by Lisa Eugene
They nodded with eager smiles, and I was happy to move on. “So, tell me what havoc Marie is reeking now?” I grinned.
That night, I lay alone in bed, curled against a pillow. It might’ve been the unexpected visit from my friends, the two messages left on my cell from Steven saying he needed to talk to me, the pink eviction notice I’d found taped to my door, or perhaps it was just the lonely silence of my apartment, but my situation pressed in on me. The weight of my circumstances was heavy. I knew I had to keep it together, but this was the most precarious things had ever been.
Even after my divorce four years ago, Steven had periodically sent support for Emmy. Our relationship, which was strained and often times explosive, had deteriorated. I hadn’t received a dime from him in over two years. He spent his money on recreational coke, but somehow never seemed to lack for work. Unfortunately, most of his jobs were off the books so I had a hard time collecting child support.
Somehow in his warped reasoning, he felt he didn’t have to pay. His solution had always been to have Emmy committed to a federally subsidized institution that would provide for her housing, medical care, and education. But no one knew how to take care of my daughter better than I did. There was no way I’d give her up. Ever.
Although, I feared if things continued the way they were, if I couldn’t support myself and my daughter, I’d have no choice. We’d end up on the streets. Emmy’s caseworker would recommend placement. I’d lose my little girl.
There was still my wedding and engagement ring I could sell, and some jewelry my mom had given me. I’d have to see what I could get for them at the pawnshop.
***
The local burger place was looking for a waitress and I’d secured an interview. I’d seen their ad in the window. It paid half of what I’d made at the restaurant, but it was better than nothing.
Ready for my interview, I walked into my living room. Mom sat on the couch while Emmy claimed her favorite seat on the milk crate “playing” with her doll. She dressed and undressed the plastic toy over and over again. There were days I would watch her sit and perform the ritual for hours. Today she’d fixed her hair in some crazy style. For a child who was so obsessed with grooming, I was surprised by the wacky punk rock hairdos she sometimes created.
She was set to attend her new school on Monday. I couldn’t gauge her feelings on the matter. When we’d visited for a tour, Emmy had walked through the new school, her affect flat, and her eyes unfocused. Once or twice, I’d caught her sneaking a rubber band off a desktop. Perhaps that was a good sign.
“You said Emmy played the piano for you?” Mom asked, continuing the conversation we’d been having from my bedroom while I got dressed. At forty-eight, she was still a very beautiful woman with chin-length hair muddied with gray. Her face was smooth and unlined. It was her eyes—sharp, distrusting sable eyes that told the story of a tough life.
“Yes. And she played beautifully,” I answered, smiling at Emmy who seemed oblivious to us. “You should’ve heard her.”
“That’s my girl,” she tossed in Emmy’s direction. “I remember even as a child, music was the only thing that calmed her.”
I nodded, peering down at my black skirt and white blouse. I’d wanted to look nice for my interview. Brushed to a shine, my hair fell in crimped waves around my shoulders.
“How do I look? Think I’ll get the job?”
“By God’s grace, you will. You look beautiful.”
I was keeping my fingers crossed. Mom had offered to help me financially, but I’d refused. The small check she got from her part time job, and the social security check my aunt received were barely enough for them to live on. Mom was also caring for her older sister who had diabetes. For a short time when I was fourteen, we’d lost our apartment and had been forced into a shelter. Aunt Doris had rescued us, brought us to live with her until Mom could get back on her feet. She herself had had very little. Those had been rough times. We’d lived on government cheese, beans, and rice. I guess this was how Mom repaid her kindness.
“Thanks for babysitting.” I kissed her cheek gratefully. Her face sparkled.
Collecting my purse from the table, I spotted a pile of mail. On the top was an envelope from the Rutherford Academy. I immediately recognized the lion’s crest on the front and my heart filled with disappointment. It was probably a bill for Emmy’s last few weeks.
The sight of it renewed my anger. Again, I cursed the man who owned the Academy, who allowed a little girl to be tossed out on the streets like yesterday’s garbage. He was a selfish prig with no heart, and I hoped to God he rotted in hell.
