Intoxicated (8 page)

Everyone seemed friendly enough, though I
suppose they could have been shooting daggers in my direction the
minute I spun around to go back to my office. I had quite a bit to
do, the most important task in my opinion being to figure out what
everyone’s workload looked like. My plan was to distribute
applications evenly until I had a feel for each individual’s work
product. That way I would hopefully not appear to be playing
favorites.

The morning flew by and before I knew it, it
was time for lunch. I had purposefully not packed anything from
home, partially because I had a phobia of being the new girl in the
lunchroom and more importantly so I would get a feel for my
surroundings. I had passed a number of fast food restaurants on my
way to work; I chose to stop at the nearest burger joint and enjoy
something totally greasy and bad for me. When I cooked, it was
typically healthier fare so I considered myself entitled to cheat a
little bit.

When I returned to my office, I noticed two
things that weren’t there before I left. The first item, the box of
reference materials George mentioned, was placed right by the door,
and I nearly tripped over it because my eyes were focused on the
second. Atop my desk was a large vase filled with red roses. If I
were to guess, I would have said two dozen of the flowers. I didn’t
have to consult the accompanying card to know who they were
from.

I plucked the tiny envelope from the plastic
holder and removed the card inside. The handwriting was feminine in
appearance, and so not Eric’s, even though the arrangement was from
him. Since he was two hours away, if not more, it didn’t surprise
me that there wasn’t a personal greeting. I seriously doubted that
he would drive all the way to Fort Wayne to write three lines on a
card.

Especially not the words on this particular
card.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” I read
aloud softly. “Yours, Eric.”

I threw down the card in disgust. Not even an
“I love you”. This very card could have been sent to a business
associate without raising any eyebrows whatsoever. Change the roses
to daisies or carnations, and there would be no trace of romance or
attraction.

For the rest of the day, I worked in a jungle
of roses. I stared up at them occasionally, shooting them dirty
looks. As flowers in an office setting were prone to do, these
brought visitors to my desk. Lots of people commented on how
beautiful they were. I considered passing them out to the highest
bidder. Instead, I snatched them up at the end of the day and
loaded them into the Honda.

Blake wasn’t home yet when I arrived. I
carried the offending flowers through the kitchen and slammed them
down on the table. Excess water splashed out of the vase, and I
wiped it up carefully before I began dinner preparations. As usual,
I decided to cook for three. Better to make more food than
necessary than take the risk that Matthew wouldn’t show up.

With the oven preheating, I ran upstairs to
change out of my work clothes and into a pair of sweats. When I
returned downstairs, Matthew was seated at the breakfast bar. His
presence frightened me for just a second. I paused to collect
myself before coming into view.

“Nice flowers,” he appraised, gesturing to
the vase. “From the boyfriend?”

I nodded. “Did you read the card,
though?”

He shook his head. “Should I?”

“Go ahead. I don’t care.”

I opened the refrigerator door and busied
myself removing ingredients from the shelves. Tonight I was making
chicken. I piled everything I needed into my arms and unloaded the
items on the counter as Matthew read the message.

“Wow. That’s kind of odd.” He returned the
card to the envelope and sat back down.

“You think? And I don’t even like roses.”

“Don’t all girls like roses?”

“I’m not like all girls,” I said simply.

A smile spread across his features as he
watched me work. If it would have been anyone else, especially
Eric, I would have felt slighted that he didn’t even offer to help
me do anything. Instead, he sat back and relaxed while I made
everyone dinner. Truth be told, I enjoyed his company. Ever since
he had informed me that he was also in management, I felt that we
were like kindred spirits. During our previous pre-dinner
conversations, he had tried to give me a feeling for what my new
position would be like. Even though he worked at a factory instead
of a bank, he told me that no matter what industry you were in, the
goals of your position were basically the same. And that sometimes
there wouldn’t be enough money in the world to compensate you for
the crap you put up with.

