I certainly never thought about it at work. I’d always been pretty lucky in that category.
When you spend enough time around a group of people, a dynamic grows. Your coworkers, especially the crazy ones like Emily, become a sort of family. And I was having a pretty amazing relationship with all of my family members.
All of them now…except for one.
Heath Sparrow is somehow now my boss, the legal CEO at my firm. I spent the better part of the afternoon, covering all of the latest from the business mogul Chris Jackson’s corruption case, and right now, as far as I’m concerned, this one family member can choke on his own overblown ego, fall head-first off the pedestal he’s raised himself on, and smack his ass on a thousand pointy Legos on his way down before tumbling into the edge of my stiletto.
And okay, yes… I do acknowledge that it’s a very gorgeous ass to fall down on, but his ass isn’t exactly the one I’m worried about.
It’s my own that’s on the line.
In the midst of my work day, preparing for my next deposition, my cell phone suddenly rang in the center of my desk, blaring out a familiar melody.
Swiping a wrinkle of frustration from my forehead, I answered the phone without glancing at it, the sound of my Chicago realtor’s voice on the other end. Her voice is the overly chipper sound I need to run a chainsaw through my thoughts.
“Vi!” She cried, her tone just a tad too loud. “Where have you been? I thought you were heading back to the condo earlier this week.”
“Change of plans, Sarah,” I say, my mind still racing over my current case’s details. “I had to make a quick trip back to New York.” I think of the unfinished business I left back in the Windy City.
“Darling, don’t rush! It’s no big deal. Anyway…are you sure you’re supposed to be traveling in your condition? I mean, with the pregnancy and all?”
Pregnancy? The word was like a knife to the heart. After several seconds of finding the energy to breathe again, I managed to blow out the question, my oxygen expelling from my body hard enough to keel me over.
I cough, my voice dry amidst the cold office air. “Pregnancy? I repeated. “Sarah, I’m—I’m sorry. But I’m not pregnant.”
“But your husband…” She stutters. “He said his wife was… and I thought…” She stopped, almost as if aware of the secret she was revealing, her chipper voice escalating eight octaves higher. On a giggle, she tried to blow it off, as if she’d never said it. Her laughter is a shaky sound that does nothing to soothe me, and as she continued talking about closing costs for the condo and life I left behind, my chest tightened, a chilled reality settling in my bones that made me shiver, tremble from the inside out.
I certainly didn’t see that coming…
Several hours later, I am still thinking about that damn call at my favorite Happy Hour spot, my thoughts won’t leave me alone, the past two years catching up to me like never before, weighing on my mind like an anvil.
The urge to rid myself of the odor of the afternoon is overwhelming.
The second I settled in my seat at Le Petite Pony, part of me knew it was a mistake. But with no other current recourse, I set out to regain my sense of sanity—to recapture real control in a world that is quickly spiraling out of it.
I may not be able to rewind time. But I can certainly make it stop thanks to tequila.
I hold a deep breath, counting to myself as I wait for the burn to hit my tongue.
One. Two.
The clear drink goes down like an atom bomb. I clear my throat, pushing the hot liquid the rest of the way through my esophagus, and with my hand still wrapped around the liquor glass and my collar unbuttoned, I do the only thing I can think to do in that moment.
Ask for another.
I’ve never liked tequila. And it hasn’t exactly been a fan of mine. But when the sting of a sunken love and a forgotten life is still sitting on your shoulders, pricking at your skin, you do a lot of things to numb yourself. To desensitize. To lose control.
To forget.
I’d like to forget today ever happened, but the leery eyes of the men in suits to the left of the bar won’t let me. The first guy approaches, his middle finger pushing the edge of his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose, his blue eyes roaming my figure before they land back on my face.
He grins.
“Hello there.” His voice is as annoying as his creepy stare. “You looked a little lonely over here.”
I don’t glance at him. “I wasn’t.”
He continues undeterred. “My buddies and I were just over there, making a bet. We bet which one of us could guess which firm you work for. And I’m sure I’ve won.” He glances at the stool beside me. “May I sit down?”
I motion to the bartender, ignoring him. “No, thanks. Really.” I finally glance in his direction, throwing him a small smile. “I’d rather drink myself to death in peace if you don’t mind.”
The barkeep brings me a double of whatever cheap concoction I just swallowed, and Mr. Can’t-Take-A-Hint—still standing there—laughs at last, his affable eyes crinkling at the corners. He points at me.
“You’re funny.” He looks down at the briefcase at my feet. “I couldn’t help but notice your briefcase. Patent leather. Nice.”
He couldn’t be more boring if he tried, but I oblige him—a rare attempt not to be a total bitch on one of the worst days of my life. I nod, sipping from the edge of my glass, regret hitting me instantly. I wince. “Glad you think so,” I say without a hint of inflection. “I stole it.”
He leans in, laughing a little too hard. “See? There. That’s funny.”
As if he can’t believe a person with tits is capable of humor. I’m starting to lose mine. “Listen…” I hesitate. “Ben.” He looks like a Ben. “Honestly,” I say, the liquor still sitting on my tongue. “I’d really like to just be left alone, if you don’t mind.”
His warm eyes grow cold. “Are you always this guarded?”
“If I say yes, will you scram?” I ask, lifting my eyes to meet his. He blinks, literally walking backwards, his shiny black shoes retreating fast, and I release a long breath, the alcohol in my system scrambling a few more brain cells as I reflect back on this morning.
The knife in my heart (and back) was currently twisting—finding out about my ex-husband’s baby (the one he is having with my ex-best friend), and for the first time in a long time, hot tears built behind my eyes, burning me from the inside out. A scream surfaced on my mouth but wouldn’t come out.
I feel the scream inside me even now, but I squelch it with the bitter cocktail sitting in front of me on the bar. I prepare to do more squelching, lifting the glass to my lips when I hear another set of footsteps settle beside me, stopping just short of my leather stool.
I set my drink against the nicked tabletop, hearing my heartbeat in my ears. I close my eyes.
“Lemme guess,” I slightly slur, my mouth too lazy to try harder. “You guys made a bet this time as to who could annoy me most?”
I wait a beat. And finally two.
The smell of espresso-tinted smoke reaches my nose, and I inhale, adding leather to the aromatic mix swimming suddenly inside my nostrils. The air smells…warm—rich. I feel intoxicated as I sit there in the almost-empty bar built for young professionals. Professionals like I used to be. And a sadness I’d forgot I’d had spreads again in me.