Trey scratches behind his ear and gives me a scrunched eye look as though he’s deciding if I’m ready to hear what he’s about to tell me. “I feel like this Zoey might be your Serena.”
I laugh. “Don’t jump that far ahead just yet. Even if you’re right, you’ll jinx shit and I’m going to be whacking off alone for the next five years or something.”
He shrugs like he believes me, but the gleam in his eye says I haven’t swayed him in the slightest. “Maybe not. But I remember feeling this” —he gestures to me— “desperate.”
Desperate? “I’m not desperate. I’m . . . interested.” Shit, that one sounded like a lie even to me.
“Interested is what you were when you realized that your dick could do things besides piss,” Trey jokes. “What you are is more hopeless than a one-legged man in a Kung fu movie.”
“Still got enough to kick your ass.”
Trey leans into the mock threat. “Good, then you should use all that energy and gusto to call her.”
The words hang in the air for long moments as I try to think of a rejoinder. But I don’t have one. Or at least, none that doesn’t make me sound like a desperate loser who’s making up bullshit to deflect from the reality of my situation.
“Fine,” I finally concede. “I’ll think about it.”
He smacks me on the back, hard, knowing that I already decided I was going to call Zoey but needed that extra push to man up. “About damn time. Last sprint. Loser buys breakfast. On your mark, get set . . .”
He doesn’t say go because he’s already running, leaving me in the dust once again.
“Motherfucker . . .” I hiss before I take off too. With the possibility of a phone call with Zoey urging me on, I do manage to catch up, but he still beats me to our cars.
Egg white omelets are on me, I guess. Although the way I’m feeling, I could go for some bacon, too.
* * *
I love my office. It’s big enough that I’m not bumping into the walls without rattling around like a marble in a shoebox, and while centrally located, it’s still on a side street that’s not too busy. I was overjoyed when I found this place. It’s luxurious without going overboard, giving off an aura of success, and best of all, it has a coffee shop on the first floor that makes the best brew I’ve ever had.
The only downside is my neighbors. On my right is Meredith, a psychologist who specializes in depressed teens. So on almost a daily basis, there’s a kid who barely grunts if I say hello, and once, one of them actually barked when I said excuse me as we passed in the hall. The parents can be even worse.
And Meredith’s the more normal of my neighbors because on the left is Margaret, a voiceover actress in her sixties who, despite the soundproofing she’s done, I can hear quite clearly through the air vents.
The first time I heard her, I thought she was a phone sex operator. And yeah, I listened closely after that. Like, literally standing on a spare chair with an ear pressed to the vent when I realized she was doing audio for a romance book. I’d been shocked and then intrigued. And hell yeah, I read that book. It was good too.
But I didn’t listen to it because it would’ve been weird to visualize someone like my grandmother talking like that as I listened.
And when she gets jobs for certain kinds of ‘adult animation’, I have to pull my headphones on.
I don’t need the nightmares.
Coming in this morning, I see Margaret fumbling with her purse as she tries to juggle her morning coffee. Hurrying over, I offer my free hand. “Hey, Margaret . . . can I help? Need me to hold your rocket fuel?”
Oh, God. I did not just say that, I think, mentally slapping myself. Rockets and rocket fuel probably mean something very different in her line of work. And now I’m blushing, which is not an attractive look on a grown man.
“Vanilla rooibos,” Margaret corrects me, handing me the cup, and luckily, blissfully unaware of my embarrassing attempt to eat those words back down. “Coffee’s bad for the vocal cords. But thanks.”
Today, she’s wearing a turtleneck, pearls, a cardigan sweater, and SAS shoes. I don’t get it. How can someone at her age sound decades younger and say such filthy things? She looks like she should be offering me a fresh-baked cookie, but I’ve heard her begging to toss a salad. And I don’t mean the kind with iceberg lettuce. Not that cookies and ‘salad’ are mutually exclusive, but . . . nope, stopping that thought right there.
