“Oh for fucks sake Laurel. Jimmie ordered a chicken pot pie and it’s got to be better then whatever Mama has in that pan.”
“Are you kidding me? A pot pie is your motivation for putting us at risk?” She’s unbelievable and I’m flabbergasted. Absolutely flummoxed, but that’s Lavender. I’m not even sure she’s built to consider anyone but herself since she had Hannah and gave up what she considers the best years of her life. I just hope she figures herself out before Hannah catches on because I know deep down she loves that little girl even if she feels jilted by her baby daddy.
“Hey we’re supporting a small business. Pete’s Potpie shack has been around since 1940.”
I roll my eyes.
“I highly doubt this is what they meant by social distancing.”
“No.” She drawls smiling and twirling her hair that hasn’t seen its original color since her high school cosmetology class. “I’m going for the chicken and the dicken.”
The what?
“Unbelievable.” I mutter as she escapes out the door and the fire alarm goes off simultaneously. I turn to check out what’s going on and when I glance back, Lavender is long gone. At least someone around here is having fun, I guess.
Dinner is uneventful and tasteless. No one expresses concern with where Lavender took off to so I scrape the leftovers into the trash before Marley can eat them. I help Hannah read a book and tuck her into bed while my mother smokes out the window. It’s no different than any other night except I’m filled with a combination of dread and anxiety.
I’m not going out, but I am meeting someone.
I think I'm in love with a man I've never met. For all I know, he could be King Kong, or the weird guy in the front cubicle with an overbite. What I do know is that he wants to Skype tonight and I'm nervous as heck praying my top doesn’t have pit stains.
My computer pings and I force myself to get up from my twin bed with cat sheets that have been rotated in with Barbie, and unicorns since high school and since Hannah was born. I’m not picky and since I wasn’t having boyfriends over, it didn’t really matter.
But with the webcam I set up…well, that was about to change things. I tuck my plain comforter over the sheets. No need to share that level of weirdness yet.
My stomach rolls. I don’t know what to expect.
The screen lights up and I see a man, or most of him. His face is covered by a piece of paper with the words: Don’t hang up written in bold marker.
“Ummm?” I try to see around it but it’s ridiculous. We’re separated by a screen.
“Please don’t hang up.” He says.
“Van?” Over the past few months he’s told me his name.
“It’s me Laurel, but I have some explaining to do.”
I lean back blowing out a breath. “I’m not going to like this am I?”
“Eh, I guess it depends on what you were hoping for.”
“You’re a guy, so I guess that’s a minimum.” I retort. Has a dick and job? I suppose those were higher standards than my sister.
He laughs and the paper shakes teasing me.
“Oh come on. How bad could it be?”
“Sweetheart, remember don’t hang up.” My heart warms like a butterball and puddles into the edge of my twin bed I use as a chair for my desk.
“Okay. Fine.”
The paper lowers slowly. His hair comes into view, dark and wavy. The paper lowers again and I see arched thick eye brows and deep blue eyes that look vaguely familiar. The paper is about halfway and my curiosity is ravenous. He keeps going, but time seems to slow as the face comes into focus and I realize who this man is. The man I’ve been having online flirtatious conversations with…
My boss.
Donovan Ward.
And now things become clear.
Crystal clear.
So freaking clear I feel my heart pound so loud it blocks my hearing at first.
“Laurel.” His voice is one I recognize. His slight husky almost Scottish accent that makes me think he’s been drinking whiskey all day long or smoking cigars which I know he doesn’t do.
“Mr. Ward.” I choke the words out unsure what to do. Will I get fired? Will we or rather I get in any trouble? My chest burns with acid reflux over this discovery and I bite my thumbnail even though I know touching my face is off-limits. But it’s my face and my house so at the moment I don’t care.
Yup.
I’m going to get sick and then die from biting my nail. That’s what’s going to finally do me in. No speeding bus or casual mugging in the park, my damn thumbnail.
“Oh no, please don’t call me that.”
“But you’re you. You’re my boss.” Floundering, I get up from my bed because it butts up against my desk and my closet sized room doesn’t even have space for a chair. And then I realize he can pretty much see my room. The whole thing, less than six square feet of it because it’s really a generous sized closet.
“I’m the company owner, but I’m not your direct boss.”
My eyes narrow. “I don’t think that makes me feel any better.”
“Right. I guess not.” He runs a hand through his glossy Clark Kent like hair. “Well, still, call me Van. Please?”
It’s hard to deny him much of anything when he looks at me like I’m everything.
“Van.” I parrot his name, but it doesn’t alleviate my anxiety in the slightest.
He winces. “I wanted to tell you sooner.”
“Sooner.” Meaning, he’s known for quite some time. My face goes hot and sweat beads between my breasts itching. “How long have you known?”
He winces again. “Almost from the beginning.” I take it back. He’s no Clark Kent, he might as well be Lex Luthor in his deception and I feel like a colossal idiot.
My breast sweat makes me squirm. It’s like being fifteen again, super awkward and the boy you’ve been crushing on finally takes notice. He smiles at you, except you’re not sure if he’s smiling at you, or Barbara from Biology when you’ve just gauchely raised your hand in a half-hearted wave. I have an overwhelming need to check and see if Barbara is behind me even though rational thought tells me she’s not. Barbara the bitch from Biology hasn’t been around in close to a decade, but you feel her presence, and that’s enough to squash your self-esteem.
“Shit.”
My boss nods, scrubbing his hands over his face and into his hair. Not exactly on the list of approved things to do, but I bite my lip instead of telling him this. After all, I’m a hypocritical nail biter. He’s probably got access to gallons of hand sanitizer and body wash, but at least he’s mirroring a quarter of my own unease.
“I didn’t know how to tell you and then things sort of progressed and it became harder.”
“Right.” I drawl.
We both stare into the screen. I can see the view behind him from the perfect webcam lighting to the cityscape behind his shoulder. It’s the kind of view only a pricey apartment can buy. Afforded by a man well out of my league.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I was afraid you’d stop talking to me and I like our chats.”
“That’s it? Our chats?” I can feel the pin pop the balloon in my heart deflating me to nothing.