After a series of threats and making a scene at the diner, Marie had finally paid me. I’d been able to take care of one month’s rent and appease Stanley for now, but the rest of the money had to go towards utility bills. The Rutherford bill was going to the bottom of the pile. Curious about the damage, I picked up the envelope and ripped it open. I scanned the letter, nibbling my bottom lip.
My scream was so loud that Emmy’s head jerked up from her focused play. Not believing the news, I re-read the content. My pulse raced. Stunned, I looked to my mother.
“Emmy got accepted back into the Rutherford Academy.”
“What?” Mom gasped, disbelieving herself.
“Yes!” I laughed happily, approaching her and waving the letter. “It says there’d been an error, and they’d be delighted to have her back. She’s even been accepted to their summer program with the full tuition waived.”
“That’s amazing news!” Mom looked bewildered. “How can that be? I thought you said they’d been awful to you, that they refused to even reconsider?”
I scratched my head, confused. “They were awful!” I thought for a moment, remembering a conversation I’d had with Mrs. Nancy on Emmy’s final day. “The teachers had promised to appeal. They were all upset when they heard about Emmy’s dismissal. Maybe that worked.”
“Oh, praise the Lord!” My mother clapped her hands together, joy lighting her face. “I told you, child! Things are gonna get easier!”
I smiled at my mother’s choice of words, thinking about my favorite song. Finally, I’d gotten a break. Now, if only I could find a job. My heart soared as I looked in Emmy’s direction, wondering if she’d overheard the good news. Emmy was gone, her doll abandoned on the floor.
I was about to search for her when she reappeared, her pink Dora backpack on her back.
The following morning, I dropped Emmy off at the Academy. Students were arriving for classes, creating a buzz of activity. Mrs. Nancy greeted me in the massive entryway of the building. Cupping Emmy’s cheek, she smiled brightly.
“We are so happy to have her back,” she exclaimed.
I returned her smile. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for her. My sincere thanks to all the teachers who rallied on Emmy’s behalf. I don’t know what you said to change Mr. Clancy’s mind, but I’m just glad you did.”
Mrs. Nancy’s brows wrinkled. “We didn’t say anything. The board wouldn’t grant us an audience. Mr. Clancy kept saying they were too busy.”
I frowned. “Then how . . .?”
“It was Mr. Rutherford who overturned the decision.” Mrs. Nancy nodded at my look of confusion. “In fact, Mr. Clancy was asked to resign from the Academy when he openly challenged Emmy’s re-enrollment.”
To say I was shocked would’ve been an understatement. Only this time I managed to smother my scream.
Mrs. Nancy continued, “We all thought that maybe you’d spoken to Mr. Rutherford, that you’d had some influence on him.”
I swallowed hard, still totally dumbstruck.
Spoken to Mr. Rutherford? Sort of.
Did cursing him out count?
Could I have somehow influenced him? I seriously doubted anything could influence that man unless it gained him more power and money. I didn’t know what to make of this new development. Why would he do this? We’d exchanged some harsh words in his office. I’d left angry
and embarrassed. I breathed out an ambivalent sigh, wondering why guilt was worming its way into my gut.
***
Miss Prissy gave me the same pinched-faced reception. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight chignon, making her features look even more severe and disapproving.
“Mr. Rutherford isn’t in.”
I rolled my eyes and shifted my weight onto one leg, wondering if we really had to go through this again.
“Please let him know that Danielle Carmichael is here,” I said with sugary politeness, topping my words with a quick, artificial smile.
The receptionist gave me a look that had such attitude, I almost smiled genuinely.
Tight-lipped, she rose from her seat and disappeared through the mahogany doors. I took a moment to smooth my hands down my skirt. I wore the same outfit I’d worn to my job interview. It was the nicest thing I owned. The black pencil skirt and white blouse were old, but still in relatively good condition. I’d pulled my brown hair back in a loose bun at my nape, and had left lighter wisps to frame my face. I’d applied lipstick, a light coppery plum that went well with my skin tone. My mocha skin looked like I had a deep suntan all year round.