Margaret gets to her door and I hand her back her tea. “Busy work day today?”
She nods, giving me a grandmotherly smile. “Of course. I’ve got a new one just waiting for me. So hot it’ll blow your socks off.”
“Do I want to know?” I joke, half-praying she doesn’t tell me and half-curious what she considers ‘sock-blowingly hot’. Margaret shakes her head, giggling like a school girl. “Good to know. Thanks. Have a good one.”
I unlock my own office and pull on my noise canceling headphones just in case while checking my email. There’s nothing new, no new major policy changes I need to make anyone aware of, no lawsuits, and thankfully, nobody died, so I don’t have any claims to process.
Overall, a nice, slow start to the day.
Cracking my knuckles, I turn my music off and turn my attention to the one part of my job I don’t like, voicemail. I get it, all of my ads include my phone number. And a lot of my clients are older folks who are used to old school communications.
But trying to decipher a garbled, scratchy voice mumbling information into a voicemail is agonizing. Especially when you get the one where someone’s information gets half cut off and you’re left with ‘867-5309, Jenny wants—’ before getting a click. I remind myself that any calls at all, even prank ones, mean Amy’s marketing brilliance is working, and when the new commercial hits television screens all over the city, I’ll have even more calls, emails, and policies to write. More people to help.
I’m just about to play my third message when there’s a knock on the door. That’s unusual. I’m not expecting anyone. And my office door says I’m not open for another hour, although that doesn’t always stop folks.
I get up and open my door, and on the other side is a blonde woman. At a glance, I’d say she’s in her early to mid-forties, but I could be off. Her makeup’s muted, and her hair’s pulled back in a plain ponytail. She’s in a low-cut black blouse and slacks, nice looking but not so fancy she’s out of place in an office building.
Actually, she looks like the mom of one of Meredith’s kids next door, one of the ones who actually wants to help her kid and not just demand Adderall. “Are you looking for Meredith? Her office is next door if you’re picking up your kid.”
Confusion fills her eyes, but her face doesn’t exactly move. “No, I’m looking for Mr. Hale. That you?” She looks at the nameplate on the door with my name prominently displayed.
I blink and step back, welcoming her into my office. “Oh! Yes, sorry. I didn’t have any appointments this morning, so I thought you might be lost.”
The woman comes in, looking around at my office and nodding to herself almost robotically. “I called the 800 number and they said to come by here to file a claim?”
The black clothes, the blank stare, the lack of appointment all click into focus. She’s a recent widow, probably doing her best to get through the turmoil and pain of a recent loss, and if she called the 800 number of the main insurance company, they’d send her to a local agent to complete the claim paperwork and get the initial processes started.
Fuck. This isn’t the part of my job I enjoy.
“Of course, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please, have a seat.” I direct her to the chair in front of my desk and sit down once again. “Let’s start over. I’m Blake Hale. How can I help you today?”
She blinks long, dark, dry lashes, still looking a little spacy on the whole. Unfortunately, I’ve seen worse. “I’m Yvette Horne. My husband is dead. I want to collect the money from his policy,” she says in a cold, flat tone that has the hai
r at the back of my neck standing up. I wonder if she’s in shock because she seems rather emotionless about the whole thing.
“Of course. Again, so sorry for your loss. I will need to ask a few questions so I can start the paperwork,” I warn gently.
This is my least favorite part of this job. Helping people plan for the future and figure out how best to care for their loved ones in case of their death is a positive way to handle the inevitable. But truly dealing with the aftermath is a minefield of painful triggers that have to be delicately handled. And there are always so many people involved that the risks of hitting one of those triggers can be high.
“Yes, of course. Anything you need to get this show on the road.”
Well, okay then. Maybe not all that delicately. I don’t want to take advantage here, but if she’s in all business mode, then I’ll use it. Opening up my company’s secure web portal, I log in and click around a bit and get to the screen I need to start a claim. “Mrs. Horne, your husband’s name, please?”
“Richard Horne, Dick.”
