Authors: Carey Heywood
Them (Him #3) (24 page)
Sometime over the last eight years, I have managed to put on an extra ten, or so, pounds. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I weren’t freaking out that maybe the extra weight is the reason Mike is putting off wedding planning. I need to go to the gym; but I don’t want people to see me working out until I am smaller. How dumb is that? Avoiding the gym because there are in-shape people there.
There’s a small line at the bakery. I glance down at my watch to see how much time I still have before the Offenheims get there. Luckily, when it’s my turn to order, I don’t need them to prepare anything. I only need five scones and I’m back at my desk in no time. I open the small conference room to air out the stale smell in there, while I set up the refreshment tray.
I transfer fresh coffee, cream, and sugar to a small coffee set we have. I also fill up a water pitcher and add ice. Once everything is set up, I roll my shoulders back a couple of times to release the tension gathering there. I’m only at my desk a couple minutes before I get the call from the front desk that the Offenheims are here.
I notify Mr. Fulson before going out to greet them. He will meet us in the small conference room once I have them seated and offer them refreshment. I glance at my reflection in the glass window of an office before going to greet them. I wore my best suit today to make a good impression.
I hate hose; so today, I only wore pants to work to avoid them. My suit is a simple black with thin white pinstripes that I have paired with a cerulean shell. Mr. and Mrs. Offenheim are joined by their eldest son, Grant. Grant Offenheim is something of a local celebrity around these parts. He is a frequent addition to eligible bachelor lists locally, and I think a national magazine one year.
This is the first time I have met him. He is stutter inducingly beautiful. I plaster my most professional face on and try not to sneak too many glances at him. I don’t think it’s cheating to ogle attractive men. He seems pleasant. I don’t expect him to throw himself at me or be overly cordial; if anything, he seems distracted.
Both Misters Offenheim take coffee, while Mrs. asks for tea. I pass Mr. Fulson on my way to the break room and explain. He looks annoyed I hadn’t thought of tea ahead of time. Maybe I’m assuming he’s annoyed because I’m annoyed with myself for overlooking it. I return to the conference room with the tea in no time.
I have made one cup by itself and have more tea steeping in a pot on a tray. After I add, per her request, milk to her tea I excuse myself. Our office manager is waiting for me when I get back to my desk.
“Courtney, can you please come to my office?”
I give Beth a confused look. “Sure, everything okay?”
She shakes her head and turns, so all I can do is follow her. Once we’re in her office, she closes her door. Why did she close her door?
My palms start sweating and I rub them across the tops of my pant legs to dry them.
“Courtney, after an investigation, we believe you have been misappropriating funds from petty cash. If you are able to replace the amount you have taken, we will not contact the authorities; but in either scenario, your employment is being terminated immediately.”
As if it was the starting line of a horse race, my heart begins to gallop. Soon her voice is a dull distant noise against the rumble of the stampede echoing in my ears.
“What?” I stammer, “I haven’t stolen anything from petty cash. I took ten dollars today to buy scones from downstairs. I have a receipt. I haven’t entered it into the system yet because I was making coffee and tea for Mr. Fulson’s appointment.”
“I’m sorry, Courtney, but this is more than ten dollars.”
“You’re joking.” I nervously laugh because it doesn’t feel like she’s joking. “I swear I didn’t steal anything. Please give me a chance to somehow prove it to you.”
“I will escort you to your desk so you may collect your things. You will need to give me your key at that time. If you are not able to write me a check for the amount missing from petty cash, we will take it from your final check.”
When she stands, I mimic her movements blindly dazed by everything she just said. Something isn’t right. They have to know I wouldn’t ever steal from them. Beth grabs a flattened box on the way out of her office. When we reach my desk, she hands it to me.
They aren’t only firing me; they’re forcing me to make my own box to carry out my stuff. As she watches me, I decide what to take. Although the stapler is technically mine, will she assume I’m stealing it? I grab the framed picture I have of Mike and me.
I look up at her after grabbing my purse. “Does Mr. Fulson know you’re firing me?”
When she nods, I take a deep breath. I had thought to myself, there was no way he would let them do this. Apparently, I was wrong. People are looking and whispering. Eyes of people I have talked to everyday dig into my shoulder blades.
Not one of them says a word to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my entire life. Beth walks me to the main door. Our lobby is empty, almost as though they timed my exit to avoid any clients seeing it.
I’m half way out the door when she says, “Your key?”
I have to set my box on the floor to get my keys out of my purse. I slip the office key from my ring and hand it to her. “This isn’t right.”
She offers me no reply, just takes the key and turns, letting the door close without a backward glance. I have been a good employee. What the hell just happened?
Embarrassment propels me toward the exit. I clumsily shift my box to my hip to open the door. My steps are awkward across the parking lot. My ankles seem to have forgotten how to hold me upright. I stumble and find every imperfection in the asphalt. I make it to my car somehow.
My eyes are misty, but I refuse to cry. Shoving my box into the back seat and slamming the door, I climb into the driver’s side. With shaky hands, I pull my cell phone out to call Mike. He doesn’t answer so I hang up and text him to call me right away.
I’ll break my no phone in the car rule when he does. I start my car. I’m hyper-sensitive to each action I take, hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, turn wheel to the left, blinker on, look right, glance at my cell after each movement. I was just fired. I was just fired. There is no way I did what they said I did. I didn’t steal money.