I didn’t want to think about why it was so important for me to look nice, even desirable. Maybe I had something to prove.
Miss Prissy returned looking even more piqued, and without a word, led me through the large wooden doors. My palms grew damp and a slight tingle buzzed down my back. I realized I was more nervous now than the last time I’d shown up demanding to see Mr. Rutherford. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t exactly sure I should be there. I was probably the last person he wanted to see.
Miss Prissy left the room with a hard glare in my direction, and I had to check a snide remark. Mr. Rutherford sat behind a huge polished desk, his head bent over a stack of papers. He wrote with unhurried strokes, taking his time. I stood in the middle of the room, waiting in suffocating silence for an acknowledgment.
When it was obvious that none was coming, I blew out an audible breath of annoyance. He simply sat there, focused on whatever he was writing. Coming here had definitely been a mistake. This man was beyond rude, and I was tired of his lofty indifference. I needed to say what I had to say and leave. I’d just opened my mouth when his sharp words cut me off.
“Have you thought of more insults to spew at me, Ms. Carmichael? Is that why you’re here?” he asked without looking up.
“I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”
“That’s surprising. Something tells me you fight with everyone.”
His voice was crisp, but calm. I could barely see his face. He continued with his work, giving me a view of the thick dark hair topping his head. The asshole couldn’t even bother to look up. Balling my hands into fists, I cursed under my breath.
This man didn’t know shit about me. He didn’t know my struggles, my pain, my regrets. He’d interacted with me twice. Granted each time had been confrontational, but he’d immediately jumped to conclusions. Who the hell was he to judge me? He’d sketched an impression of me after only a few unpleasant encounters.
Like I’d done of him. Suddenly, I felt drained. Depleted.
Why had I bothered to come here?
“Look, I only wanted to thank you for taking Emmy back into your school. I heard about what you did. I’m . . . appreciative.”
“I did it for your daughter, not for you,” he replied tightly.
Okay . . . whatever. Despite my burgeoning annoyance, I refused to let him goad me into an argument.
“I also wanted to apologize for some of the things I said to you. They might have been . . . were . . . a bit . . . harsh.”
I’d never been good at apologizing. I was who I was. Shit happened, I reacted. I got punched, I punched back.
Head still down, he continued writing as though I wasn’t in the room, as though my words evaporated before they reached his ears. One thing I refused to do was grovel. Mr. Rutherford was insufferable, lacking the decency to even at least feign civility.
Wishing there was some way I could knock the asshole down a few pegs, I punched my nails into my palms and managed a few calming breaths. I hated his constant smugness, how he always seemed so put-together and unruffled.
With a shrug, I turned to leave, feeling an unexpected swell of disappointment. I was halfway to the door when his deep voice stopped me.
“I don’t understand.”
I angled back to face him, frowning. “What? What don’t you understand?”
He finally looked up, those blue eyes latching on to me. Lowering his pen, he slowly leaned back in his chair. I could hear the distant creak of leather as he studied me intently. His gaze dropped lazily to my breasts, making my skin prickle with unease.
“The last time you were here, you wanted something. You’d unbuttoned your shirt . . . in offering. Now, you’re here to thank me, but I see your shirt is buttoned up.” He frowned. “I’m confused. What are you offering now, Ms. Carmichael?”
My breath arrested, my mind tripping backwards over his words. What the hell is he saying?
How exactly did he expect me to thank him?
I hadn’t been offering anything when I’d been there the last time. I’d only meant to be a bit more persuasive.
Damn Wanda and her advice!
Besides, he’d looked at me like I was dirt. He’d referred to what he thought I’d been offering as scraps, insinuating I wasn’t good enough for him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Let’s get something straight.” One hand landed at my hip, the other had an index finger cocked in his direction. “I wasn’t offering you anything.”
