by P. Dangelico
The Colonel smiles and laughs a lot these days. He still travels all over the world for book signings when his publisher demands it. And meets his brother on faraway sets when he misses him. But the bear roams less, happier to be surrounded by the chaos of our home. The center of his world.
Together we learned that your nature doesn’t have to determine your behavior if you don’t let it. Or your happiness. I let him roam and he lets me nest. He never tells me that we have too many animals to care for––or children. And I don’t try to domesticate him.
Mother Goose Rescue is stronger than ever, Hazel the mascot of our now much bigger operation. Mona sold half the ranch, a hundred acres, to us and we expanded the sanctuary, hired help, and opened it to the public. We do a lot of work with soldiers suffering from mental health issues.
My father is retired and heads the Armed Forces outreach program. Athena is still Athena. Still a black widow spider. She left Matthias two years after they were married. But I’ve gotten to know his daughter Callie really well and she spends time here with us whenever she can’t be with her dad abroad.
Ronan sees me and squeals, raising his arms in the air. “Mommy, mommy!” He’s only three and still a mamma’s boy. Our daughter, Amanda, who came a little sooner than we anticipated, is five. Yes, lost condoms are still a thing.
“Hey, how do you feel?” he asks as slowly lower myself into the chair next to his. Then he leans over and places a kiss on my lips.
“Like killing you.”
“That good, huh?”
Ronan tries to jump onto me and Shane stops him, hanging on to our little monkey when he tries to belly-flop on me and his soon-to-be-born brother. “No, Ronan, Mommy needs a minute.”
“Mom?” Amanda says, seated on the other side of her father. With her big brown eyes and long legs, she’s the spitting image of her father. But the tiny beauty mark… that she got from me.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why does Aunt Mona do this every year?”
“To celebrate life. To bring everyone she loves together. Don’t you like her parties?”
“No, Mommy. I mean why does she put bow ties on all the donkeys?”
We look beyond the empty archway where the service will be held shortly and watch Hazel and her herd in the pasture, munching on hay, all of them wearing what look like tuxedo bibs. Not to be outdone, Billy and his goat girlfriend, Gladis, have them on, too.
“Aunt Mona is a Siamese cat and you know what those are?”Amanda gets that same skeptical look I’ve seen on her father’s face a million times. “Playful and full of trouble.”
“What animal are you?” she asks after a thoughtful pause.
“I’m a collie.”
“Like Lassie?”
“Yep.”
My daughter is still very skeptical of this animal talk. “And Daddy?”
“He’s a grizzly bear.”
Shane makes a grizzly noise at Ronan who finds it hilarious.
Amanda smiles, showing off her crooked teeth. “Oh, yeah, Dad is a bear.”
“You’re still the strangest girl I’ve ever met,” Shane whispers, leaning in for another kiss.
“But you love me anyway?”
“More than ever.”
Amanda looks pensive again. “Mommy, what am I?”
“You’re a swan, baby. A beautiful swan.”
She smiles. “And Ronan?”
“He’s a monkey, of course.”
She nods. “And the new baby?”
My face falls, my eyes widen. Shane looks at me and frowns. “What’s wrong?”
In the silence, we all hear a drip, drip, drip.
“He’s here. The baby’s here!”
Afterword
Animal rescue, as you may have guessed, is a topic close to my heart. If you’re interested in knowing more about the rescues that inspired Blue’s story, please check out Freedom Reins Equine Rescue, My Little Peeps (The Peeps Foundation), and Storeybrook Farm
They can always use your help.
Best,
Paola
Carried Away
There are a few universal truths that still hold true. Not many, mind you. But at least a handful. Like…we need to keep our oceans clean. Who would argue with that? No one sane. Firefighters aren’t paid nearly enough for what they do. They run into fire y’all. The Rolling Stones > the Beatles. By a landslide. Daylight savings should be abolished. I dare you to change my mind.