Uh, what? Did she just call her husband a dick? Or did she just call me a dick?
Wait, no . . . that must be his nickname. Richard . . . Dick. I hope so or this might be even more awkward than usual. “Okay. Do you have a policy number, social security number, or his birthdate?” I ask quickly. “So we can pull up the policy.”
She goes on to give me all the answers to the questions I ask, waiting patiently as I fill in every blank on the computer’s form.
But this is like no Q&A I’ve ever done. The longer it goes on, the less Mrs. Horne looks like she’s in shock and more like she’s . . . bored. She keeps looking at her phone, picking at her nails, and once, I think I see her yawn out of the corner of my eye. Then again, I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to death. Insomnia is one of them, and maybe that’s all this is.
“Do you have a copy of the certificate of death?” I ask carefully.
“What?” she replies, as though she’s completely forgotten why she’s even here or what we’re talking about. It’s expected. Everyone handles death differently. Some go numb or sink into depression, others feel relief, and a small fraction even experience a sense of vengeance, depending on the circumstances.
Mrs. Horne appears to feel none of those things. I might as well be asking about her car’s extended warranty for all the interest and care she’s showing. Again, not unseen but definitely unusual.
“The death certificate?” I ask again.
“Oh, yeah, here you go.” She pulls a piece of folded paper from between her boobs and hands it across the desk. I do not want to touch boob paper. There’s bound to be sweat, germs, and funk on it.
But I don’t keep tongs or gloves in my desk, having never needed them before. I take the paper reluctantly and spread it out on the desk, promising myself a nice, long handwash with hot water, loads of soap, and some gel hand cleanser.
I peruse the typed information in the upper fields, making sure that I’ve spelled everything correctly on my own computerized form. Everything’s good, and it’s not until I get to the bottom of the form that my own heart races.
It’s signed by Zoey Walker.
Forgetting all about the boob sweat, I trace the lines of her loopy, tightly knit handwriting and smile, which is completely inappropriate when I’m sitting across from a widow, but the fact that her name has come up again seems like a good omen after my conversation with Trey this morning.
If nothing else, it’ll be a good opener on why I’m calling . . . funny story, I met someone we have in common today.
Oh, wait, then she’ll ask who and I’ll have to say ‘a widow who gave me a Zoey Walker autographed death certificate.’ That’s not so much a funny story as a fiery red flag of caution.
Mrs. Horne’s next question ends my mental trip back into Zoey’s life. “Do you need my bank account information too? So you can transfer the money?”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“The money?” Mrs. Horne says. “How do I get the money today?”
My brows knit together. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Horne, but it’s not quite that simple. I’ll file the claim, they’ll do their investigation, and then once it’s ruled in compliance with the terms of the policy, the payment will be made as set forth in the beneficiary section.”
Mrs. Horne’s eyes narrow, and for the first time I see emotion in her face. And it’s not a nice one, either. “You mean I don’t get my money today? I have to wait even longer?”
Damn. So much for the lost and hurting widow. Mrs. Horne’s acting like planting her husband in the ground was planting a money tree. And it’s time to harvest, dammit. “I’m afraid not. But we’ll do everything we can to process the claim quickly and painlessly.”
“Not quick enough,” she says in a huff, a note of whine entering her voice. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
I glance down at the date of death to see that it’s mere days ago despite the eons Mrs. Horne makes it sound like, but I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Dick Horne lived up to his name and was a terrible husband and she counts those suffering years or something. “Of course, loss can make the days seem extraordinarily long. I’ll do my best.”
“Just hurry. Call me when it’s done.”
Do I look like Amazon or something? Next day delivery with a Prime policy? Either way, in Yvette Horne’s mind, the meeting is over. She stands, and I follow, offering her a hand. She shakes like a limp noodle who expects her hand to be kissed, but she’s no queen. Queen Liz definitely doesn’t keep letters of knighthood or whatever tucked in her cleavage.
