Running on Empty

by L. B. Simmons

  “Go ahead and get on,” I tell Blake, gesturing with my hand towards his bike. Surprisingly, he does so with no gratuitous commenting. Once he’s on the bike, I make sure his eyes are forward. I start to fold my skirt up until it hits middle of my thigh. I start to climb on, but there still isn’t room for me to straddle the seat. Shit. I proceed with the next fold, and start to lift my leg over the bike. As I lower my body to take my seat…

  “Woo-hoo!”

  “Nice legs!”

  “Ride me, baby!”

  I hear horns, catcalls, and whistling as people pass us on the interstate. Punks…

  I shudder with embarrassment, glad to have the helmet over my face. I’m sure it’s turning crimson and the last thing I want Blake Morgan to see is my face beaming the exact shade of red it did when I received “the talk” from my parents. So embarrassing.

  “Get to work assholes!” I yell back at them. I feel Blake’s shoulders begin to shake from his laughter. “Shut up, Blake. Let’s go!”

  I tightly wrap my arms around his midsection; I’m actually glad that I’m so pissed off right now. Pissed off is my guarantee that my mind won’t wander to places I don’t want to deal with.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I ask him, suddenly realizing we have yet to discuss the exact location of my office.

  “Yeah, you bought Ms. Parnell’s old office, right?”

  “Er – yes. How did you know that?”

  “My parents still live here, Alex. I know a lot of things.”

  With nothing left to say, he starts up his bike and we drive the whole way to my office in silence. Not that we really have a choice. You can’t hear a damn thing riding a motorcycle, going what feels like one hundred miles per hour, with a helmet on.

  Shortly after, we pull into the Prestige Staffing parking lot. After Blake gets off, I make him turn around so I can lift my leg over the seat. Once successfully completed, I make my move to get off this freakin’ death trap on wheels. Setting my foot down on the gravel, my ankle rolls slightly.

  Damn shoes again! I really need to get started on that letter to Nike.

  I grab Blake’s shirt to steady myself, immediately realizing my mistake. Once again, two inches from his face, I find myself momentarily lost.

  Immediately letting go, I start to take off the helmet and wince when it pulls some of the hairs out of the top of my head. Once the helmet is removed, I look down to see that some of the toothpaste has oozed off my head and found a new happy home in the top of Blake’s helmet. I decide to keep this bit of information to myself.

  Silently laughing at my secret, I pass the helmet back to Blake. I reach my hand up to feel that I now have long strands of hair sticking straight up from where the helmet pulled them out of my ponytail. I laugh again to myself, but this time it’s more of an admission of defeat. Obviously my hair and I are in some sort of sick power struggle today.

  Blake clears his throat – I think in an honest attempt not to laugh in my face – and turns his attention to cutting the engine. I finally roll down my skirt back to its original length, smoothing any wrinkles, when I look up to see Blake staring at me. I start to say something to end this wonderfully awkward moment, when the front door to the office opens and I hear Harlow yelling from the doorway.

  “Eight twenty-nine, and with one minute to spare! Good thing for you the appointment wasn’t really until nine o’clock,” she says smiling at me, an ornery grin plastered on her face. She moves her eyes from me to focus on Blake. “Blake Morgan, is that you?” She flashes him her notorious “Harlow smile”. “It’s about time you got here. Took you long enough.” Then, rather ominously, she slowly closes the door to leave me in an even more awkward moment. What the hell did that even mean? I shake my head in an attempt to clear it.

  I turn my attention back to Blake. “Thanks again. Evidently, I made it with thirty-one minutes to spare. Sorry, I assumed my partner wouldn’t use the ‘change the time so you’re actually on time’ ploy while I was stranded on the side of the road fearing for my life.”

  Blake looks back at the front door of my office. “You’re partners with Harlow Reed. I completely forgot about that,” he snickers sarcastically.

  “Um, yeah? Is that a problem?”

  “No,” he offers. “I’m just surprised you get anything done that’s all.” He puts his helmet on while still laughing. “See ya Alex.”

