Podcast, Episode 1

  “Okay. Uh, is this thing even on? How do I know if it’s on? Oh my God. This is so stupid. I’m gonna have the biggest headache in the morning, but this box of wine is really delicious. People hear ‘box of wine’ and they think, ‘Oh jeez. Oh no, I would never drink that, because it probably tastes like a box. But, you guys, it doesn’t taste like a box at all. It just tastes like wine. I wonder how good this microphone thingy is. Can you hear me pouring more wine? Well, I’m not actually pouring it. I’ve got my box of Franzia Sunset Blush sitting right next to me on my kitchen table and it’s got a plastic spout where I just push the button. Glug-glug-glug—I’m inserting sound effects just in case you can’t hear it. Aaand… instant glass of wine!” I take a big gulp from the glass I’ve already refilled twice before and continue to ramble.

  “Okay, so… okay, podcast. Podcast. It’s my podcast! Heidi’s… Heidi’s Podcast. Whatever. Okay, so… uhhh, what am I going to talk about? Like, who would listen to this? Who cares? Who would even listen….” I stop to take another swig of cheap wine and start over.

  “Hi! This is the podcast of a woman who used to be a kindergarten teacher and got fired because of budget cuts, and now she got hired at a place where she sits around listening to people read dirty books all day. It’s like… worse than that time I played Cards Against Humanity at my cousin’s New Year’s Eve party after our parents had gone home, and the card said, ‘During sex, I like to think about…’ and the only card I had left in my hand was one that said ‘Butt Stuff’ and I was so confused, because who thinks about going to the bathroom during sex? But then my cousin’s girlfriend explained it to me and I wanted to die and I kept shouting, ‘People really do that? But why?’”

  I snort, swirling the liquid inside my glass. “Oh my God… I thought I blocked that out.” And I begin yet again. “Okay, so… hi! This is a podcast about…. What is it even about? You know what? This podcast is about the fact that I am so stuck right now. I can’t do what my mom wants me to do. I don’t have a job my parents will ever brag to their friends about. I obviously can’t do what Laura’s doing next door with my neighbor, because I don’t know how to say all those dirty things and bat my eyelashes and be so… Laura. I know how to fall into bushes though, let me tell you. I’m really good at that. I’m a bush ninja. Does anyone need to hire a bush ninja? I’m available evenings and weekends after dark. Hey, it’s Heidi’s Bush Ninja Show, where she tries to avoid falling into rosebushes, because bleeding isn’t sexy.”

  I chug the rest of my wine, definitely feeling sorry for myself, and then point at the microphone as if it’s a person I’m trying to convince. “I’m also well-skilled in drooling so hard over my shirtless neighbor that I drop a box of podcast equipment all over my walkway, and he has to come over in all his shirtless, bare-chested glory and smile at me so… shirtlessly. What the heck?”

  I let out a belch before asking, “So, I don’t know. What else is in this box?” I hold the offending object in the air. “Oh no. I’m not gonna read that. Definitely not gonna read that. Did I mention my neighbor was shirtless when he read the back cover of this thing? Oh, you probably can’t see what I’m holding, can you? That’s probably for the best. I don’t want anyone to know this book is even in my house, let alone that I touched it. But you should have heard him reading the blurb, with all that stuff he has going on up top and his no-shirt-wearing, muscly man muscles, and all that sweaty shirtlessness, and those dimples…. Is it hot in here all of a sudden? I feel warm. Maybe I should have more wine so I forget about how hot I am.”

  Even though I’m wasted and will definitely regret it in the morning, I refill my glass once more while chanting, “Glug-glug-glug, I’m spouting more wine into my glass. Do-do-do! I’m just gonna set this book waaay over here on the other side of the table and pretend it’s not even sitting there, silently judging me. I should read something though. I gotta read something. I’ll just read something, because then I don’t even have to think about what I’m gonna say! Oh, this will be fun! Hold on, I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get a book from my shelf on the other side of the room.”

  I hop out of my chair excitedly before the world spins beneath my feet, and I walk with my arms spread for balance, feeling like I’m on a ship as I make my way to my bookcase.

