Reach Me

by J. L. Mac

  My feet hit the floor but I stay perched on the edge of my bed like I do every morning, especially when I’m more stressed out than normal. This is my “me” time. I grip the edges of the mattress and stretch my toes, roll my ankles, and pop my neck, making sure to breathe deeply as I do it. Another deep breath through my nose and slowly out of my mouth.

  I whisper my reassurance to my lonely bedroom intent on surviving yet another day. “Today will be a great day.”

  “Morning, Cally,” I greet my one and only cubicle neighbor like I always do.

  “Hey.” It’s her usual monotone response, but I don’t mind because in the eight months that I’ve been working alongside her, I’ve discovered that Cally is not a morning person and should really be left alone until after lunch.

  She’s a temp like me and I can see that she’s stressed about the project ending too. We were both hired halfway through the Gayle building project. The architectural firm that won the bid for the contract decided to add two more temps as well as a slew of other staff to finish the build ahead of schedule. Great for them. Not so great for me, as they only needed the extra temps for this particular job.

  I settle into my small space and begin my routine. Coffee. Emails. Worrying about the official unemployment that the end of the week is bringing… the norm.

  My morning zips by, and when I pause next, my much-needed lunch break is looming. I pull my cell phone from the side pocket of my purse beneath my desk and feel a tad disappointed to see an empty inbox. I get to sending Brian a message that I’m sure he’s expecting, since he knows all about my impending unemployment. I know he’s searching for me. My little brother may appear careless and whimsical, but he’s quite possibly the most reliable, organized, and detail-oriented person I know. I guess that’s what scored him such an awesome job working for that uber-rich Las Vegas mogul, Damon Cole. I don’t exactly know what the guy’s business is, but he keeps Brian thoroughly busy and pretty well paid. Maybe he’s eccentric enough to hire an assistant for his assistant. I snort-laugh as I type out the text to Brian.

  Hey, Bri, I need your help. Come over later?

  Can’t, honey. Working. Meet me at the bookstore tomorrow? Lunch?

  Okay.

  I sigh and lean back in my chair, hoping and praying that Brian will have some good news for me tomorrow. At this point I’ll do just about anything. Hell, I’d be someone’s call girl if I had the option, but I’m nearly thirty with stretch marks courtesy of pregnancy. I’d probably have to pay the guy instead of the other way around. My son is my everything and at the rate I’m going, child services will want to know how I plan on feeding and sheltering him. Thoughts of some social worker leading Trey off to someplace more stable forces bile up into my throat. Panic courses through my veins and I feel the urge to do… something. Anything. I have to fix things.

  My brain is so preoccupied with the knowledge that I’m in the fast lane to unemployment that I’m starting my lunch hour now. Thank goodness my work to do list is almost completed—my life to do list is staring me in the face, and right now securing things for Trey is at the top of that list.

  Find job

  1. Talk to Maggie.

  2. Talk to Brian.

  3. Dad?

  Bills

  1. Rent

  2. Electric

  3. Water

  4. ETC.

  I’ve been so consumed with worry and actually working (last ditch effort so they see what an awesome employee I am) that I haven’t even thought of talking to Russ. I’m late on the rent again, but it was either buy Trey’s new school shoes and pay the electric and grocery bills or be late with the rent. Again. Rent is the most forgivable of offenses. I would never want Trey to feel humiliated at school by wearing tatty sneakers that are too tight anyway. He seems to grow an inch a month and it can be difficult to keep up with. The grocery bill is the least forgivable. We have to eat and the electric company… well, they’re sick of me. I’ve exhausted all courtesy extensions and I have far too many disconnects on record. The rent payment, amazingly, has been the easiest bill to work with. Sharon, the property manager, has been my saving grace multiple times, but I hate putting her in a position where she has to bend the rules and fudge on paper just for me. It isn’t right. I dream of one day paying my rent weeks ahead of schedule.

  My phone rings as I’m packing up, interrupting my sadsack daydreaming of better days.

