by Roya Carmen
He smiles. “Looks that way.”
We stare at each other for a long beat. Then he abruptly tears his gaze away. I do too and stare at the French doors, at a loss for words.
“And I’ll probably need some assistance with the day-to-day office goings-on,” he tells me. “I know that wasn’t originally in your job description, but I’m hoping you’ll humor me.”
I turn to him. “Of course I will. I’ll do anything you ask.”
At that, he pulls his gaze again, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but there’s a hint of a playful smile on his lips.
“Thank you,” he finally says. “I appreciate it.”
His eyes dart across his office, briefly over me, and back to his blank notepad. The man is even more bashful than I am. I foresee many awkward moments between the two of us. Yet, I’m looking forward to them. There’s something quite magnetic about him, a strong pull. I imagine he has this effect on most women. And he probably doesn’t even realize it.
“So…” I venture. “Those are your kids?” I ask in an attempt at small talk.
He smiles and stares at the framed photo on his desk. “Yes, that’s Ashton and Elizabeth.”
“They’re beautiful,” I tell him, and I’m not just being polite. They truly are stunning, especially his girl.
“How old is your boy again?” he asks.
I sit up straighter. “He’s two.” I spot a photo on the bookshelf just behind him, a beautiful blonde woman with her arms around Ashton and Elizabeth. “Is that your wife?” I ask before I have a chance to catch myself. It’s really none of my business.
He swivels his chair, and studies the photo. “Ex-wife,” he clarifies. “As I mentioned before, she and I parted ways a few years ago.”
I nod quietly. “Yes… I’m so sorry.” The words sound trite, but it’s the thing to say.
He turns back to me. “And you are a widow,” he says. “Do you find that challenging?”
I’m taken aback by his directness. “Uh…”
“I’m sorry,” he’s quick to say. “I just… I’m curious. It must be difficult for you.”
I stare at his desk, at the walls, at the small gold seahorse statue sitting on his bookshelf, nestled amongst his books. “Yes, it’s tough,” I admit. “But it also has its moments. I love him to pieces.”
“Of course.” His smile fades. “I’m so sorry, Gretchen. I shouldn’t have been so curious.”
“No, it’s fine,” I insist. “I get these kinds of questions a lot. People are fasciated by single moms, I guess.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’m not sure if ‘single mom’ is the right term for me,” I go on. “I suppose widow would be more accurate.”
“Well, they are both difficult, I imagine.”
You have no idea, Mr. Hanson.
A soft smile stretches across his beautiful face. “For some reason, the term ‘widow’ conjures up a certain image in my mind, an image very unlike you.”
“Yes,” I say. “I suppose I’m a young widow.”
“How are you faring?” he asks. “Do you have help?”
I smile. “Thankfully, I have the resources for daycare. And I also have my mother-in-law… she’s wonderful. And my mom helps occasionally, but she’s a bit of a flake. I can’t rely on her too much. She’s very unpredictable,” I blabber on. “Last week I asked her if she could sit for a few hours, and she couldn’t because she was getting her hair dyed. The next day, she shows up at my place with blue hair.”
He laughs, a barely-there chuckle.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m babbling. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my mom.”
“On the contrary,” he says, all smiles. “You’ve captured my attention.”
I feel a sudden twinge at the pit of my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s his smile, or the way he’s looking at me.
“It must be hereditary then,” he says, “the blue hair.”
I reach for my bun. “Damn, I was hoping you wouldn’t have noticed.”
He smiles again, a leisurely grin, and I have the urge to bite my lip. “I notice everything.” His words are soft and slow. “I’m very observant.”
I bite my lip. I just can’t help it. “Uh… good to know.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t approve of your blue hair?”
I press down the folds of my dress, not quite able to look at him. “I thought you might not think it was professional.”
He laughs. “You’re a Designer. I think you’re meant to be a little strange.”
Oh great, he thinks I’m strange. But then… so is he.
“Wait til you see my tattoos,” I joke.
His brow perks up.
“I’m joking,” I tell him. “No tattoos.”
He pouts. “Pity.”
We both smile for the longest time. Until it’s game over.
He’s all business again as he stands and walks to his desk. He reaches into a pile of folders in his file cabinet and when he finally finds what he’s looking for, he spins back around and slaps the folder down. “Here is everything you need to get started,” he says. “I’ll check in occasionally. And I’ll probably be asking you to assist me with other issues, as they come up.”
I walk over and take the folder, understanding that the fun chit-chat is over. “No problem. I’ve got it.” I hop on one foot, startling the both of us. “I’ll get right to it.”
He grins widely again, and I get the impression that he’s mocking me. I wave goodbye and practically hop out of his office, a bounce in my step.
But just as I’m about to disappear, he calls out to me. “Oh wait… first thing’s first. Could you order some flowers for Rosetta, the biggest bouquet you can buy. We have an account with Field & Florist. I’ll email you her address in a minute.”
I nod. “Sure, Boss.”
He sits and leans back in his swivel chair, steeples his hands, and smiles. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he likes being called Boss.