  “I’m back! I grabbed one of my favorites. I’ll read this Lisa Puffinbarger book about the guy in the buggy going down the road to the covered bridge. There was a good covered bridge scene; let me find it. Okay, chapter three. ‘Hyrum Yoder had always been in love with his neighbor on the next farm over, Sarah Bender. The pale pink bonnet that adorned her head matched the color of her lips that—’ Uuugh, I can’t do this! I swear, this is a sweet, beautiful scene about Sarah finally realizing Hyrum is in love with her, and it’s all because of the covered bridge and because she realizes there’s so much more to him than just a man who churns butter for his family. But after what I heard at work today, everything Hyrum says about Sarah suddenly seems so dirty, and I can’t read this without emphasizing the word ‘churn’ because all I can hear in my head is producer Dave telling a narrator he thinks it needs to be hotter, and there shouldn’t be anything hot or dirty about butter churning!” I huff, blowing a piece of hair that’s fallen into my face.

  I put my elbows on t
he table then drop my forehead into my hands, closing my eyes. “I can’t do this. Why am I so boring? This is so sad. I’m just gonna get another glass of wine. Yay, Heidi’s Wine Show! But it’s more like, whine show. Waaah, why is my life so boring?”

  I murmur to myself more than the recording device in front of me, “Okay, Heidi. Pretend you are not a loser.”

  I sit up straight, ready to give it one more go, but then I promptly deflate. “Oh my God. This is a mess. I’m a mess. I’m a boring former kindergarten teacher who can’t even talk about an Amish romance without blushing. How do I expect my hot, muscly neighbor—with dimples that make me feel like melted butter—to even give me a second glance? I can’t. Because I’m pathetic. And now I want butter. I want a big old buttery sculpture of Princess Kay of the Milky Way sitting on my table now. I would eat her face right off.” I sniff, standing to look over the equipment.

  “Did this even work? This thing probably didn’t even record. I’m gonna get more Franzia and see if it worked. Or maybe I’ll just Netflix something.”

  Chapter 6

  “I could have died last night and you don’t even care.”

  My mother’s overly dramatic voice in my ear feels like someone is driving nails right through my skull. Pressing my palm against my forehead, I close my eyes and lean back in the computer chair behind the reception desk at EdenMedia. Thankfully, it’s been a quiet morning so far. A few narrators were already hard at work when I got here an hour ago, and I made sure they had everything they needed before running away from the sound booths and back to the safety of the reception area before they started recording.

  I know better than to drink on a work night. The empty box of wine on my kitchen table this morning, along with the podcast equipment strewn all around it, tells me I made more than one poor choice last night, but all I can remember is sitting at the table talking to myself. And watching a really unhealthy number of episodes of Fuller House.

  “Mom, if you would have died last night, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have called me twelve times and sent eight text messages.”

  “Your father could have been using my phone to tell you I died. I went through eighteen hours of labor with you, without the comfort of pain medication, and you don’t even care that I might be lying here right now, dead. I would have died without my daughter even telling me about her job interview.”

  I silently mouth the whole “eighteen hours of labor” spiel right along with her, since that’s always her go-to way of making me feel guilty.

  “I’ve already gotten three phone calls this morning asking how your interview went, and I had to pretend like I have a thoughtful, loving daughter who cares about her own mother and tells her about what’s going on with her life,” she continues.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It was a long day, and I was exhausted when I got home. Didn’t you get my text that I got the job and everything was fine?”

  Yes, I took the chicken’s way out and sent her a text instead of calling her back. I was in no way prepared last night to explain to her what they do here at EdenMedia. The fact that I picked up her call a few minutes ago without giving it a second thought is just a reminder that I’m not running on all cylinders this morning, because I’m still not prepared. I doubt I’ll ever be.

  Sheesh, how much did I drink last night, and what did I do with that equipment?

  “How was I supposed to know that text was even from you? You could have been abducted on your way home and that was your kidnapper sending a text just to throw me off. That happened to Karen Mendleson. You remember Karen Mendleson’s daughter from high school. Alicia Mendleson. You two always had lockers next to each other, because it was alphabetical order. Pretty girl, except for when she smiled, because she had that problem with her front teeth, but just the sweetest thing and always so polite. She works for Dr. Stanford’s office as a medical assistant, and since they have a good dental plan, she finally got her teeth fixed with braces. She was on her way home from work a few months ago and stopped to get gas. Not at Colony Plaza, because their gas is always ten cents higher than everywhere else. She went to Kwik Trip, but since there was a water main break on East Main Street, she had to take Yellowstone Trail to Vista Boulevard. So, she gets her gas and heads to Karen’s house for dinner. Karen was making lasagna, and she doesn’t use those precooked noodles like I told her to, so of course it took over an hour for the lasagna to cook, and Alicia still wasn’t there, even though she’d sent her mother a text telling her she would be there in a few minutes. Poor Karen. She still talks about that night.”

  My headache grows increasingly worse with each word my mother speaks.