  “Hello?”

  “Lindsay?”

  “Hey, Sharon.” I curse on the inside because I know exactly why she’s calling.

  “Honey, I had to file the papers today. I would have waited, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “No. I know. It’s not your fault, Sharon. I’ll figure it out. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  A sigh comes through the phone and I can tell she’s doing her best to help me out.

  “You could go directly to the source. McCullough Developing on 9th Avenue. You know the building with the weird wire statue in front?”

  “Yeah. I know where it is,” I reply, stacking the papers covering my desk in a rush and checking my watch to see how much time I have. “Do you think I can go right now on my lunch break?”

  “I’m sure that’s fine,” she says soothingly. “The sooner the better. I’ll call and tell the receptionist you’re on your way. Good luck, honey.”

  “Thanks, Sharon.” I hang up and immediately dial Maggie to collect on a few of those IOUs she’s been racking up over the years. The phone rings twice and she picks up.

  “Birdie’s Burlesque, this is Belinda,” Maggie jokes down the line.

  “You say that so easily every time.”

  “Yeah, well it’s because my tongue is extra dexterous,” she drawls in her best sultry voice.

  “That’s what he said,” I mumble.

  “He sure did!”

  “Anyway, I need you to pick up Trey so that I can beg my building owner to take pity on me. Can you?”

  “Of course. He loves coming to my place. I have Xbox Oreos.”

  “You are one odd cookie, Belinda.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Bye.”

  I know Trey will secretly be happy to go to Maggie’s place today. He has a second home with her and I’m sure he’ll enjoy a break from his boring old mom. We’re lucky to have my irritating best friend.

  I smooth my only nice skirt one more time. Brian bought it for me from one of those high end places that he’s always preaching to me about. He said that every woman needed a gorgeous black pencil skirt because it was foolproof. He said I could pair the designer threads with nearly any top and get away with it. He’s been right so far because this three-quarter sleeve navy blue knit blouse that I picked up at a garage sale last year matches perfectly. I take a deep breath, gathering up my things and the courage that I’m sure I’ll need an abundance of, and then direct my car towards 9th Avenue and a wire statue.

  The receptionist is a beautiful woman about my age with dark brown hair pulled up into a neat bun. I can’t see what she’s wearing beyond her blouse, which looks like it’s the type that was intended for the skirt I’m wearing. It’s all creamy and delicate, the material flowing around her. She has kind caramel eyes that seem to have a bit of sympathy in them. I wait in silence as she picks up her desk phone and presses a button. She speaks quietly and briefly into the phone then directs me to a frosted glass door, motioning for me to enter.

  I hesitate, wondering what the hell I must look like and furthermore, what the hell will I say to persuade the building owner to change the rules for the likes of me? I suppose I should have practiced my sob story before showing up here. Something along the lines of “please, for the love of Christ, make an exception to the rule just for me just for this one time?” Modesty and pride is an afterthought at this point. I’m desperate.

  I go through the formality of knocking, then go right in. The first thing I see in the spacious office is heavy, high gloss furniture, par
ticularly the desk. Intimidated by a desk. Great.

  My eyes look up a fraction and see the profile of the man behind the desk. He’s seated facing the wall and he’s on the phone. The leather executive chair that he’s seated in is leaned back just a fraction. He looks relaxed. At home. His cheek is spattered with an obvious five o’clock shadow even though it’s barely noon. I can hardly believe the damned receptionist sent me in here. I’m interrupting his phone call. This is no way to kick off opening arguments in the case of Lindsay Fuller vs. Life Sucks.

  I stand awkwardly near the entrance to his office and wait for something to happen.

  “No, Sharon. I understand. It’s fine. I’ll handle it from here,” he says into the phone with such an even tone that it makes my unease go from zero to ninety in a fraction of a second. I feel like a kid in the principal’s office. The hand that held the phone returns it to its cradle as he simultaneously turns his leather chair to face forward. To face me.