“So what would your flower of choice be,
gorgeous?”

I blushed at his term of endearment. I still
wasn’t used to being called that, even though I couldn’t remember
him referring to me by anything but since the first day we met. It
was always “gorgeous” just like Blake was always “sunshine”. I told
myself that I was reading too deeply into things, though he could
have come up with something less suspicious like “shorty” or
“peanut”. Thankfully, the oven beeped that it had reached the
appropriate temperature, and I was able to spin around to save
face. I took my time placing the baking dish inside to cook, then
bought myself a couple more seconds by setting the timer.

“Iris,” I said once I found my voice.

“Interesting. Very beautiful and unique.”

“And not like a whole bunch of them. One,
maybe two. Big bouquets are so ostentatious.”

“Agreed.”

I sat down at the breakfast bar also,
intentionally leaving a stool open between us. I had been playing
things pretty cool up to this point, at least outwardly. My heart
rate had probably doubled since he showed up, and it wasn’t because
he had frightened me. No need to tempt fate and risk accidentally
brushing my leg against his. I had no clue what my reaction would
be to that.

“So, how was your first day?” he continued,
not phased by the seating arrangement.

I shrugged. “Pretty typical. Overwhelming.
The office is a dump and Blake would hate it.”

Matthew laughed.

“Blake would hate what?” The lady in question
breezed into the kitchen from the garage. “Hey, dork.”

“Hey, sunshine. Your roommate was just
describing her new workplace.”

“I see,” she responded, walking over to him
to obtain her usual hug. As she exited his embrace, she spied the
vase on the table, “Oooh, flowers. Too bad they’re roses. So
overdone.”

“Read the card,” I urged, eager to hear her
reaction.

She did so, staring for a moment as the words
processed. Her lips moved as she reread the lines again and again.
“Is this guy serious?”

I snorted. “He’s not one to express his
emotions.”

“Apparently not,” she agreed. “So, what’s for
dinner?”

“I found this new chicken recipe online.
Fingers crossed that it turns out.”

Blake focused her attention on the oven
timer. “Looks like I’ve got about half an hour to kill. I’m going
to go upstairs and work on something real quick. After I get out of
these damn shoes.”

She disappeared around the corner and Matthew
and I were left alone once again. I decided to continue with my
recap of the day, including descriptions of my staff. Matthew
listened intently. Once I completed this an easy silence fell over
us. We stayed quiet for a few moments, then he cleared his
throat.

“Does he make you happy?” he asked
finally.

My breath hitched. I stared at him blankly,
not sure how to answer. I knew what my answer should be, but I
couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“That’s what I thought.” He smiled sadly.

“I won’t lie and say that everything is
perfect,” I said shakily, “but he tries. This was a difficult blow
for him to take, but we’ll figure something out.”

Admittedly, that was a pretty sorry defense
of the person that I said I loved.

The timer rang, ending any further discussion
of the topic. Matthew went to go find Blake, and I busied myself
with pulling the chicken out of the oven. It smelled delicious. I
had just finished plating everything when the siblings returned. We
sat down at the table to eat, awkwardly silent.

“This is really good,” Blake said, looking
from her brother to me. The gesture confirmed that she was
attempting to figure out what had happened in her absence.

“Yeah,” Matthew agreed, not looking up from
his plate.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

A few more minutes of silence passed. I
couldn’t take it anymore.

“So,” I said as brightly as I could muster,
“any Thanksgiving plans?”

Blake shook her head. “Not really. Matthew
and I usually just hang out at his place.”

“No family meal?” This surprised me
immensely. I couldn’t imagine a holiday without my father.

“We’re not really close,” Blake said
dismissively. She set her fork down on her plate, stealing another
glance at Matthew. When I turned to look at him as well, I saw his
expressionless face. Something about the whole conversation made me
cringe inside. I was headed into uncomfortable territory, of that I
was sure. “How about you, Lauren?”

