Reckless (3 page)

M
aren

“
H
e didn’t reply
,” I tell Saige the next day at the gym. We’re flat on our backs, my trainer, Axel, counting out scissor crunches for us. Seven left in this set. “I asked him what happened next, in his little scenario, and I got . . . crickets.”

“Eyes on the ceiling, ladies. Toes pointed, legs straight,” Axel calls out between counts. “Don’t crane your necks. Keep your form.”

“Yes, drill sergeant, sir,” Saige says, stifling a grin. I’d jab her with my elbow if I could, but I don’t want to get yelled at. Axel’s a retired Marine, and he takes these personal training sessions very seriously. And I should too. They’re costing me a small fortune.

“Are you going to text him again?” Saige asks.

“Should I?” I blow a breath past my lips as Axel gets to thirty and tells us to take twenty seconds. “That would make me look crazy.”

Saige smirks. “You passed crazy when you berated him for calling you and then accused him of being a serial killer.”

Laughing, I slip my hands behind my ears and prepare for our second set of crunches. “You have an excellent point.”

“Two more sets, ladies,” Axel says, “then we’re on to planks.”

God, I
hate
planks.

I hate planks almost as much as I hate sushi.

And I really,
really
hate sushi.

“Text him again. What could it hurt?” Saige strains as she comes up.

Twisting my lips from side to side and keeping my focus on the white tiled ceiling above, I exhale.

“Part of me thinks I should just let it go,” I say. “I mean, I’ve got so much on my plate already. I’m still getting on my feet and getting settled in the new house. I’m about to start a new job on Monday. I’ve got to look out for myself and Dash and Beck. I don’t have time to hook up with random men.”

Axel reaches thirty and tells us to take another breather and hit the mats once more. I sit up and take a swig of water from the bottle beside me, tasting a hint of sweat on my lips as the lukewarm water washes down my throat.

“You’re missing out,” Saige says, her expression painted in a rare shade of seriousness. “I think he would’ve been a good time.”

“Yeah, well.” I take another drink and cap the bottle. “Guess we’ll never know now, will we?”

“All right, ladies, enough with the chit chat.” Axel rubs his rough palms together, his lip pursed. I feel like we’re about to be in trouble. “We’ve only got forty minutes left, let’s make ‘em count.”

“Forty minutes of hell,” Saige whispers under her breath. I don’t know why she comes to these things. I think she just likes to get out of the house on Saturday mornings when her husband plays his weekly eighteen holes with the guys from work.

We finish our session in compliant silence, tongues bitten, and stop at the juice bar on our way out. Saige orders the sweetest, fruitiest drink she can find on the menu and spends the next five minutes complaining that it’s too sugary and whining about how gyms sell drinks like that because they undo all the hard work you did at the gym, which then keeps you coming back.

“Nobody forced you to buy a smoothie,” I remind her on our way out the door.

“Anyway,” Saige says when we reach the parking lot a minute later. She leans against the driver’s side door of her white Lexus. “You going to be okay this weekend without the boys?”

I laugh. “You ask me that every other weekend, and my answer is always the same. But thank you for worrying about me.”

“It’s practically my job,” she says with a wink, pinching the pink smoothie straw between her fingers and bringing it to her lips to take a sip. “It’s not like I have kids or a dog. Rob hates when I worry about him. I’m an only child. My parents are living the good life in Cocoa Beach. That leaves you.”

“Lucky me.” I chuff and fish my car keys from my bag.

“What are you going to do all weekend?” Saige’s head is cocked to the side, brows lifted. It reminds me of this video I watched on Facebook this morning of this adorable little pug that kept tilting his head every time his owner said the word “sandwich.” I’ve been watching a lot of those videos lately, the ones Facebook sticks in the newsfeed sidebar like a stall tactic to keep you around a little longer. I guess that’s what a person does when they find themselves with way too much free time and not enough,
“Mom! I need you!”
happening in the background.

“I don’t know.” I scrape the toe of my cross trainer across some broken gravel at my feet. “Maybe do some cleaning? Laundry? Watch one of those really cheesy romance movies with the really bad, gratuitous sex scenes. I can do that now. At least fifty percent of the time, anyway.”

“This is why you need to get laid.” Saige makes a gurgling noise in the back of her throat and tosses her head back. “You’re going to be sitting at home watching
9 ½ Weeks
on a Saturday night while the rest of the world is out there having the time of their lives.”

“Saige.” I tuck my chin, placing some loving pomposity in my voice. “You know that’s not true. The rest of the world isn’t having the time of their lives, they’re only pretending. That’s why everyone else looks so happy online. It’s all pretend.”

“And that somehow makes you feel better about staying in on a Saturday night?”

