by Raquel Belle
The company is called Lauffett Consulting, a female-owned consulting company that specializes in helping businesses choose and implement new data management solutions. They already have their own software solution for the medical industry and are developing new technology daily. I’ve read about their CEO in the paper several times, so I’m excited, and nervous, to interview with her. The job I’ve applied for is one that will allow me to manage process-mapping for migration for new clients. It’s very similar to the work I’ve been doing recently in my current job.
I’m super nervous, and not just because I’m interviewing. By my count I’m about six weeks pregnant, and I’m not sure if I should tell them that or not. I haven’t been to the doctor yet—I have an appointment in two weeks, and I plan to have a decision about what I’m going to do by then. I decide it’s best to wait. I need to get the job first, then worry about what comes next.
When I arrive at the company’s west-side building, I realize immediately that I’m really overdressed. And kind of old. The average person looks like mid-twenties and they’re all in jeans or shorts. Some wear flip-flops. Some look like they have bathing suits under their t-shirts.
My interview is with Rachel Lauffett, the owner of the company. She’s tall and blonde. She appraises me with sharp, dark eyes as she greets me at the door. She walks quickly on long legs, pointing out features of the building as we go.
We sit at a large, glass table in her office. She talks for about three minutes about the job and says she sees I’ve been working on a comparable program in my current role. I answer, talking about the project, but then she moves to more personal questions.
“Tell me about you,” she says. When I start to talk about college, she puts a hand up. “I didn’t say tell me what I can read on your resume. I asked about you. Personally. Who are you? What makes you tick?”
“Oh,” I say, surprised at the question. “I, uh … I’m a single mother of two. I have a college degree, and I’d like to use it in a job more interesting than the one I have now. I feel like I’m a pretty good project manager because my boss requires a lot of management and organization.”
“Do you have any hobbies?” Rachel asks.
“I used to,” I say. “Having kids sort of changes things in that realm.”
“What do you do to take care of yourself?”
“Every once in a while I light some candles and take a long bath,” I say with a light laugh. “Not very exciting, I know.”
Rachel gives me what I think is a look of pity. “You know,” she says, “I used to laugh when I read about work-life balance and self-care. I was just positive that it was possible to just go to work and do my job, and then go home at night and there would be plenty of time left for what I needed to accomplish. I’d be able to get my hair cut or get to the gym or have babies and my work would still be here, and everything would be fine.”
“And you discovered otherwise?” I ask.
“I discovered that men had those rights,” she says. “Women did not. And so when I started my own company, I decided that I would make work-life balance a reality for all of the people who worked for me. So if you were to work here, I would want you to think about what it is that you would need in order to feel whole, to have something for yourself that allows you to feel like Hope, the woman, has a place in the life now reserved for Hope, the mother, or Hope, the employee. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” I say.
“Good,” she says, “because when we hire, we want full buy-in. We want all of our employees, but especially women, to feel they can have a good career here and still manage their lives. They have flex-time and flex-place options, twelve weeks of paid maternity leave, three weeks of vacation, and two weeks of sick time. We encourage people to bring their kids into work, and we have a playground, day care center, and even a malt shop, just to make it welcoming to families.”
She shows me around some more, and we talk a bit more about the job and my skills. I walk away yearning for a work environment like this, but also feeling despondent. I don’t fit in there. I won’t fit in with twenty-somethings who are only just beginning their adult lives. They probably still go out on week nights. They certainly aren’t divorced and managing two kids. I think I interviewed well. In fact I think I made a strong case for why some maturity might be helpful to a company with so many young employees. I just don’t know if I was hip enough for the culture there.
I call Tate on the way out of the parking lot. He was, after all, the one who encouraged me to look for something better.
“Hey sexy,” he answers, “I’ve missed you.”
I’m thankful I’m on the phone so he can’t see me roll my eyes. “I just called to tell you I just had an interview.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he says. “Tell me about it.”
I quickly run through the experience, and tell him I really want the job but I’m not sure if I’ll be the right cultural fit. He listens and asks good questions, some I commit to memory in case I get a second interview.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” he says. “Good to put yourself out there sometimes. You deserve better than where you’re at now.”
I tell him about my project at work and about Roger’s dismissal of my request for a bonus. He tells me it’s good that I asked and says my boss will be dumbfounded on the day I decide to walk out the door.
“Hey,” he says, “I’ve got to go check in on camp stuff. You up for dinner out later this week? Maybe a proper date out to dinner?”
I shouldn’t say ‘yes.’ I’m pregnant. I’m not really sure how I feel about Tate right now. There’s nothing right about this in the moment. But I’m also lonely. And so I say yes.
“It’s a date,” he says cheerfully. “See you later.”
Chapter Fifteen
I’ve worked it out for both Eric and Amy to spend the night with friends. I go through my wardrobe and pull out a little, black dress that I haven’t worn in years. I flat-iron my hair sleek and straight and wear a little extra makeup. When I look in the mirror, I frown, feeling like I’m trying too hard, like I don’t quite look like myself. My stomach is just a little bit puffy, certainly not showing signs of pregnancy. I guess my body looks fine, but I just feel like a thirty-something who is trying to look like a twenty-something.