And lastly, having a mad crush on your boss is a bad idea. That’s a clear loser in everyone’s estimation.
Even worse, that in a moment of lax morals, overconfidence in one’s desirability, and some uncharacteristic heavy drinking at the company winter holiday party you somehow end up kissing said boss in the bathroom. Not my finest moment but I’ve been lusting after him for the better part of the last four years so you can’t blame a girl.
At present, I find myself in said boss’s office making myself small in the chair opposite his and trying to avoid eye contact for obvious reasons.
“I have to let you go,” Ben says. That’s his name––my boss at So-And-So Media Corp, a name I can’t divulge due to the NDA all employees sign upon being hired.
My eyebrow notches up, but that’s about it. Just one eyebrow bump. Because although the wording is curious, I must’ve misunderstood. Or not heard him correctly. He’s not firing me. There isn’t a single solitary chance of that happening.
First of all, it’s only ten in the morning and I haven’t had my second Monster drink yet––stuff doesn’t get real for me until after that second injection of caffeine. Therefore, it is a legit possibility that my brain is misfiring in a million different directions and making me think I am being shit-canned by the man who I’ve had a nauseating schoolgirl crush on for as long as I’ve known him. The same man, mind you, whose every semi-complimentary word I’ve hung onto like it’s an edict from the heavens while he does me the honor of ignoring the undoubtedly hangdog, mildly brain damaged looks I give him.
Second of all…he needs me. The man can’t get through the day without shouting my name at least six times, and it’s never in ecstasy.
Ben leans back in his office chair with his hands neatly laced together on his trim midsection, his expression blank while my eyes wander behind him, to the bookcase filled with journalism awards and travel memorabilia. It’s a tangible reminder that Ben isn’t just the pretty face willing to do all kinds of nasty things to me in my daydreams, he’s also a ridiculously talented journalist who’s amassed experience and proven himself on more than one occasion.
And therein lies the problem. I worship Ben, and in turn, he rides me like a rented mule and not in the way I wish he would.
“Carrie?”
My attention shoots back to his impressive face. This is not an overstatement. Ben has bone structure that would turn most people, men and women alike, neon green with envy.
A thin straight nose, a razor sharp jawline, thick dark brows frame moss green eyes, and a perpetual shadow covers the bottom half of his face because it’s always five o’clock in Ben’s world. Add the ghost of British accent to this cornucopia of awesomeness and it’s almost an overkill of sex appeal.
And it doesn’t end there. Nope. Because the sum of those parts is so much greater.
I once saw a picture of Ben taken at the Tripoli airport as he fled near captured by an ISIS cell. He wore a safari jacket, aviators, and a beat up Yankees ball cap. It made me so hot I got cramps. Freaking cramps! I thought my uterus was going to explode right there and then in the middle of the day as I sat at my cubicle stuffing my face with a roast beef on rye sandwich.
“Did you hear me?” he continues, his face expressionless save for a slow measured blink.
This isn’t at all like him––Ben’s usually smoldering raw sexual energy––but it’s been super awkward between us the last few months. Hence, I do what we both have done since the night of the kiss––I pretend it’s not happening. So
metimes I manage to convince myself the kiss didn’t happen either.
Catching myself staring at the lips in question, I look away. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to erase that memory. Not the way I bumped my forehead against his chest as he was exiting the bathroom I was entering. Not the feeling as I laughed and rubbed my forehead where it had impacted his hard chest. Not the image of him smiling down at me. Or when he wrapped those long fingers around my wrist and pulled me inside.
Yeah, I’m not forgetting that anytime soon.
Less than a minute later, I was unexpectedly pinned against the back of the door with his tongue down my throat. I had to open my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. That’s never a good sign. If you ever feel inclined to open your eyes in the midst of making out with your hot boss, something’s probably wrong.
Was it the best kiss ever? No.
Was it terrible? No.