He raised a skeptical brow, earning a scathing glare.
“Plus,” I huffed. “You made it perfectly clear you weren’t interested, if I recall.”
Another smirk tugged the corner of his lips, followed by that same cool, composed expression that annoyed the shit out of me.
“I’m a businessman, Ms. Carmichael. If there’s an offer on the table, it’s in my best interest to see what it is I’m turning down.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. “I might have been a bit hasty.”
My jaw unhinged. What the hell is he asking?
Apparently, I was idling too long in confusion because he motioned a hand toward my blouse and raised his brows, waiting impatiently.
What the fuck? Does he expect me to take off my shirt?
First he insults me, then he ignores me, then he treats me like he’s at the grocery store shopping for melons and wants to get a good look at them before the purchase. There was a sturdy challenge in his eyes that needled me more than anything, that made me want to disarm this smug asshole and put him in his place.
Did he think I wouldn’t do it?
I pursed my lips. He didn’t know me very well. I never backed down from a challenge. I had a mind to give him an eye full of exactly what he’d referred to as scraps. He’d see how foolishly he’d misjudged, and what he’d never have.
I’d enjoy leaving him with his tongue hanging out of his damn mouth. He’d eat his words with the sour taste of regret—because my tits are freaking spectacular! I imagined the sweet satisfaction I’d gain from flaunting them in his face, then turning and walking out the door.
Scraps indeed!
Jutting my chin, I boldly held his gaze. Hot anger flamed my courage if not my common sense. My fingers worked open the line of buttons on my blouse. Surprise flashed in his eyes for a nanosecond, and I resisted a triumphant smile. Buttons opened, I quickly unhooked the front clasp of my bra. His eyes were still locked on my face, banking an emotion I couldn’t read. Cool air brushed my naked flesh, making it tingle as I felt the weight of my breasts gently spill forward.
A breath rushed between my lips when his gaze finally dropped lower. My breasts were heavy and firm, smooth with big nipples and dark brown areola. Knowing his gaze was on me had a sudden warmth cruising through my body. Unwelcome arousal hummed deep in m
y belly and flooded my sex. My nipples hardened before my eyes, pointing toward the man not fifteen feet in front of me.
Trying to tamp down my response, I looked to his face, expecting to find simple male appreciation, maybe even raw desire.
Nothing.
In fact, the bastard had returned to his work. He’d picked up his pen and started writing again. My impulsive move designed to call his bluff had backfired. Instead, I stood in the middle of his office, stupidly turned on with my breasts on display, feeling even more wretched than I had the last time he’d rejected me.
I issued a snarl of self-derision when realization hit me. I knew why I’d dressed up today, why I’d irrationally bared my breasts to this man I didn’t know. Although I hadn’t allowed myself to fully analyze my actions, I couldn’t deny the truth.
His rejection had salted a wound. I wasn’t dirt, or scraps. I wasn’t worthless, as Marie had liked to label me. I wasn’t just some lowlife unworthy of the interest of a man like him, or someone easily tossed away. On some level, I knew it was pathetic that I’d desired validation from someone I didn’t even like, but he represented the things in this world that had always been out of reach for me. Money. Power. Status.
I knew deep down none of that really mattered. Just once, though, I wanted to feel desired. Important. Worthy. I’d been deeply hurt by the betrayal of my husband. Finding the man who’s supposed to adore and cherish you screwing another woman in your home does something to your self-esteem. Even when you pretend it doesn’t.
Humiliation stuffed up my nose and had that horrible sting worrying the back of my eyes. I blinked hard. There was no way in hell I would allow Mr. Rutherford to see me upset, to know how deeply he’d affected me. I re-hooked my bra and buttoned my shirt, hating the tremors shaking my clumsy fingers.
There was awkward silence in the room that perfumed the space with a sad regret. His return to work and lack of a reaction was another cold, cruel dismissal. But what had I expected? What I’d done had been exceptionally stupid, an impulsive act of my defiant nature. With nothing left to say, I kept my chin up and turned to leave.