Running on Empty (5 page)

As I walk out of the office, I happen to catch a quick glimpse of the nine o’clock appointment in the waiting room. What was his name again? I really should have reviewed his file last night. I lean against the wall and watch Harlow as she strikes up conversation with him. I guess since we have no coffee or donuts, Harlow
has
opted to use her witty banter and mile long legs to distract this guy after all. And, for the record, I think this guy
could
ogle her forever. And if I’m not mistaken, Harlow Reed is actually enjoying herself.

I take another look at Mr. Nine O’Clock. Dark spiky hair, nice build, light blue eyes…totally Harlow’s type. They would make a nice couple with his dark hair and blue eye combination and her auburn red spiral curls and light green eyes. I nod my head to myself in approval…not bad at all.

I make my way to my office, since I have about ten minutes until the official interview time. I take a seat at the organized mess I call my desk. Hearing Harlow’s laughter coming from the waiting area, I can’t help but think about her lack of serious relationships. Sometimes I feel I’m holding her back, like she doesn’t want to move on without me. Almost as though she feels guilty allowing herself to be happy because I’ve been so sad.

My Harlow. The one who never left my side the entire time at the hospital. The one who comforted me while I broke down after I had to tell Derek goodbye. The one who held me while I screamed at the top of my lungs when I realized he wasn’t coming back. The one who stood beside me and watched me throw anything I could find in the grieving room out of pure anger, never passing judgment.

My Harlow. The one who gave me the strength to come home and face the girls. The one who slept over every night when I needed her, making sure my children were taken care of when I felt like I couldn’t go on any longer. The one who managed my entire household while I was lost in grief.

My Harlow. The one who helped me heal. The one that made me laugh for the first time after Derek’s death and the same one who taught me I didn’t have to feel guilty for it. She’s still the one who keeps me in line, and she’s still the one who insists on telling me the God’s honest truth, whether I ask for it or not.

Unfortunately, I think she’s also the one losing very valuable time in her life playing keeper to me. I had my time to be happy. I have my children as a result of that happiness. And honestly, after three years, I can say that I’m satisfied with where I am in my life, that I’ve found some sort of happiness again. Yet, I can’t help but feel as though Harlow has fooled herself into thinking she’s happy. That she’s allowing herself to settle for less than she deserves in her life.

And I’ve not only let it happen, but I’ve been the cause of it.

Now, while watching her through my office window with Mr. Nine O’Clock, I also have a gut feeling that this guy might be the game changer for her. I pray that he is. She deserves her happiness, her happily ever after. And I’m at a point in my life where I don’t need her to be there. She’s always going to be my surrogate sister, but I don’t need her to be my safety net anymore. What I
do
need is for her to allow herself her chance at happiness. And I can’t help but hope that it will be this guy to help push her over the proverbial “happiness” fence.

I smile to myself. Watching her reaction to whatever he’s saying right now, I know she isn’t going to need much of a push. As Harlow gets up to lead him to the conference room, I notice her flip her hair in a very “Harlow sex kitten” manner.

Cancel that.
It might be more of a nudge instead of a push.

After giving them a little more alone time, I grandly enter the conference room with a huge smile plastered on my face. I sit down quietly and place all of Mr. Nine O’Clock’s information in front of me, ready to convene the interview. When I look up, I realize that I’m still donning the goofy grin. I immediately relax my face, leaving it void of any form of elated emotion. Harlow lifts an eyebrow asking me if I’m okay. I nod my head to let her know everything’s fine and we start the meeting.

Trace O’Connell was Mr. Nine O’Clock. That’s about the only information I retain during the interview. Well, that, and the fact that he’s applying for the Senior Executive Accountant position at Synergy, but I don’t really think that counts as information retained from the interview itself.

As soon as we start, my mind wanders to my crazy, off the wall morning.

Toothpaste in my hair.
Crazy
.

My Suburban sitting on the side of I-35, probably a victim of an
actual
highway robbery.
Crazy
.

The lovely encounter with Blake Morgan this morning.
Crazy
.

Harlow making goo-goo eyes at Trace O’Connell.
Crazy
. And kinda gross.

How the hell am I actually supposed to concentrate in this meeting with all of
that
going on?