We reach an impasse, and we linger in silence for a few seconds.

Saige lifts her right hand, palm flat. “All I’m saying is you should probably get out more now that you have the free time. You’ve been cooped up in Momville for the last twelve years and what do you do the second you’ve been freed from your shackles? You stick around home. You’re like one of those dogs that spends its life tied up in the backyard of some rickety old shack, and the second someone unties it, it just hangs out like it doesn’t want to go anywhere else. What are you so afraid of? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“It’s not about being scared.” I hook a hand on my hip and stare past her shoulder, watching a too-fit-to-quit couple stroll into the gym hand-in-hand. “I’m not afraid. I’m just not in a rush. I’m not even thinking about my future or what’s next for me. I’m just hanging out in the moment. Processing.”

She licks her lips, brows meeting in the middle. “Okay. Fine. Process. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when one minute you’re thirty-five, hanging out in the moment, and the next minute you’re forty . . . and then forty-five . . . and your boys are in college . . . and you’re all alone . . . and then you’re fifty and they’re getting married and moving across the country . . . and then-”

“All right, all right. I get your point,” I say. “My divorce has been final for a hot minute. It’s been one hell of a year. What’s wrong with lying low for a bit?”

“What’s wrong with having fun while you’re lying low?” she comes back at me without pause.

“Is this about that guy last night?” My eyes squint in her direction. “Are we coming back to that? Because I thought we’ve already had this conversation. And I thought we decided to let it go.”

Saige grasps the handle of her car door. “One of these days you’re going to tell me I was right all along. You’re going to tell me you can’t believe what you’ve been missing all this time. And you’re going to be sorry you didn’t listen sooner.”

She blows me a kiss and climbs into her car, speeding away with the windows down, blaring pop music like she’s the second coming of her teenage self.

I know she means well, but I’ve got priorities. And they don’t involve meaningless sex. At least not right now. Which is a shame because I know she’s right. I know Dante would’ve been a good time.

But I’m not ready.

Maybe someday.

But not now. Not today.

M
aren

“
H
i
, are you Keegan? I’m your new temp.” I stand outside the HR office of Starfire Industries Monday morning, clearly overdressed in my pencil skirt and matching jacket. The girl sitting at the large desk in the center of the room is in skintight jeans and a low-cut blouse, her wavy dishwater blonde hair tapering to bleached-blonde tips and curled into meticulous waves.

I think she’s my new boss.

My new
temporary
boss anyway.

And she looks all of twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five, but that might be pushing it.

This is what I get for staying out of the workforce for nearly ten years. Once upon a time I was the vice president of human resources for a local insurance corporation. As soon as we got pregnant with our second baby, Nathan insisted I stay home. He and I both knew we didn’t need the second income, and at the time, we were madly in love, stars in our eyes and bright, family-oriented futures ahead of us.

So I quit to stay home with my boys, loved every minute of it, ruined my resume in the process, and now I’m here.

Reporting for duty as the temp-hired administrative assistant for a twenty-four-year-old with fake boobs and framed selfies on her desk.

“You must be Maren.” She doesn’t stand to greet me nor does she offer her hand. Instead she gives me a once-over, her eyes lingering on my shoes a little too long than what might be deemed professional. “Love those pumps. Are they Valentino?”

“No,” I say. “They’re the Target version of Valentino.”

Her face falls. “Oh. Okay. So you’re going to be sitting over there.”

She points to a naked desk with a gray laptop centered on it. The desk is pushed against the wall, far away from windows and sitting beneath a flickering fluorescent light. It’s clearly the ugliest part of this entire room, and it’s all mine.

Keegan’s area is filled with natural light, potted succulents, and gold lamps with warm, incandescent light bulbs.

“You can put your stuff in one of the drawers,” she says, pointing to my desk. Finally rising, she slicks her hands down the front of her sheer blouse, smoothing the creases, and smiles.

She might be halfway nice after all.

“I’ve got so much filing to catch up on,” she says. “I’m so glad we were able to hire you.”

“Filing?”

Keegan motions for me to follow her toward a door in the back of the office, and she retrieves a badge from her back pocket, swiping it across a lock sensor. The door beeps and she pushes it open, only it catches on something.

“So. Many. Boxes.” Keegan laughs and groans all at once.

I peek my head inside and spot floor-to-ceiling boxes, alphabetically labeled, and wall-to-wall filing cabinets.

“Wait,” I say. “Isn’t this a tech company? Isn’t everything you do electronic?”

“Sure is.” Keegan gives me a wink. “You won’t be doing any literal filing. You’ll be scanning all these documents and then virtually filing them.”

“What are the file cabinets for?”

“After you’re done scanning and virtually filing them, just shove everything in the file cabinets.”