Still, a telltale lustful darkness comes to Tate’s eyes when he takes in how I look as I open the door. I blush a little at his effusive compliments, but push him away when he tries to pull me into a kiss.
He leads me out to his car, and we head to a very nice restaurant downtown. I’ve never been to it, primarily because it’s too expensive.
“This place is …” I look up over my menu, deflated by the prices.
It must be written all over my face because Tate just says, “Relax. I picked it; I’ll pay for it. Just enjoy it.”
We order, and as we wait for our first course, I ask Tate about his deployments. “Where did you go? How many times? What was it like?”
“I had two easy deployments to Afghanistan,” he says. “I was at Bagram Air Base for both. It was a desk job, nothing major. We had a few flare-ups and guys trying to storm the gates once or twice. A few errant missiles. But the third deployment to Kabul was the hardest. Lots of in-and-out travel in black zones. People shooting at us. Kids running out in front of our cars to keep us on course toward roadside bombs. It was not good.”
“Do you struggle with what you saw there?”
“Do you mean do I have PTSD?” he asks.
I nod.
His bottom lip puffs out, and he tilts his head, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t think about it a lot.”
“What are your hobbies?” I ask.
“Fishing. Camping. Hiking. Working on cars.”
None of that really interests me, unfortunately. I don’t say that, of course, but since Rachel asked me about my own hobbies, I’ve been trying to remind myself what I loved to do before I had kids. I liked swimming a
nd reading. I liked writing and making beaded jewelry. My interest in artistic hobbies was one of the reasons Rob and I got along so well.
“Did you have a lot in common with your ex?” I ask.
He lifts one shoulder. “I suppose. We used to camp out a lot. Doesn’t matter. What about your ex? You don’t say much about him, either, and turnabout is fair play.”
“He’s a bastard,” I say, “and we had a whole big conversation about him at that pizza joint, so don’t act like I’m the one withholding information.”
Tate chuckles at this. “Fair enough. I just don’t really like talking about myself that much. I’d rather talk about you.”
I give him a hard look.
He ignores it, keeping the conversation focused on Alex. “So you say he was a ‘bastard,’ and I know he cheated on you, so I guess I get it. Was he a good dad?”
I consider this. “I suppose he was okay to the kids. He was just controlling of me.”
“So you give him the boot, and he doesn’t try to fight for his kids at least? Sounds like a big pussy to me.”
I shake my head. “No interest shown. He didn’t fight for custody or visitation or anything. No Christmas cards, no birthday calls. Nothing.”
“Wow. Why would any guy just walk away from his kids like that?” Tate asks, more to himself than to me. I know it’s got to be doubly confusing for him, since he lost his only daughter to illness. He’d probably give anything to get her back, and here we’re talking about a guy who literally walked away and made himself a ghost.
“I suppose it’s easier than taking responsibility,” I say, “or having to own up to what he did.”
“Maybe,” he says thoughtfully. “I mean, wouldn’t it be easier if he was around?”
“I’ve done fine without him,” I say, offended. “I can choose what, and how, and why. And I get to choose who gets access to my kids. I’ve done this on my own for two years. It’s fine.”
“What about Rob Duncan?” Tate asks.
“What about him?”
“Well, technically, you haven’t done it on your own. You had your buddy around that whole time, right?”
“That’s pretty sexist,” I say sharply. “I’ve always done everything for my kids. You don’t get to diminish it.”
He chuckles. “You’re so stubborn. You refuse to ask for, accept, or acknowledge help. And, in my opinion, you refuse to open up to people in any real way.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“It is true,” he says. “You’ve decided you’re going this alone and damn anyone who comes sniffing around, trying to help.”
The rest of dinner is kind of awkward. I haven’t really addressed his comments, but they flit around in my head the whole time, an annoyance akin to having a fly buzzing around.
“You didn’t have a drink or anything with dinner,” Tate comments as we leave and head to the car. “You want to get a beer and listen to some live music somewhere?”
“I’m not really in the mood,” I say sourly.
“Aw, Hope,” he says, “I’m sorry. Seriously. I wanted this to be a nice night for you. I shouldn’t have pushed like that.”
I start to say ‘no’ again, but then agree to go, and Tate drives us to a well-known dance club, notorious for having really good, live bands. We make our way in, and it’s pretty empty, as it’s still early in the night. Tate orders a beer, but I tell him I’m still full from dinner and just order a ginger ale.
“It was a good dinner,” Tate says.
And it was. We has a curried, carrot soup to start, and a pear, goat cheese, and candied pecan salad for our second course. For dinner, Tate had a big, bloody steak with potatoes, and I had white fish with sweet potatoes. It was, by all accounts, the best meal I’ve had in years. I will probably throw it all up by the end of night, but for now, I am savoring it.
Shortly after we arrive, the band starts, and they’re really good. I find myself shimmying in my seat and when Tate asks me to dance, I accept, and we head out on the dance floor.