Well, I don’t. I find my thoughts centering around Blake the majority of the time. Why is he here? I mean, he obviously didn’t sound like he wanted to be here. And why after all this time? How long has it been since I had seen him? He left for Colorado right after high school so that would be around sixteen years, give or take. Why is he so pissed at me? I really need to figure that one out. And if he
is
so pissed at me, why did he stop to help only to make a big scene about it? And what was up with him touching my face? It almost seemed like an affectionate touch.

A touch that I swear I can still feel right now. Raising my fingers and placing them over the area he skimmed earlier, I find myself back in the conference room with both Harlow and Trace staring at me, evidently waiting for me to say something. “What?"

“Alex? Do you have any other questions for Trace?” Harlow asks. “Actually Alex, do you have
any
questions for Trace?”

Oops. Busted.

“Nope, I’m all good,” I say hastily, gathering my papers. I feel the sudden need to escape this room and all thoughts of Blake. Getting up from the table, I reach over to shake Trace’s hand.
He has really big hands,
I think to myself as I start giggling uncontrollably. Before the laughing can get worse I say, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Trace. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other very soon.” But it’s too late. I can’t keep from laughing any longer. I wipe the tears from my eyes and quickly make a hasty exit. Knowing I finally hit delirium, which has been known to happen from time to time when emotionally overwhelmed, I figure it’s best to just get my ass out of that room.

Upon entering my office, I notice my purse sitting on my desk with a piece of paper lying right beside it.
What in the world?
Stepping forward, I pick up the note and slowly unfold it. As I read it, I find I have to wipe my eyes again. Although, this time the tears are not from laughter.

I walk into the waiting area and see my Suburban parked right in front of our office. Harlow and Trace walk out of the conference room at the same time, in deep discussion. She laughs at something he says and then looks at me. I see concern in her eyes when she notices I’ve been crying. She slowly walks over to me and I hand her the note. Eyes wide, she looks at the Suburban and then back at me. I can no longer control the tears. I figure Trace understands he’s in the middle of some colossal feminine breakdown because he quickly says his goodbyes and makes his own hasty exit.

The rest of the day is pretty much a blur. After what was most definitely a feminine breakdown, I head back into to my office and just zone out all day. After a while, I take solace in looking at each and every knick-knack on my desk which I’ve accumulated from my kiddos over the years. There are many memories in those beautiful art projects and presents that now reside in my office. I pay special attention to a few of my favorites.

There’s the “My Mom Rocks” picture I framed that Nycole made for me just last year. Black crayon lettering on top of alternating strips of color in a rainbow pattern, each precisely the same width because; well…that’s just Nycole. I love it…everything about it is perfect. And it makes me feel like she loves me, which is actually really rare these days, with her pre-pubescent attitude and everything. She made me that picture one night and left it in my laptop bag without telling me. She’s usually the silent type, not wanting to draw attention to her actions. When I found it in my bag, I was so touched that I immediately went and bought a frame; it’s been on my desk ever since.

From Kyndall, I have a framed picture she drew of the day that she and Derek went to the lake, just the two of them. In the picture, there are two stick figures holding hands walking on the beach with the sunset in the background. She must have been around five years old, judging by the artistic talent, but I remember this one specifically for two reasons. One, the sunset. It’s not a typical sunset. In fact, it’s a very bright neon pink and green sunset. Very Kyndall-esque. Two, this was the first picture she drew after Derek passed. I was worried because she stopped drawing after it happened. Since art and Kyndall go hand and hand, the fact that she wasn’t drawing worried me. When she gave this to me, I knew she would be okay. But the sight of it made me cry silently for days. Very bittersweet.

From Rylie, I have the Father’s day present I gave to Derek from her the summer before he died. The “#1 Daddy” frame holds a picture that I think is one of the most poignant pictures I have ever taken. Derek is holding Rylie tightly on his hip and smiling at her. Her chubby legs draped around him and her head thrown back laughing at something undoubtedly goofy he just did. And he’s looking at her as though nothing or no one else exists. I know she was only one year old when he died, but those two had a bond unlike anything I had ever seen. I honestly think it was because he knew without a doubt that she was going to be just like him. Rotten and ornery, but so lovable, they never stay in trouble. And he would have been exactly right.

Then I look over at the note from Blake. Where does that fit into all of this?