  Within an instant, I feel nausea go rip-roaring through me like I’ve made a poor choice for lunch.

  “Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t feel so great if I was being evicted for nonpayment either,” he offers easily, twisting the lid from a bottle of water and taking a generous gulp.

  Gorgeous asshole! My mouth goes dry as I work at something intelligent to say. “I-I um spoke with Sharon and she said that maybe I should talk to you in person. About my… circumstances. I live in Stone Ridge. Apartment 227.”

  “About your perpetually late rent check and now nonexistent rent check, you mean? That’s what you came to discuss, right?”

  “Ah, well, yeah. I guess you’re right, but…”

  “Come in. Sit down.”

  “Okay.” I walk on trembling legs to one of the chairs in front of his desk, smooth my dress down my thighs, and sit.

  It’s hard to look at him but damn, it’s even harder not to. He’s gorgeous. Light brown hair, short on the sides and longer on top. Chiseled cheekbones with a defined jaw to match. His lips are begging to be bitten. Just thinking of them has heat tingling my cheeks. What stands out the most is the color of his eyes. They’re hypnotic, a shade I’ve never seen before. A green like the inside of a kiwi. It’s… distracting.

  “You were saying?” He arches one perfect, smooth eyebrow, drawing me away from my obvious ogling.

  “It’s just, I just…” I look to my interlaced fingers in my lap and fight back the emotion that is held back by the dam of iron will that Jonathan Greene helped to build. I’ve never needed him before and I don’t want to have to start now. I have to convince this executive dickhead to cut me some slack. “Please,” I beg sheepishly, abandoning all pride and dignity. It’s the only word that comes to my lips but it comes honestly and with so much meaning behind it. He can’t be that damn coldhearted. Surely he sees how badly I need a little help.

  “The eviction process has already begun. That’s what happens when you don’t pay your bills.”

  Tears pool in spite of my iron will and I look up to him. For a moment, I see regret in his eyes but he quickly replaces it with his unnerving, unmoved appearance.

  “I have a kid. It’s just us. Can you give me a week? Just one week. It’s all I’m asking.”

  “Look, if I said you were the first tenant to come to my office trying to get an extension, I’d be lying. If I break the rules for you, I should break the rules for them all. And then what’s the point of rules in the first place? I’m sorry, but you have thirty days to make arrangements and vacate the property. Thirty days. If you aren’t gone after the thirty days, you’ll be forcibly removed. Thirty days. Understand?”

  I nod as a rogue tear slips down my cheek and defeat swallows me up like quicksand. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’m a dumb woman for thinking that coming here would make a difference,” I whisper as I stand and swipe the tear that has rolled to my chin. “Have a nice day,” I mutter, not really meaning any of it.

  “Wait.” He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a handkerchief and a business card. “Here.” He hands them to me across his highly polished desk.

  My fingertips brush across his palm as I take the items from him. I think I would’ve shivered at the contact if I wasn’t so frustrated, annoyed, and embarrassed.

  “If something changes and you can pay your balance, we’ll talk. That’s my card. Now you know how to reach me,” he says in a much kinder, velvety voice that sends warmth spreading all over me like being wrapped up in a hug.

  I can feel my brows furrow as familiar words hang in the air around me, words that I’ve read on screen for nearly ten years. A decade old invitation. “How to reach you…” I whisper to myself as I flip the business card over and examine it.

  Logan R. Barnett

  McCullough Developing

  My chat with Russ from the night before comes rushing through my brain like a tsunami and leaves me breathless in its wake. He can’t possibly be Russ. The man in front of me is as cold as they come. My hand flies to my mouth before I can blurt anything stupid.

  “Um, is there a problem, Mrs.—” His eyes go to my hand and examine my bare ring finger. “Miss?”

  I stare at him, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Russ, my Russ is standing here in an expensive suit telling me that I have thirty days to get the hell out. He’s not at all how I imagined he’d be. He’s another Jonathan Greene. Trouble.