It just didn’t live up to the fantasy and the fantasy had been nothing short of spectacular for years. Then again I was drunk, so maybe my memory of it hasn’t served me well. Which is why I’ve chalked it up to my bad and not his.
After a few minutes of sloppy kissing, Ben pulled away, looking disheveled and uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He ran his hands through his hair as he apologized in that charming British way of his (which could probably get him out of murder rap) and stormed out, leaving me there alone to wonder what the heck had happened.
But that was six weeks ago and this is now. And now, sitting on his throne of accomplishments, Ben looks very sure of himself. Less so of me. Regardless, I’m not hitting the panic button because he can’t fire me even if he wants to. I’m his go-getter. The one in the office that never ever says no to him. I’m absolutely certain he can’t fire me any more than he can do without his right hand.
Impatiently, I glance at the iPhone resting on my lap. A mountain of research is waiting for me on my laptop––a story I brought to Ben that I’m working on for him––and the deadline is hanging over my head.
“To lunch?” is the only reasonable assumption. “I don’t have time today.”
Once again, I’ll probably spend the weekend working. Lunch isn’t even an option. My job is basically all I have and I really don’t mind it. This is what I’ve always wanted, after all. What I’ve been working towards since I graduated top of my class from Arizona State with a BA in Journalism. Well, not exactly this. Not the trips to the dry cleaners for Ben. Not the hunt for the gluten-free pizza for Ben. Not the late nights I’ve spent double checking another journalist’s work because Ben asked me to when he/she was too lazy to follow up on he/she’s own sources.
What I mean by this is all I have is that I have goals to achieve, awards to win, stories to tell, and slaving for Ben is going to help me accomplish all that. Having a personal life comes in at a distant second in level of importance.
He makes a face and for the first time since I’ve been summoned to his office doubt creeps in. It’s Ben’s constipated face. I know it well. The corners of his mouth are tight and slightly turned up, his brow furrowed. I’ve seen it countless times when he’s dumping whatever it-girl of the moment he’s lost interest in.
“No, umm…for good.” His eyes shift away, to the screen of his desktop computer before he can even finish the last consonant. The same combo of vowels and consonants that are, at present, echoing in my head like a death knell.
I…am…being fired.
“Are you alright?” he says an undetermined amount of time later.
No. No, I am not alright. I’m as far from alright as I could possibly be. I want to scream right now. Instead, I shove it back down and work on measuring my breathing before I faint.
The bottom just fell out of my life. I can’t afford to be unemployed. Not now. Probably not ever.
My gaze falls on the small coffee stain on the right thigh of my wrinkled pants and anger the likes of which I’ve rarely felt before rises to the surface. It’s a perfect visual representation of my life: unnoticed and under appreciated. Had I known what was in store for me today I would’ve gone to the dry cleaners to pick up the clothes that had been there for weeks because I’ve been working overtime. I would’ve worn the Nars Inappropriate Red lipstick and my Chloe suit, the one my sister bought me for my birthday, the one that makes me look somewhat like a badass bitch. And I would’ve most definitely washed my hair.
Instead, I find myself getting fired in the same wrinkled Banana Republic grey pantsuit I’ve worn all week with my hair in a ponytail because dry shampoo can’t actually perform miracles no matter what they tell you looking like your run-of-the-mill basic bitch.
A dry, nervous chuckle bursts out of me. “Why?”
As my mouth is forming that word, the answer hits me with crystal clarity. My mind conjures images of the bathroom kiss, and heat blankets my neck.
“Why what?”
“Why am I being fired?” I clarify over the grinding of my molars. Just because I’m willing to sacrifice everything for the greater good doesn’t mean I’m about to roll over and play dead on command. I want to hear it said out loud that I’m being fired over a kiss.
He makes a confused face. “For starters”––his head bobs to the left––“it was the initial tweet.”
Tweet? What tweet? Until it dawns on me, and my eyes falls shut as my insides knot.