5
I’m exhausted when I get home, but also exhilarated. Moments of the day keep flashing across my mind as I feed Ethan his dinner and give him his bath. Mostly Weston’s smile, and the way he looks at me. I know I’m probably imagining it all. I’m sure the twinkle in his eye is always there, certainly not reserved for me.
I’ve seen the photo of his ex-wife, and she and I are worlds apart. She’s a Ferrari and I’m a Prius. At least I’m not as high maintenance as her. She strikes me as the type who is. It was just a photo, but it conveyed so much. She was all class, exceptionally beautiful, the kind of woman who has her shit together.
Me, on the other hand, am lucky if my socks are matching. I eat cereal for lunch sometimes. I don’t wash my hair for days, and forget about a trimmed bikini line. No need for that anyway. I bet Mrs. Ex is perfectly kept in that department.
“God, now I’m picturing them having sex,” I blurt out loud.
“Sex!” Ethan parrots.
“Oh shit!”
“Shit!” he cheers, all smiles.
I slap my mouth shut.
He loves splashing his hands in the bath. For some reason I don’t quite understand, it’s very very funny when Mommy gets wet.
It’s Day Three, and I’m wearing a cute red dress and matching lace-up heeled loafers. A lot of thought went into this outfit. I debated between the red shoes and the black platform pumps. The pumps were deemed too sexy, too conspicuous. I want to look sexy, but I don’t want it to be obvious that I’m trying to be alluring. It’s a tricky line, one that must be walked carefully.
What the heck is wrong with me?
The man is my boss.
The dress is demure, but it is red. I read somewhere that when a woman wears red, she wants to get laid.
It was probably just a stupid meme.
I wonder if Mr. Hanson has seen that meme.
I don’t want anything to happen between us, and I know it won’t. I suppose I just want him t
o find me attractive. It’s been a while since I’ve had the attention of a man, and although I hadn’t realized it until now, I do miss it. I miss feeling like a woman, being a sexual being.
I miss sex.
I’m busy brainstorming, scribbling down ideas. I’m on a high. I’m jittery, practically bouncing off the walls. I tend to get like this when I’m excited, like I’ve just had three cups of espresso. Mr. Boss Man seems to find it funny as we repeatedly pass each other and skirt around each other. Lucky for me, he walks right by my desk every time he leaves his office, and I get to check out his spectacular behind.
He stops by my desk with a stack of papers. “Would you mind typing up these notes,” he asks. “My writing’s relatively legible. You shouldn’t have a problem.”
Despite the fact that I’m smack in the middle of concept designs, I smile and obediently accept the stack of papers.
“Thank you,” he says. “I love how much energy you have.”
I blush like the compliment-starved little tramp that I am.
“You’re like a…” He pauses for a second. “A grasshopper, hopping and bouncing around,” he teases. “It’s quite endearing.”
I consider telling him all about my mild ADHD, but think better of it. He doesn’t need to know about my psychological issues. He might think I can’t get the job done. “That’s me. Your little grasshopper. At your service.”
He smiles. “Well, keep hopping, Grasshopper.”
And then he’s gone, just like that. He swoops in, kicks my heart into overdrive, and then leaves me breathless. And he keeps doing it.
I grin like an idiot, and I’m glad there’s no one else here to see the silly expression on my face.
I read Ethan his bedtime story and stroke his hair until he falls asleep in his new big-boy bed. This is always my favorite part of the day. The worse part is leaving him in the morning.
I catch up on a little reading, and check my social media and email. I’m surprised when I see a message from Mr. Boss Man in my Inbox. Of course I devour it.
Hello, Gretchen,
Hope you are well, and not too tired from the day. I’ve tried to go easy on you. Please let me know if I’m working you too hard. :)
I just wanted to make sure you knew your work day is flexible. Given your life circumstances, I would fully understand if you need to occasionally excuse yourself, or be tardy in the morning, or possibly leave early.
I remember the stresses of having a two-year old. Thankfully, I had a spouse and full-time nanny to share the duties, and I still found it challenging at times.
I know you have the energy to handle it all, but I wouldn’t want you to unnecessarily exhaust yourself. Physical and emotional health is important, especially when you’re a mother.
Best,
Weston
I read it again and again, a smile on my face. It may possibly be the kindest, sweetest email I’ve ever received. I have the most thoughtful boss on the planet.
My heart hammers as I type a reply.
Hello Weston… Mr. Hanson… Boss Man… Weston,
Thank you so much for the email. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness. Of course, I plan to be as available to you as much as I can. For anything you need… and I mean anything! But it’s nice to know I have the freedom to address possible issues and emergencies at home when needed. It means a lot.
Thank you so much!
See you tomorrow!
Gretchen… Your grasshopper ;)… Gretchen
I check it over about five times to make sure it’s perfect, and hit Send, my stomach full of butterflies.
I barely see Mr. Boss Man today, which is a good thing because I need to focus on my work. I’ve finally managed to sync my laptop to the office printer/scanner, which is thankfully top-of-the-line, better than the one I have at home.
I’ve slaved over my laptop all day, my hand dancing over my pink mouse, playing around with different ideas and designs. I need to give them at least three options to start, and if they don’t like them, I go back to the drawing board.