“Oh, okay. So just put them back in no specific order?” I need clarification here.

“No, you should put them back in alphabetical order.”

I bite my tongue and force a breath through my nose. Does she not realize that that is the very definition of filing?

My hands clench at my sides. I cannot adequately express how tickled I am to know that I wasted four years pursuing a business degree at Oregon State so I could scan and file papers while my incompetent twenty-four-year-old boss supervises.

The sound of a cell phone chiming at her desk seems to make her ears perk, and her eyes graze past my shoulders. She’s like a dog that’s been classically conditioned to react at the sound of a text message notification.

Keegan places her bony hand on my shoulder. “All right, sweets, just start in that corner over there with A-C and let me know if you have any questions.”

I nod as she scampers off, her sky-high stilettos click-clacking on the stained concrete floor. A man designed this office. No doubt.

Grabbing the first box, I hoist it up, steadying it with the top of my knee until I can get my arms around it. It’s heavy, and it just might weigh as much as my eight-year-old. Lugging that thing back to my desk, I ready myself to ask Keegan to point me toward the scanner/copier, but she’s yapping on her phone like she has all the time in the world, her legs kicked up over her desktop.

I drop the box on my desk and wait for her to finish her call. A minute passes, then another, and her conversation shows no signs of slowing coming to a halt anytime soon. After a while, Keegan notices me staring and presses her phone against her chest.

“Did you need something, Mary?” she asks.

“Maren.” I clear my throat.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Maren,” I say. She looks at me, clueless and doe-eyed. “I was going to ask where the scanner is.”

She leans forward. “Oh, right, right. Down the hall and to the left. Fourth door. The department code is 48275.”

“Could you write that down for me?” I ask, offering a frustrated smile.

Keegan rips a neon pink Post-It from a pad on her desk and scribbles in haste, handing it off as if I’ve gravely troubled her.

“Sorry about that, Tasha,” she says when she brings her phone back to her ear.

“Is there a specific email address I should scan these documents to?” I interrupt.

“General at Starfire Industries dot com,” she fires back, exhaling as if I’m inconveniencing her by not being psychic.

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s back on her phone, chair spun and back to me. I don’t stick around another minute longer to listen to her discuss her weekend. Grabbing the heavy box off my desk, I haul it down the hall, four doors to the left, and get cracking.

Two hours later, I’ve barely made a dent in the box and my stomach’s beginning to growl. I should’ve had a better breakfast, but I was more concerned with getting to my new job on time than whether or not that blueberry cereal bar was going to tide me over until lunch.

I abandon the box and head back to the HR office, watching from the doorway as Keegan stares blankly at her computer screen.

Clearing my throat, I wait for her to look up, but she’s too engrossed in whatever’s going on in front of her.

“Keegan?” I say. “Is there a vending machine around here?”

She jumps slightly, placing her hand on her heart. “Oh, God, Mary. You scared me.”

“Maren,” I correct her, this time under my breath because I’m not sure she listens anyway.

“Yeah, you’ll need to go up a floor. Take the elevator and then go right. Don’t go left. That’s the boss’ and bigwigs’ wing. Stay out of their way. Head honcho is completely unapproachable anyway.” Keegan rolls her eyes. “He’s thinks this company is a well-oiled Fortune 500 machine, and that he shouldn’t be bothered with the ‘little things.’” She sighs, twirling an ombre wave on her pointer finger. “He doesn’t have time for anyone but the programmers and marketing department. The rest of us are chopped liver. Apparently.”

She lets the wavy tendril fall across her shoulder before turning back to her computer screen, and I move toward my bottom drawer, retrieving a five-dollar bill from my wallet.

A few minutes later, I’m stepping off the elevator and onto the tenth floor. It’s darker up here. Quieter too. A myriad of hallways and office doors greet me and a polished silver reception desk rests straight ahead. Starfire Industries’ logo, a blazing bronze star, is mounted on the wall behind the desk. The receptionist glances up, but she’s on the phone. Making my way toward the break room, I find the vending machine and inhale a bag of crackers and an oatmeal cookie before heading back down.

A sick, heavy feeling fills my stomach, equal parts dread and processed foods, and the thought of making a beeline for the parking lot and never looking back crosses my mind not once, but twice.

I’m too qualified for this, and if it took me two hours to get through twenty-five-percent of the first box? I’m going to be scanning and filing for weeks.

But this is real life. And I’m an adult – a realistic adult – and I’m going to do what I have to do.

Besides, if I’m lucky, one of these days I might have the chance to rub elbows with the powers that be, and they might realize Maren Greene, temp, is a whole hell of a lot more competent than Keegan What’s-Her-Name, HR Director.