“Mmm,” Beck makes a noise. “I… don’t know.”
She puts her hand over her phone, but it isn’t a corded house phone in ‘92, and I can still hear what she’s saying. Also, I’m fairly certain she has me on speaker. “No, you don’t know!” she whisper-hisses to Beau, who is murmuring something in the background.
Something that sounds a lot likeAtticus.
“Beck,” I snap, realizing I’m now standing up. My body is full of energy, and I’m pacing the small length of my office, despite the fact that everyone on the showroom floor can see me.
“That’s great, Goldie. It's great thatfuckfacefinally gave you back something after everything he took.”
Fuckface. Man, Beck must be happy for me if she’s using real curse words and not baby-safe jackhole and doofus shit. But wait— “hey, what is Beau saying?”
My body is telling me there’s something on her end of the line that would help align what’s going on today. And Beau said Atticus. I fucking heard him.
“Oh, it’s nothing. He’s just interrupting me,” she snaps, but more toward him than myself.
I don’t know if I buy it, but she sells it pretty hard so I leave it there.
“That’s crazy, though. I mean… he found you.” The way she says it this time is… less shocked and, therefore, less convincing.
“Knock, knock,” Carter, the top salesman, smiles from the doorway, where he’s pushed his face inside the small crack he’s created.
I want to scream;you either knock and wait or you don’t, but you don’t come inside and say knock, knock.But I don’t. Because that would be taking out my confusion and frustration on Carter–that is a Constance Berry trait.
Smiling, I hold up a single finger and then turn my back to him, stealing a last moment of privacy. “Hey, I gotta go.”
“Go! Work! I’m happy you got that letter today, though. I really am.”
“Me too,” I whisper, glancing to my side at the check and letter on my desk. The USB is there, too, but if I look at it for more than a second, my stomach turns. Ending the call, I gather the items, shove them back into the certified envelope, and put them in my locking drawer, twisting the key with resolve.
I don’t know what to make of it, but I don’t need to worry about that anymore. I have safety, a new job, a new place, Dr. Longo, Beck and Beau, and… Atticus. And his family. I have a support system now. I may not know how to use it efficiently yet, but I’ll learn.
Thirty-seven is not too old to learn how to be a better human.
* * *
I stay laterthan normal unintentionally. Carter came in with a barrage of questions regarding the open position, and when I notified him that Amy would be filling said position, he needed a moment to calibrate.
Carter’s a good guy; I think he just needed to adjust his expectations.
We could all do that from time to time. It doesn’t mean we failed; it just means the original goal is allowed to shift and evolve without having some deeper meaning.
I thought I’d be a top name with the Brutes forever. And now that idea is repulsive. That organization is repulsive. Being avaluedperson versus a top name is more fulfilling, yet I’d never considered it before.
Slinging my laptop bag over my shoulder, I grab my purse and then close the door behind me. I wave goodbye to the cleaning crew. A few salesmen are still here, working on paperwork, and the service guys are still here, too. I wave goodbye to all of them and make my way outside, where the air has a bite and the sky is already dampening with night.
Turning the corner of the building to the employee parking spots, I’m jolted to a stop when I see Atticus’s truck next to mine, his big frame propped up against it. His arms are folded over his chest and his hair is up in a messy bun—unrelated,messy buns make me wet. He leans with swoon, wearing a black and gray flannel over a different black hoodie, his legs crossed at the ankle, and boots coated in snow. The tip of his nose is red, and the hoop piercing shines beneath the tall parking lot light. He looks like a bad boy, smells like an orgasm, and when he wraps his arms around me as my bags crash to the ground, he feels like home.
In his embrace, I begin to panic. My body tightens, my heart races, and my head jerks up, desperate to see his face. To look into his eyes.
“I don’t want to not know if I have this every day,” I tell him in a rush, a sting blooming behind my eyes. The cold air nips my face, but he claims my jaw in his hand in an aggressively tender way only Atticus can do.
“Speak English,” he growls down at me as the rough skin of his thumb drags along my bottom lip. My belly shudders at the electric touch.
“I started to feel panicked in your arms because of how good I feel in them,” I start, trying to talk through my thoughts so he knows everything.
I used to be a person who shaped her feelings, shaved off any bits that could be perceived as unsavory, and filled them in with bullshit to make them more appetizing to whomever I delivered them to.
Not anymore.