Every two hours or so, I stand to stretch and have a snack, usually a granola bar or an apple, and occasionally a hand full of Skittles from the bowl on my desk. I make sure to also pause often and stretch my neck. I take the opportunity to look at the photos on my desk, a picture of Ethan, and one of Donovan. I debated bringing the photo of Donovan, but he sits on my desk at home, and I’m used to seeing him every day. It just didn’t seem right not to bring him along. Sure, I know it’s been over two years, and it’s a little weird, but I don’t care.
Walter stares back at me. That’s the small artist Smurf figurine Donovan gave me years ago. He holds an artist palette and a paintbrush, and his tongue sticks out in concentration. Donovan gave it to me years ago because it reminded him of me. Apparently, I always stick out my tongue when I’m highly focused on my work. He used to say it was the most adorable thing. I highly doubt it.
I sigh at the recollection. So many memories, and they hit me at all hours of the day, sometimes at the most unexpected times. I miss him so much.
It’s one o’clock and my stomach is growling. I’m readying to head home for lunch break when Weston surprises me.
“How are you today?”
I smile up at him. “Great… and you?”
He grins widely. “Fantastic. I’m just about to have lunch.”
“Me too. I’m starving,” I tell him. “Not sure if I have any decent food at home, but I’ll figure it out.”
He studies me for a second or two. “Would you like to eat with me?” he asks. “I have tons of Thai leftovers. I always order too much.”
I’m taken aback by the offer. It was the last thing I expected. Ethan is at daycare, and nothing is waiting for me at home but cans of Campbell’s soup, and I love Thai food. “Uh… sure. I’d love to. Thank you so much.”
He smiles. “No worries. I’m thankful for the company.”
We stand awkwardly for a beat.
“Well, shall we head to the kitchen?” he says
“Yes.”
I follow him eagerly to the beautiful state-of-the-art kitchen. It’s all sleek granite, stainless appliances and glass. And unlike my own kitchen, it’s spotless. I wonder who cleans it.
He reaches into the refrigerator, and pulls a myriad of food containers. I assist him in opening them, and he fetches plates from the cupboard. We brush past each other as we fill our plates. I revel in his wonderful scent, earthy and just… delicious.
I ask him about his kids. As he busies himself at the microwave, I steal a few looks. He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted blue long sleeve shirt, and I want to reach out and touch the soft fabric. He heats up my plate first, ever the gentleman, and asks me how Ethan likes his daycare. I tell him all about it, and I wonder if he’s really interested, or just making polite conversation.
I ask about his kids’ school as he washes his hands meticulously. We finally settle down at the kitchen table. I marvel at the view as we dig into our plates. The food is delicious and my stomach does a little happy dance.
“So where did you study?” he asks me between bites.
“The Art Institute of Chicago.”
He nods. “That’s a good school, I hear.”
I smile bashfully. “I guess.”
We stare down at our plates again. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore, I’m nervous. “How about you, Mr. Hanson—”
“Call me Weston, please.”
“Uh… okay. Where did you study, Weston?”
“Harvard and MIT,” he tells me casually, like this isn’t impressive at all. “I studied architecture and business.”
“Funny how we find ourselves eating together,” I say, “the artist and the entrepreneur.”
“Yes, a delightful twist of fate.”
I smile at his use of the word ‘delightful’. He’s like a character from a Jane Austen novel.
“Have you always been interested in art?” he asks.
I think back, remembering my mother’s refrigerator, covered with my drawings. “Yep… pretty much.”
“How about you, Mr. Hanson? Were you building cities with Legos when you were a kid?”
He glares at me for a second, and I wonder what I’ve said wrong.
He smiles. “I asked you to call me Weston.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry… it’s just… I’m sorry, Weston.”
He smiles. “Now that’s more like it. Good girl.”
I freeze for a second, blushing crimson.
Good girl. Damn, say that again. I like it. A lot.
An impish smile traces his lips. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he knew exactly what he was doing to me. But just as quick as it came, his smiles fades, and he’s all business again. “Yes, to answer your question,” he says. “I was always building things. I was quite obsessive about it actually, or so my mother tells me.”
I smile, picturing him as a kid, surrounded by building blocks. “Ethan loves his blocks. He just plays with the big ones now, but he’s kind of obsessed too.”
“You might have a future engineer on your hands,” he jokes.
“Possibly.”
“What did… what did his father do?” he asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“He was a pediatric surgeon at Saint Elizabeth.” Yes, not only did I take him away from Ethan and I, I also took him from all the sick children he could have saved. I should have been the one who died.
“I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have pried.”
I stare down at my half eaten plate and toy with my leftover pad thai. “It’s okay. It’s just hard talking about him.”
“I can imagine,” he says. “I’ve lost loved ones too.”
I ponder his words and wonder who he has lost.
I venture another bite, but my food has chilled and I don’t really taste it anymore.
Following a long awkward silence, he finally speaks. “What about your friends,” he says. “I see you with them all the time. They seem like a fun bunch.”