  “I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name when you came in and I only viewed your file briefly. Miss?” He waits for my response while I continue to stare like some sort of invalid.

  “Yeah, I guess I didn’t. I’m sorry for bothering you. We’ll be out within the thirty days.”

  I catch a glimpse of confusion on his handsome face before I hightail it out of his office and straight past his receptionist without so much as a second glance.

  The conversation between him and his receptionist is almost swallowed up in my muffled footsteps as I hurry down the hall.

  “What was her name again?” I hear him demand of the beautiful receptionist.

  “Um… Fuller. Lindsay Fuller,” she replies, clearly confused as I pass through the building doors and the dry Las Vegas air envelopes me.

  “Linds! Wait!”

  I hear him yell across the parking lot and part of me wants to stop at the sound of my name from his mouth. Russ. My Russ. Sanity returns and I waste no time getting away from there. As I jolt over the speed bumps way too fast, I check my rearview mirror only to see the man I thought I could love with his pricey, suit-clad arms held up in the air in confusion and defeat.

  I bang my hands on the steering wheel while making my getaway past the stupid wire statue.

  “What the fuck?!”

  I walk mindlessly back to my desk and flop down. I glance over to Cally’s cubicle but she isn’t back from lunch yet. She must be running late or something because she’s always here before me. In fact, I don’t think she leaves for lunch. She must bring it with her. I shake my head and toss my purse down on the floor. I lift my arms to fold them on top of my desk when I notice an envelope propped against my computer screen. I scrunch up my eyebrows and examine the envelope. My name is on a white label on the front. I slide my finger beneath the tab and pull out a notice that should have come in two days. Not today. Not now. My eyes scan the letter of dismissal and even though I knew my time here was up I guess I was hoping for a miracle. I peek over to Cally’s cubicle one more time and notice that her one picture frame and her little potted orchid are both gone. Now I guess I am too.

  Maggie doesn’t hesitate when I ask her to keep Trey for the weekend. He loves spending time with her and I can’t even wrap my brain around the day’s events. I need to think. She, of course, can tell I’m upset about something, but luckily I’m able to convince her that it’s just stress over my job. Her serious lack of authority where Trey is concerned would probably be frustrating for most other parents, but the fact is, I know she loves him just as much as I do. A scary movie or
two and a junk food dinner never hurt anyone. I let them have their weekends where she basks in the glory of being “cool” to a nine year old. Some women want fame, fortune, and a fabulously charming lover. Maggie wants the approval of my sweet boy and I love her for it.

  I collapse on the couch as soon as I walk through the door but time seems to have either stopped or gone into overdrive. I’m not sure which. The only thing I’m sure of is the hollow space that I feel in my chest. It’s not painful. It’s not anything. I’m stunned. How to reach me. I play the words back in my head and try to let it sink in. His voice was deep and smooth but disconnected at the same time. It was like he cared, but he was trying not to. I’ve never pictured Russ that way. In my mind, he’s always been warm and caring. The man I met today is the epitome of an asshole. I was utterly shocked. I’m not sure how I was so far off the mark with him. What I do know is that this disaster is clear evidence of why I shouldn’t date. Under any circumstances. I clearly have awful judgment.

  “Knitting and 67 cats it is,” I mutter condescendingly to myself.

  A hot shower does the trick to calm my inner ramblings. After forty-five minutes, the hot water cascading down my back turns to ice and I reluctantly turn off the tap and step out. I pull on my favorite sweatpants and a tank top. I don’t even bother with my blonde curls, giving my locks a quick towel dry and putting them into a sloppy pile atop my head.

  Dinner is a no brainer and requires zero work on my behalf. Cereal. I watch four episodes of The Twilight Zone and successfully ignore the urge to check my phone or instant messages. I can’t help but wonder if Russ is as conflicted as I am. I bet he isn’t. The man I met today doesn’t seem like the type to be conflicted about anything. The man I saw in that office is the type that crushes people under his thumb because he can. I know his type. I had a baby with his type.