  He starts his engine and I watch him drive off.

  Jerk.

  I think of the toothpaste in his helmet, probably grasping the hairs on the top of his head right this very minute. Yeah, well, who’s laughing now? I walk toward my office, ready to conquer the day. I look down at my empty hands. Oops.

  I wonder if Harlow’s figured out there will be no coffee or donuts until after our morning appointment?

  Walking briskly into Harlow’s office, I shut the door behind me. “What the hell was that out there?” I once again attempt the mommy death stare.

  “What the hell is that right there?” she counters quickly, biting back a laugh. She points at my head. “Seriously, Alex, you never cease to amaze me. What are we calling this morning’s hair creation? This has got to be one of the worst hair days you’ve had in the last, um, what? Thirty days?” Seriously, the death stare needs an upgrade…mommy death stare 2.0 maybe.

  “Shut your yapper, Harlow. With the morning I’ve already had, you’re treading on very thin ice, so watch yourself,” I say, shoving my pointer finger in her face. “What the hell was that outside with Blake? Took you long enough? That was really creepy…even for you. Like…wooo-wooo, psychic lady from Poltergeist creepy,” I say, waving my hands around mimicking a ghost. “What was that?”

  “You don’t need to be worrying about what I’m doing. What you need to be worrying about is that freaking bird’s nest you’ve got going on up there. Complete with bird poop I see.” She reaches up to touch my hair, makes a face, and wipes her fingers on her Ann Taylor pleated trouser pants. “Gross, Alex. Seriously, go fix your hair. We have this interview in ‘T’ minus twenty minutes. Please, go make yourself presentable. This is a big fish and we need the commission.”

  Rolling my eyes at her, I reach for the purse that’s always draped across my body and resides permanently on my hip. Well, the purse that usually resides on my hip. What the–

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh. My. God! Harlow…I left my purse in the Suburban…I left everything in the Suburban! Including my laptop.” I start to feel as though I’m hyperventilating. “I don’t think I even locked the door. Oh my God, Harlow…what am I going to do?”

  Harlow walks over and places both hands on my shoulders. “Alex, calm down. Breathe. Everything is going to be fine. Look, I have some basic toiletries in the bathroom, you know, for when I have the occasional overnighter.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. My face pinches in disgust and I shake my head, trying to clear the God-awful image. Too much information…

  “Everything you need should be under the sink. Go, fix yourself. We’ll do the interview and then we’ll go take care of the truck. No worries. It’ll be fine.” She pivots me toward the bathroom and shoves me with just a little too much oomph.

  I turn to argue but I’m given what she has evidently developed as her own Harlow death stare. “GO!”

  I sigh loudly so she can note my protest and stomp into the bathroom. I turn on the light and can do nothing but stare at the reflection looking back at me.

  Get a grip, Alex.

  I pull the hair band from the back of my hair and shake my head until my brown hair falls across my shoulders. Turning on the sink, I wet the top of my head and grab the hand towel from the rack. Scrubbing until I feel my hair is finally toothpaste free, I brush it out, only to place it back in a low, yet professional, pony tail. I use the flat iron to take care of any frizz that was added by Blake’s helmet, making the back of the pony tail as smooth as I can get it.

  I can’t believe Harlow keeps a flat iron here. I open the do
ors to the cabinet under the sink. I take note of the toothbrush, toothpaste, make-up bag, eye-makeup remover, hairspray…all under the counter. Man, she keeps a lot of stuff in here. How many overnighters does this woman have?

  As I walk out of the office, I happen to catch a quick glimpse of the nine o’clock appointment in the waiting room. What was his name again? I really should have reviewed his file last night. I lean against the wall and watch Harlow as she strikes up conversation with him. I guess since we have no coffee or donuts, Harlow has opted to use her witty banter and mile long legs to distract this guy after all. And, for the record, I think this guy could ogle her forever. And if I’m not mistaken, Harlow Reed is actually enjoying herself.