I start to loosen up the more I dance. It’s fun, and Tate’s a pretty good dancer. I give him a sexy little show, and we laugh and make silly moves. My mood is good up until the moment that Rob walks in. With a woman on his arm.
The smile falls from my face as my body stops moving. Tate turns to see what I’m staring at. He grabs my arm and leads me to a booth. We slide in and he says, “You want to go?”
“I live in the same town with him,” I say. “I can’t just run off every time he walks in a room. At least that one looks like she might not be his student.”
“She works out at the community center,” Tate says, peering at the woman. She looks like she might be ten years older than Rob, at least. “Widowed professor at the college.”
I feel sick again, and I really don’t want to throw up in front of Tate. There’s a sour taste in my mouth that won’t go away though, so I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. I promptly empty the contents of my stomach and lament the loss of my meal so quickly. Farewell, amazing meal, it was nice to have had you for at least a brief while.
Feeling queasy, I suggest we head out. Tate finishes his beer and leads me out, pointedly staying on my right to keep me from making eye contact with Rob as we pass by where he sits. He asks if I’m okay and I don’t lie—I tell him I had to be sick.
“Do you think it was the arrival of the good professor or the meal?” he asks. “Food poisoning or life poisoning?”
This makes me laugh. “The latter is most likely,” I say, though I know it’s not. It’s the fact that there’s a fetus responsible for tearing out my guts tonight. Christ, my life is a hot mess.
We’re quiet on the way back to my house. When we pull into my driveway, Tate walks me to the door, his hand on the small of my back. As I unlock it and turn to say goodnight, he leans in and places a kiss on my lips. I know I should stop him. I should tell him the truth. But I find I can’t speak. I can only think of Rob—my best friend and the father of the baby I’m carrying.
Rob’s face in my head, I open to him, letting his tongue inside my mouth. I feel heat bloom in my abdomen, and we kick inside the door, inside the house. We fumble, still kissing, until we find the couch. We fall in a heap, my dress up over my hips, legs spread, Tate’s big body pressing up against the sensitive space between my thighs.
“I want you inside me,” I breathe against Tate’s mouth.
“Not just yet,” he growls, moving down, his teeth nipping at my hard nipples, still hidden beneath my bra and dress. He finds bare skin at my hip bones, nipping and kissing, pulling my panties to the side, tongue lapping at my folds and my clit. My hips push toward him, my moans encouraging him. He pushes a finger inside, and I cry out. “Yes, yes,” and he fingers me as his mouth continues its work.
I keep seeing Rob’s face. Rob’s body. And as I come, it’s Rob’s name that makes its way from my lips.
Tate stills. Then withdraws, sitting up, pulling his finger free of my still-pulsing pussy. He pulls a blanket over my lap to cover me. And he stares, waiting for an explanation.
“I’m …” Oh god, what do I say? “I’m sorry.”
“You have unfinished business with Rob Duncan,” Tate says.
“I don’t,” I say. “There’s nothing between us.”
“I think you’re lying,” he says. “To yourself as much as to me. You’re hiding or stifling your feelings, but there is something there that needs to be addressed, or you will never be able to move forward.”
“It was just a slip of the tongue,” I say. “Please. Don’t go. It doesn’t matter. I’m here with you. I want you.”
“I think you want us both, maybe.”
“You’ve said yourself that it’s okay to want you both,” I argue.
“Sure,” he says. “But that was before. I was baiting you, and him, and I was stupid for saying it. I’ve grown to care about you, Hope. And your kids. It’s a new ballgame, and I’m not into being called anothe
r man’s name.”
“It doesn’t matter, Tate. Rob and I are done. I’m here with you. I want you right now.”
“I feel like you’re upset about seeing him tonight, and you’re letting those feelings of hurt and rejection drive you toward something you don’t really want. Hope, I won’t do this. Not tonight.”
“I just want you to make me feel good tonight, Tate. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m saying ‘no,’ as much as I’d love to help you with that.”
“Tate …”
“No. I’m saying ‘no.’ You’ve got to work some stuff out. Then call me. I’ll be waiting.”
Tate rises, adjusts himself, bites his lip, looks around, and then leaves. The door clicks behind him, and I’m left lying on my couch like some wanton slut, panties askew, dress up to my navel. And Rob on my mind.
Chapter Sixteen
I’m at work a week later, the data conversion pretty much complete. I’ve gotten a few of our more tech savvy clients to help me by logging into the new client web portal to check out the features available and give feedback on what’s working and what’s not. It’s really the last step before the whole thing goes live.
“So you like the option to see instant illustrations on new investment strategies?” I ask Mr. Carlysle by phone. “And the real-time value of the total portfolio?”
He confirms before telling me about a futures feature he thinks will confuse people.
“I agree,” I say. “I’ll tell DataBrand to turn that feature off on the client side.”
We’re just finishing the call when my cell rings. It’s the kids’ camp, so I hang up quickly and step outside to take the call.
“This is Hope Elmore,” I say.
“Hope, this is Brad, from Big Brothers Big Sisters,” says the voice on the other end of the line. “I’m calling because we’ve had to call the EMS to camp for Eric.”
“Oh my god,” I say, “Why? Is he okay?”