Once she’s gone, I go back to my desk, sitting down and rubbing my forehead. It’s only after I get the third circle done on my temple that I remember where my fingers have been, and I groan.
Well, not everything’s bad. Sure, I’ve got some more paperwork to do, and just out of habit, I’ll give the home office a call. After that, I’ll call Zoey. I can use this paperwork as an excuse for an actual date.
But first a hand wash . . . and a face wash.
Chapter 8
Zoey
The skillet on my stove sings merrily, little pops and crackles as the vegetables and butter I put in there a few minutes ago start to absorb the heat and cook. On my cutting board, I’ve got the freshly-cooked chicken ready for a slice and dice.
It’s all from my subscription box, a mix of regular food and organic farmer’s market stuff that costs a pretty penny. But it’s an indulgence I love, mainly because now I don’t need to go to the grocery store and deal with the odd looks and talk that’s not even behind my back anymore.
I just got tired of stopping by the meat section and getting bullshit like Hey, DDG! A little steak tartare on the menu tonight? or another witticism, Killing cows so you don’t kill anyone else?
I sigh, setting my knife down. At this rate, I’m going to be getting my entire life delivered via FedEx, and never talking to anyone at all. There are just too many idiots in the world who think my tragedy is their comedy.
Fine, so I haven’t always helped things when I’d replied to the snorting twat-waffle at the grocery store that I craved red meat when Aunt Flo is visiting and asked, with a fake-sweet smile, if he’d ever earned his red wings. I was hungry for fresh sausage that night.
Bitchy? Probably.
Crass? Definitely.
But why should I have to be well-mannered with everyone else when they’re not with me? It’s not like this sense of fatalistic weirdness just popped up overnight. Oh, hell no, it’s been the product of years and years of growth, layer upon layer built up like someone painting the same spot over and over until it’s like a little armored onion.
Blake Hale had some good manners and wasn’t scared off by your weirdness, my conscience reminds me. He was cute, too.
That’s true, but not helpful either. Not when I’m doing my best to not think about the sexy, smart, flirty man who makes me want to forget why I’m doomed to a life
alone. Or at least pretend to be someone else for a little while.
I swap my chicken and vegetables in my skillet and brown up the chunks. As usual, I made enough for two, but Jacob is out tonight. I know he’ll be back later with the appetite of an eighteen-year-old kid, so I throw the second serving in the refrigerator for him to reheat later and settle in on the couch.
This is my life—PJs at 7pm, dinner for one, watching reality television, and pretending I’d kick ass if I were on Survivor. Bear Grylls has nothing on me.
Well, except all the actual outdoor experience and willingness to eat live bugs and drink urine. I’m definitely out for that and would prefer to starve while dying of dehydration.
It’s why I learned to fucking cook.
I’ve only had one bite of chicken and broccoli in white wine sauce and the rehash of last week’s episode is still rolling when my phone rings. I glance down in case it’s work or Jacob, but it’s an unknown number.
Well, it should be because it’s not in my contacts, but I know those last four digits. One-four-seven-three . . . it’s Blake.
In shock, I sit up straight on the couch even though he can’t see me and my heart rate skyrockets in an instant.
“Oh, mah Gawd! Do I answer? Do I decline? What do I do?” I ask the empty room, cream sauce messily dribbling down my chin when I talk with my mouth full.
A car horn sounds outside, almost like a warning from fate, and I take that as a sign to decline the call.
But somehow, as I shuffle my blanket, plate, fork, and phone around, still trying to swallow without choking, I hit the wrong button. “Shit. Shit. No . . . ah, hell,” I hiss as the numbers on my screen start counting up. 00:01 . . . 00:02 . . . and I can hear a voice tinnily coming from my speaker. In full freak-out mode, I stare at the phone in horror and do the only thing I can. I hit End Call.
Smooth, Zoey. Real smooth.
I tap my forehead with the phone, praying that did not just happen. I didn’t accidentally answer and then hang up on Blake, right?
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