  I take another look at Mr. Nine O’Clock. Dark spiky hair, nice build, light blue eyes…totally Harlow’s type. They would make a nice couple with his dark hair and blue eye combination and her auburn red spiral curls and light green eyes. I nod my head to myself in approval…not bad at all.

  I make my way to my office, since I have about ten minutes until the official interview time. I take a seat at the organized mess I call my desk. Hearing Harlow’s laughter coming from the waiting area, I can’t help but think about her lack of serious relationships. Sometimes I feel I’m holding her back, like she doesn’t want to move on without me. Almost as though she feels guilty allowing herself to be happy because I’ve been so sad.

  My Harlow. The one who never left my side the entire time at the hospital. The one who comforted me while I broke down after I had to tell Derek goodbye. The one who held me while I screamed at the top of my lungs when I realized he wasn’t coming back. The one who stood beside me and watched me throw anything I could find in the grieving room out of pure anger, never passing judgment.

  My Harlow. The one who gave me the strength to come home and face the girls. The one who slept over every night when I needed her, making sure my children were taken care of when I felt like I couldn’t go on any longer. The one who managed my entire household while I was lost in grief.

  My Harlow. The one who helped me heal. The one that made me laugh for the first time after Derek’s death and the same one who taught me I didn’t have to feel guilty for it. She’s still the one who keeps me in line, and she’s still the one who insists on telling me the God’s honest truth, whether I ask for it or not.

  Unfortunately, I think she’s also the one losing very valuable time in her life playing keeper to me. I had my time to be happy. I have my children as a result of that happiness. And honestly, after three years, I can say that I’m satisfied with where I am in my life, that I’ve found some sort of happiness again. Yet, I can’t help but feel as though Harlow has fooled herself into thinking she’s happy. That she’s allowing herself to settle for less than she deserves in her life.

  And I’ve not only let it happen, but I’ve been the cause of it.

  Now, while watching her through my office window with Mr. Nine O’Clock, I also have a gut feeling that this guy might be the game changer for her. I pray that he is. She deserves her happiness, her happily ever after. And I’m at a point in my life where I don’t need her to be there. She’s always going to be my surrogate sister, but I don’t need her to be my safety net anymore. What I do need is for her to allow herself her chance at happiness. And I can’t help but hope that it will be this guy to help push her over the proverbial “happiness” fence.

  I smile to myself. Watching her reaction to whatever he’s saying right now, I know she isn’t going to need much of a push. As Harlow gets up to lead him to the conference room, I notice her flip her hair in a very “Harlow sex kitten” manner.

  Cancel that. It might be more of a nudge instead of a push.

  After giving them a little more alone time, I grandly enter the conference room with a huge smile plastered on my face. I sit down quietly and place all of Mr. Nine O’Clock’s information in front of me, ready to convene the interview. When I look up, I realize that I’m still donning the goofy grin. I immediately relax my face, leaving it void of any form of elated emotion. Harlow lifts an eyebrow asking me if I’m okay. I nod my head to let her know everything’s fine and we start the meeting.

  Trace O’Connell was Mr. Nine O’Clock. That’s about the only information I retain during the interview. Well, that, and the fact that he’s applying for the Senior Executive Accountant position at Synergy, but I don’t really think that counts as information retained from the interview itself.

  As soon as we start, my mind wanders to my crazy, off the wall morning.

  Toothpaste in my hair. Crazy.

  My Suburban sitting on the side of I-35, probably a victim of an actual highway robbery. Crazy.

  The lovely encounter with Blake Morgan this morning. Crazy.

  Harlow making goo-goo eyes at Trace O’Connell. Crazy. And kinda gross.

  How the hell am I actually supposed to concentrate in this meeting with all of that going on?

  Well, I don’t. I find my thoughts centering around Blake the majority of the time. Why is he here? I mean, he obviously didn’t sound like he wanted to be here. And why after all this time? How long has it been since I had seen him? He left for Colorado right after high school so that would be around sixteen years, give or take. Why is he so pissed at me? I really need to figure that one out. And if he is so pissed at me, why did he stop to help only to make a big scene about it? And what was up with him touching my face? It almost seemed like an affectionate touch.