“It wasn’t even a full tweet,” I mutter. “I only reposted my original article. It was more like a…a twit.”
“The man had just died, Carrie. You didn’t even wait twenty-four hours.”
Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have tweeted the police report and mugshot, but if you don’t want that to do the time don’t do the crime.
“And I apologized––”
“After you doubled down.”
“Because people were speaking about him like he was some kind of Demi-God.”
“And to many people, he was,” he fires back, the rising volume of his voice indicating he’s losing patience with me.
An explanation is in order here. The one big story I broke, the one that earned me the job as Ben’s bitch, for lack of a better term, was a story I broke fresh out of school.
A famous NFL quarterback was rumored to have beaten his girlfriend so badly she sustained serious injuries. Single handedly, I tracked her down, gained her trust, and got her permission to write her side of the story. Eventually, she turned over a video recording of the fight to me exclusively. Turns out, she’d been recording his visits since the first time he’d pushed her around. Crack reporting if I don’t say so myself. I can still feel the adrenaline rush of chasing that lead.
At the time, the story was mostly buried. News outlets were playing wait-and-see. The story came as a shock to his millions of fans, many of which had a hard time believing it about their golden boy, and they didn’t want to be caught having to issue a retraction and possibly alienating viewers.
All that changed when I published the story of his past behavior, including the video of how it all went down. The story went viral and plausible deniability was no longer an option. The video evidence explicitly showed Mr. NFL Superstar was neither set up, nor the victim of a woman seeking a fat settlement. He was an abuser.
In the end, he essentially got off. The case was dropped when the victim refused to testify. I never blamed her for taking the payout––coming out as a victim of abuse against a major celebrity usually ends with the victim being threatened and victimized further––but it was disappointing. The NFL benched him for a year. He paid fines. There was a lot of talk about changing the code of conduct. Sports analysts debated whether he’d be cut from the team and who would have the courage to pick him up. But ultimately, the team kept him on the roster and all was quickly forgiven and forgotten when they went on to win another Super Bowl.
That was four years ago. This weekend he was killed in a jet ski accident.
The news coverage was round the clock. Pundits and super fans kept going on and on abou
t what a great man he was so I felt it necessary to even the scales a bit, to remind people he wasn’t all that simply because he could throw a ball.
Have you ever been ratioed on Twitter? Yeah, it’s not a nice thing to have happen. I received an avalanche of replies to my tweet, all of which were beyond vile and probably illegal in some states. The angry villagers came after me with pitchforks and knives. I just didn’t expect Ben to join them.
“So we’re all going to ignore his criminal history because he threw a ball really well?”
“He did a lot of good for the community, funded a number of very successful charities––”
“He was an abuser.”
“And he paid for that.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Carrie––“
“Ben…” I plead in my most pathetic voice. “Ben, please…” Desperation is setting in. When Ben sets his mind to something, he can rarely be convinced to abandon his position. One of the reasons he’s so good at his job. “You can’t fire me for this. I was on my personal Twitter account on my own time.”
“Carrie, not only can I––check your contract––but I have to.” He points to the ceiling. “Order came from up above.”
“God wants me fired?”
A fleeting smirk replaces his blank expression, then he shrugs. “In a sense.”
After that, an awkward silence falls in which I’m not sure if I want to cry or commit workplace violence. Ben continues to stare back, trying to give nothing away, but it’s all in his eyes. The distance makes my stomach roil. He’s not coming to my rescue. He’s really cutting me loose.
His chair slowly swivels right. Then left. And for the first time since I walked into his office four years ago for my interview and nearly swooned at the mere sight of him, I want to rearrange his face to look less pretty.
I’ve taken one or ten for the team, forgone an actual life in pursuit of the story while Ben claimed all the credit. And for what? To be canceled at the first sign of trouble.
“I’m getting death threats,” I tell him. And that’s the truth. People are crazy about their sports heroes.