“It’s just me and my dad. Sometimes Eric
comes. Maybe we could do something here instead?”

“Maybe. You don’t see your mom?”

Well, if we hadn’t already been in
uncomfortable territory, we certainly were going straight ahead
into it now.

“My mom passed away when I was two. She was
driving home from work and got hit by a drunk driver.”

Blake offered her condolences. Matthew’s face
turned ashen, and after a momentary pause, he pushed his chair back
and rose from the table. Silently, he stalked off towards the
living room. I, too, prepared to stand, seriously confused by his
actions.

“Let him go,” Blake advised, cutting me off
at the pass.

I settled back into my chair. So maybe I had
put it a little bluntly, but after years of having to explain what
had happened, I had grown a little hardened. Really, there was no
good way to say it. When coupled with the fact that I had very few
actual memories of her, it was easy to become distanced from the
entire situation. When I grieved for her, which I certainly did, it
was more for the concept of a mother than for her as a person.

My reverie was broken by the front door
slamming.

I had seen just about every reaction possible
to the news of my mother’s death, but that was a new one. I looked
over at Blake, trying to read her expression for any clue of what
had just happened.

“What did I do wrong?” I asked finally.

Blake sighed and ran her hands through her
hair. “It wasn’t anything you did, Lauren. It’s what Matthew
did.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

Blake rose and began cleaning up the dishes
on the table. Her explanation so far had amounted to nothing more
than a version of “It’s not you, it’s me”. Reluctantly, I stood and
assisted, reaching for Matthew’s now abandoned plate. We cleared
the table and loaded the dishwasher in silence. Blake was clearly
conflicted. As we worked, I imagined she was running through the
options in her head, deciding what and how much to tell me. Once
the task was completed, she left the room. I wondered if I should
follow.

She returned a couple of minutes later,
holding a white three ring binder in her hand. She motioned for me
to follow her into the living room. I did so, and sat beside her on
the couch.

“Promise me something,” she began shakily.
She clutched the binder to her chest as though it was her lifeline.
“Please don’t be mad at me. If you want to break your lease, I’ll
understand. I’ll tear it up and give you all your money back.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“Blake, I don’t know what to say. You’re scaring me, honestly. But
things are never usually as bad as they seem. So I’ll do my best to
keep an open mind.”

She nodded, handing me the binder. “I’m
sorry,” she whispered.

The binder felt heavy in my hands. I rested
it upon my lap for a moment, willing myself to open it. With a deep
breath, I lifted the cover. Beside me, Blake twirled the blue
portion of her hair nervously. She winced as I looked down at the
first page.

Upon first glance, it was an innocent
scrapbook of newspaper clippings. In my nervousness, the headlines
and articles blurred together, and I was only able to focus on the
pictures. A black and white photo of a teenaged Matthew, clad in a
high school football uniform stared back at me. Further down the
page was another picture of Matthew, this time dressed in a suit,
his expression solemn, his hands folded behind his back. As I
looked closer, I realized that he wasn’t standing in this awkward
position by choice. His wrists were restrained by handcuffs. The
gentleman that stood in the background appeared to be a
sheriff.

I closed my eyes, willing my vision to clear.
When I reopened them, I trained my sight on the headlines. Written
in bold black typeface in a large font were the words “Fallen From
Grace”. I flipped through the pages in the binder, focusing on
certain words and phrases in the accompanying articles.

From what I did read, I found out that their
father was a prominent attorney in the area. Matthew had been
arrested. His college football scholarship had been revoked. He had
been sentenced to six months in jail. It was a felony charge.

My head spun. I ran my fingers over the slick
pages, wondering why Blake would have put together a binder of all
this hurtful information. Scrapbooks were typically full of things
to treasure, not nightmares. It made no sense.

I looked up, meeting her gaze. Nowhere had I
noticed where the articles had mentioned what exactly he had done.
Perhaps she had done that on purpose. Wordlessly, I pleaded for her
to continue.