  A touch that I swear I can still feel right now. Raising my fingers and placing them over the area he skimmed earlier, I find myself back in the conference room with both Harlow and Trace staring at me, evidently waiting for me to say something. “What?"

  “Alex? Do you have any other questions for Trace?” Harlow asks. “Actually Alex, do you have any questions for Trace?”

  Oops. Busted.

  “Nope, I’m all good,” I say hastily, gathering my papers. I feel the sudden need to escape this room and all thoughts of Blake. Getting up from the table, I reach over to shake Trace’s hand. He has really big hands, I think to myself as I start giggling uncontrollably. Before the laughing can get worse I say, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Trace. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other very soon.” But it’s too late. I can’t keep from laughing any longer. I wipe the tears from my eyes and quickly make a hasty exit. Knowing I finally hit delirium, which has been known to happen from time to time when emotionally overwhelmed, I figure it’s best to just get my ass out of that room.

  Upon entering my office, I notice my purse sitting on my desk with a piece of paper lying right beside it. What in the world? Stepping forward, I pick up the note and slowly unfold it. As I read it, I find I have to wipe my eyes again. Although, this time the tears are not from laughter.

  I walk into the waiting area and see my Suburban parked right in front of our office. Harlow and Trace walk out of the conference room at the same time, in deep discussion. She laughs at something he says and then looks at me. I see concern in her eyes when she notices I’ve been crying. She slowly walks over to me and I hand her the note. Eyes wide, she looks at the Suburban and then back at me. I can no longer control the tears. I figure Trace understands he’s in the middle of some colossal feminine breakdown because he quickly says his goodbyes and makes his own hasty exit.

  The rest of the day is pretty much a blur. After what was most definitely a feminine breakdown, I head back into to my office and just zone out all day. After a while, I take solace in looking at each and every knick-knack on my desk which I’ve accumulated from my kiddos over the years. There are many memories in those beautiful art projects and presents that now reside in my office. I pay special attention to a few of my favorites.

  There’s the “My Mom Rocks” picture I framed that Nycole made for me just last year. Black crayon lettering on top of alternating strips of color in a rainbow pattern, each precisely the same width because; well…that’s just Nycole. I love it…everything a
bout it is perfect. And it makes me feel like she loves me, which is actually really rare these days, with her pre-pubescent attitude and everything. She made me that picture one night and left it in my laptop bag without telling me. She’s usually the silent type, not wanting to draw attention to her actions. When I found it in my bag, I was so touched that I immediately went and bought a frame; it’s been on my desk ever since.

  From Kyndall, I have a framed picture she drew of the day that she and Derek went to the lake, just the two of them. In the picture, there are two stick figures holding hands walking on the beach with the sunset in the background. She must have been around five years old, judging by the artistic talent, but I remember this one specifically for two reasons. One, the sunset. It’s not a typical sunset. In fact, it’s a very bright neon pink and green sunset. Very Kyndall-esque. Two, this was the first picture she drew after Derek passed. I was worried because she stopped drawing after it happened. Since art and Kyndall go hand and hand, the fact that she wasn’t drawing worried me. When she gave this to me, I knew she would be okay. But the sight of it made me cry silently for days. Very bittersweet.

  From Rylie, I have the Father’s day present I gave to Derek from her the summer before he died. The “#1 Daddy” frame holds a picture that I think is one of the most poignant pictures I have ever taken. Derek is holding Rylie tightly on his hip and smiling at her. Her chubby legs draped around him and her head thrown back laughing at something undoubtedly goofy he just did. And he’s looking at her as though nothing or no one else exists. I know she was only one year old when he died, but those two had a bond unlike anything I had ever seen. I honestly think it was because he knew without a doubt that she was going to be just like him. Rotten and ornery, but so lovable, they never stay in trouble. And he would have been exactly right.