  “Mom, Alicia got a flat tire. She didn’t get kidnapped,” I remind her, having spoken to Alicia at church the day after this happened where we both commiserated about how crazy our mothers are.

  “But Karen didn’t know that! Just wait until you have your own children, Heidi, and you’ll understand the pain I go through on a daily basis worrying about you. Now, tell me all about this job. I’ve got a pan of toffee bars in the oven and have thirty minutes until they’re finished.”

  A chime echoes through the reception area, indicating someone just walked through the front doors. I quickly sit up straight in my chair, thankful I’m literally being saved by the bell. Holding the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I quickly move the mouse around on top of the desk to bring the computer back to life to check the calendar and see who’s scheduled to be here.

  “It’s just a typical office job where I answer phones and send emails. It’s fine, I’m fine, and there’s not much else to tell right now.”

  At least nothing I want to tell her over the phone. Or ever.

  I do a double take when I see the name listed on the calendar, wondering if I’m still a little wine drunk from last night. There’s no way that’s correct. No way at all. When I sense someone standing in front of my desk, I slowly look up from the computer screen, and my mouth drops open.

  “I went through eighteen hours of—”

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I quickly end the call, cutting my mother off midsentence, knowing I’m going to pay for that later. And by “later” I mean right this second, since my phone immediately starts buzzing in my hand. I don’t have to look down at it to know it’s her calling back. I quickly press the button on the side of the phone to silence it, open the top drawer of the desk, and toss it inside, never taking my eyes off the man standing in front of me.

  “Sorry, didn’t want to interrupt,” he says with a kind smile. “I’m Jameson Kenter. I think I’m on the schedule to do some recording this morning.”

  I blink my eyes a few times, wondering if I’m dreaming. When the tall, devastatingly handsome man I’d recognize anywhere is still standing on the other side of my desk, I know I’m awake and this definitely isn’t a dream.

  “You’re Jameson Kenter,” I whisper in awe.

  With his short, jet-black hair and striking green eyes, Jameson Kenter would make any woman act like a fool in his presence, even if he wasn’t one of Hollywood’s hottest up-and-coming actors. Even though action movies aren’t really my thing, I’ve seen everything he’s done, because he’s just so pretty to look at, on top of being a great actor who does all of his own stunt work.

  Jameson chuckles softly and nods, reaching his arm across the desk with his hand out.

  I look at his hand, back up to his face, then down at his hand again before I realize what he’s doing and quickly leap up to shake it. The back of my knees smack into the seat of the chair and it goes flying backward, crashing into the wall behind me. I’m so busy wincing at the loud noise it makes that at least it stops me from giggling like a fool when Jameson’s large, warm hand wraps around mine and he gives it a firm shake.

  My cell phone starts buzzing loudly again from inside the desk drawer, bouncing all around the metal interior, making an even bigger racket than my chair flying into the wall. Dropping Jameson’s hand, I quickly reach
out and slam the drawer closed to quiet the noise, giving him an apologetic smile when he chuckles again.

  “I’m sorry. It’s only my second day here, and I have to say I’m a little surprised to see a real, live movie star standing in front of me. No one told me there’d be famous people walking through the doors. You’re like, really famous. And tall. I didn’t think you’d be so tall. Are you filming a movie that takes place in a recording studio or something?” I ramble.

  Jameson smiles at me and casually slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. There’s just something about his kind eyes and how normal he seems that makes me feel at ease.

  “I actually just finished filming in Minneapolis. I was hired to narrate a book, and my agent was able to find this place and squeeze me in while I’m in town,” he explains. “I haven’t had a vacation in a while, so I thought I’d take some time off after recording just to lay low and check out the sights.”

  “You’re narrating a book? At EdenMedia?” I asked in astonishment. Pressing my palms flat against the top of the desk, I lean across it and lower my voice. “You know what kind of books they narrate here, right?”

  Jameson’s smile deepens, and even though it doesn’t have the same effect on me that Brent’s smile does, it’s a nice smile, and I really can’t believe I’m standing here having a conversation with the Jameson Kenter like it’s no big deal and it happens every day.

  Working here might actually have some perks.

  “I hope it’s romance novels, since that’s what I was hired to narrate. Otherwise, I’m in the wrong place.” He quirks his lips in a smile.

  “Oh, and you’re definitely in the right place if you’re here to narrate romance novels, if that’s what you call them. At least you won’t be narrating a Penelope Sharp book, since someone’s already doing that. I think my ears are still on fire after listening to a few lines from that thing yesterday, let me tell you.”