Same old song and dance, again. If I have to listen to another word he says, I’m going to blow my top. I’m so sick of this company’s idiotic rules when it comes to talk time. Shouldn’t those of us in customer service focus on the customer and not some number a guy in a suit that’s never done my job before came up with? I’ll try explaining myself, but I’m sure it’ll fall deaf because of Roger’s lack of empathy.
“I had an elderly woman on the phone this morning who was very hard of hearing. I’m sure that call alone is what brought my stats down. I don’t shoot the crap with the customers anymore. I got your message loud and clear last week.”
“Apparently not. One call isn’t going to bring your talk time up this high. I need you to focus. Work isn’t the place for making friends, especially with our customers. If you go over your talk time tomorrow, I’ll be forced to write you up. Straighten up your act, please.”
“I…”
I deflate. A tiny, courageous part of me thinks I should argue with Roger but then I cave, as I always do. Something about my mortgage and keeping a roof over Otis’ head allows me to push the anger down.
“I’m sorry, Roger. I’ll do a better job at shortening my calls.”
“Thank you.” He turns to walk away.
I take a deep breath. Before I’m able to let it out, I realize, to my horror, Roger turns back around.
“Oh, and we have over three hundred calls in the queue so I’m going to need you to forgo lunch today. You’re allowed to run and grab your lunch and use the bathroom if you must, but we need you to bring your food back to your desk and keep taking calls. Try not to alert the customers to the fact that you’re eating.”
Disappointment flows through my veins. I’ve waited four hours for the chance to dive back into Estherly’s diary, and now the chance is gone. I hate Roger. He doesn’t wait for my response because he knows as well as I do that there’s no arguing with mandatory overtime.
Turning back to my desk, I look at the diary and promise to myself that I’ll grab an easy dinner and get right to reading as soon as I get home. I put myself back into call rotation and brace for the next angry subscriber.
A man with a woman screaming in the background sounds off about his home phone not ringing when he gets calls. While I drown out the sound of his whiny voice, my mind goes over scenarios where I’ll get home from work and head over to Sam’s, offering him a greasy burger in exchange for the other boxes he has. When he answers the door in my fantasy, he’s wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, and he greets me with a huge smile.
“Are you listening to me?” asks the customer.
“Yes, sir,” I jolt from my musing. “I’m going to transfer you over to our technical support team so they can schedule a time for one of our techs to come out and fix your issue.”
How I was able to see Sam half naked in my mind, yet still hear the exact complaints the caller had, is beyond me. I wait for the man’s permission to transfer him, do so, and not two seconds later, another customer is on the line. How am I supposed to escape from this hell on earth when people keep calling in?
After grabbing two burgers and fries from my favorite downtown joint, I pull into my driveway. Looking toward Sam’s, his blue Chevy is parked out front. I can’t calm my agitated nerves as my mind rehearses the lines I’ve been practicing since I decided to head over there. Pulling down the sun visor, I check the lipstick I haphazardly put on while stuck in traffic. My hair is a mess, so I comb my fingers through my ginger locks. This is as good as I get. I’m sure I’m wasting my time thinking that Sam would find me anything more than his friendly klutz of a neighbor, but I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t try connecting with him. Offering dinner in exchange for the boxes gives me an in for sitting at his table and talking with him about what I found last night.
Letting out a deep breath, I brace myself. I grab the bags of food and my other belongings from the car and step out. I shut my car door and stare at Sam’s front door with my heart about to leap from my chest. As I walk around the front of my car, anxiety pulses in the veins in my neck. I sprint across my lawn… right to my front door. Unable to muster the courage, I twist my key in the front door lock and go inside. I have no idea what I’ll do with the extra meal, so I walk into the kitchen and toss it in the refrigerator. In this moment, I hate myself. I hate myself for not having any guts. In my head, my mother’s voice tells me that I’ll never find a husband – that they don’t come knocking on your door.
While I stand in my kitchen, a bag of greasy food dangling from my hand and my arms full of Estherly’s diary, my lunch bag, and my purse, someone knocks on my door. Placing everything on the counter, I raise my eyebrows and let out a little giggle. Thinking it must be a delivery man, I answer the door.
Two tattered boxes and a glimpse of the top of Sam’s head catches my eye. So… Mom, my future husband won’t come knocking on my door, will he?
“Hi,” I say, breathless. I hurry and place my things on the bench by the door.
“Hey,” Sam says from behind the boxes. “I saw your car in the driveway and thought I’d drop these boxes by, so you can see if there’s anything you want out of them before I toss them.”
I scoff at the idea of him throwing these away. “Come in. Here, let me help you with one of those.”
I don’t know what’s more exciting, Sam standing in my hallway or what might be in the boxes he’s brought by.
Taking one of the boxes from him, our arms glide over each other, sending chills down my spine. With his dirty blonde curls, more than a five o’clock shadow, and a rugged look, Sam Landry is the most handsome man I’ve ever known.
“You can set that down on the coffee table,” I say as I place my box on the table, leaving room for his.
Setting it down, he places his hands in his pockets. We look at each other for a few moments while I wonder what he’s thinking and why I can’t seem to form a single word.
Sam saves me when he finally speaks. “Your place is great. Look at all this old woodwork.” His head falls back as he checks out the wood beams that go across the ceiling.
“Thank you. The woodwork is one of the reasons I bought this place. I have an affinity for old things.” Before the courage that’s built up inside me disappears, I blurt out, “Are you hungry?”
Sam tilts his head to the side as if he’s studying something that confuses him, and I’m immediately embarrassed I asked. “The burger joint I go to gave me an extra order but told me to keep it.”
Sam’s lips pull to the side and crease his perfect face. A low chuckle sounds from his chest, and I think I’ll die right here in my living room because his smile is so heavenly--even though I’m pretty sure he finds me ridiculous. Why would a guy of his caliber be remotely interested in a plain and mundane woman who leads the most boring life on the planet?
“I… I figured—”
“How did you know I was starving? Do you read minds?” he asks.
I shrug, not knowing what else to do. “Umm, have a seat. I’ll go grab it. I was about to sit down and eat, too. You can… ahh, join me if you’d like.”