I’m halfway home when my car jerks to the right. Thankfully, not the left or I would have hit the Ford in the lane next to me. I brake and ease onto the shoulder. I’ve had a blowout. I can see from my rearview mirror the remnants of what was my tire all over the road. I try to call Mike again. No answer.
Can this day get any worse? I groan and unbuckle my belt. I smack my steering wheel a couple times before apologizing to it.
My spare is in the trunk. I peel off my suit jacket and toss it into the passenger seat before timing traffic to get out without having my door hit. I get the lift set before it starts raining. There’s the answer to my ‘can it get worse’ question. Great.
I stop to check my phone, hoping Mike has called, texted, or something, and grumble to myself when I see he hasn’t. The rain has done nothing to kill the heat of the day. It’s as if I’m in an outdoor shower in my clothes. The wayward hairs, which frame my face, have escaped the rubber band and now are plastered to my cheeks.
I want to cry. I want the rain to disguise my tears. Some stubborn piece of me refuses to allow myself that relief. Every car that passes I both hope and worry that they’ll stop. No one does stop though. My wet hands on the crow bar make removing the lug nuts holding the rim of my now destroyed tire a nightmare. My hands slip more often than not.
Squatting there in the rain, a wet mess, I realize it’s not so bad. This is the worst of it. My spare tire is now on. I can get a new tire, and I can get a new job. The new job part might be difficult without a reference, but I can do it. I get back in my car and shake some of the rain from my hair like a dog. I search for the closest mechanic on my phone and find one at the next exit. I slowly make my way to it, hazards on.
It’s a small garage called Pete’s. I clamor back into the rain to the front office.
Seeing no one there, I tentatively call out, “Hello?”
“Be right with you.” A voice returns from a back room.
The air conditioning has me shivering in my wet clothes. I cross my arms and rub my hands up and down them attempting to warm up. A moment later, an older man with a backward baseball cap walks out.
“Got caught in the rain,” he remarks sympathetically.
I nod. “I blew my tire and had to put the spare on.”
“You don’t have roadside assistance?” He sounds surprised.
My shoulders sag and I groan. “I didn’t even think to call them.” I glance back up at him. “It’s been a rough morning.”
He pats my shoulder. “I can get you all fixed up from here. Want me to check your other tires while I’m at it?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I want to get home, crawl into bed, and pull my covers over my head.”
“That bad?” he asks.
I nod and give him a small smile. I pass him my keys and he directs me to the ladies room telling me to use as much of the paper towels as I want to dry off. The ladies room bulb blinks in refusal before fully illuminating the small bathroom. A roll of paper towels sits on a small table between the sink and toilet.
I wring my shirt and hair before even trying to dry them further. The soles of my wedge dress shoes are soaked. I make a squish sound with every step I take. By the time, I’m back in the front office the rain has stopped. Stupid summer downpours. I try Mike again. At this point, I don’t know whether to be angry or worried.
The older man, who I assume is Pete, has my new tire on in no time. I thank him profusely as he rings me up, passing him my debit card. He runs it through the machine twice before cringing and looking up at me.
He rubs his chin, passing my card back to me. “It was declined.”
My jaw drops, my lower lip shaking. “That can’t be right.”
He hesitates. “Do you have another card?”
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
I don’t want to cry. “Let me try to call,” my voice trails off as I try Mike again.
To avoid his kind eyes, I turn my face attempting to hold myself together. When it goes to voicemail, I fall into an uncomfortable plastic chair and hold my head in my hands. Fired, flat tire, rainstorm, and now my debit card is being declined. I don’t know what to do. I start to call my mom, but stop myself when I see my battery is almost dead.
“Can I use your phone to call my bank?” I quietly ask.
He walks over to me, my bill in his hands. Standing right next to me, he tears it in half.
“I can pay. I just need to . . .” I say.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He helps me up, patting me on the back as he walks me to my car. After opening my door for me, he tells me to go home and get some rest. That everything will seem better tomorrow. Once I’m far enough away that he can’t see me, I pull over so I can cry. His kindness and his generosity on this being maybe the second worst day of my life gives me hope.
Tomorrow I will call Mr. Fulson and ask them to provide proof. I will call a lawyer and find out if I can get my job back because I have been wrongfully terminated. I dry my tears and get back on the road.
I’ll be home early enough to make something nice for dinner. Moreover, I have to call the bank to find out why my card wouldn’t work. Even if I have to stop by my branch and pull out cash, I am going to pay that nice man back.
When I pull into our complex, I see a car in my spot and Mike’s car still in his spot. I park in a visitor spot further down and slowly walk up to the stairs to our condo. Having a car in my spot has happened before. This car seems familiar somehow. When I’m passing the car, it comes to me. It’s Stacy Callahan’s car. Her father is Mike’s boss.
Stacy is a sweetheart; we’ve all hung out before. I hurry up the stairs and into the condo. Our front door opens right into the living room and I’m surprised I don’t find them in there or in the kitchen that feeds off it. I start to wonder if they’re even here when I hear it, a moan, Mike’s actually. The sound he always makes right before he comes.
I stand outside the doorway of my bedroom, frozen. I know what they’re doing, and I now know why every call and text I have sent my fiancé today has been ignored. I deliberate whether to confront them or not. Do I want to see the man I have spent the last eight years of my life with, the man who asked me to marry him, making love to another woman?
I decide another eight years may need to pass before I want to see his face again or hear his excuses. I grab a sheet of paper and write a quick note. “You sounded busy.” I sign it and leave my engagement ring with it on the kitchen counter. I can figure out how or when or if I want anything from this condo another time.
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