by Abby Brooks
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and guide her toward the entrance to the shop. “Come on. Let’s get your car and free you from a bus that somehow has something to do with old soup.” She leans her head on my shoulder, softening against my body.
Once inside, I stand back and watch, paying close attention as Sarah does her thing. I don’t want to invade—after all, she’s a grown woman—but I also want to make sure she knows I’m here if she needs me. The mechanic—an older man with a youthful pep to his step—leads us out back, then walks her around her car, pointing out the repairs.
Sarah runs a hand along the passenger door. “It looks good as new.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” The mechanic grins and then clears his throat. “So, here’s the thing. I’ve been having a hell of a time with your insurance.” He presses his lips together and shifts his weight back on his heel. “They approved the work, but now that everything’s done, they’re refusing to pay for the name brand parts.”
“What’s that mean?” Sarah’s voice comes out low and thin as a muscle pulses in her jaw. I step up close behind her as the mechanic continues.
“Well, I can’t let you take the car without getting paid, as I’m sure you can understand.” The look on his face is apologetic, but firm. “You can cover the difference and the insurance will reimburse you if they decide to pay for the parts or the car can sit here until things get settled. It’s up to you.”
I put my hand on Sarah’s lower back and damn if she isn’t trembling. “What’s the difference?” she asks.
The mechanic guides us back inside and over to a counter, where he pulls out an invoice detailing the work, the parts, and the amount her insurance is willing to cover. “So, you would be liable for thirty-five-hundred dollars.” He taps a number at the bottom of the paper.
“What?” Sarah’s eyes go wide. “I don’t have that much.” She reaches out a quaking hand and retrieves the paper, holding it close to her face as she studies the line items. “What am I supposed to do?” She glances at me with fear in her eyes. “I guess I just have to leave the car here and contact my insurance?” The statement is more of a question, as if her brain is working slightly faster than her mouth. She bobs her head and turns back to the mechanic. “I’m really sorry to put you through this. I’ll call them as soon as I get back to my place. I’ll leave a message every hour if I have to.”
This poor woman has had such a string of bad luck, starting with the accident. It’s one thing for her to have to stay in a terrible hotel. It’s another thing altogether for her to have to leave her car here because her insurance company is going to drag its heels about doing what she pays them to do. Sarah has done nothing but make the best of her situation, but she doesn’t have to keep fighting through this, because I have the means to make things just a touch easier.
“Tell you what,” I say to Sarah, happy to solve the problem. “Let me take care of the difference now and you can pay me back once your insurance reimburses you.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet.
Sarah blinks, then lets out a short breath. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Yes, you can. See? It’s easy.” I hand the man my credit card and he’s all too happy to take it, swipe it, and hand it back.
The mechanic gives Sarah her keys while I sign the receipt. “Good luck,” he says. “And if I were you, I’d be looking for better insurance.”
Sarah steps outside, squinting against the sunlight as she digs through her purse, retrieves a prescription bottle, and pops a pill into her mouth.
“What was that?” I ask.
She turns to me with wild eyes. “I have problems with anxiety and I feel a panic attack coming on.” She screws the lid back on the pills and shoves them into her purse. “I’ve had to take them a lot lately, stupid me and this stupid adventure.”
“How much is a lot?”
“I don’t know. Once or twice a day. Most times it’s just half a pill. I’d actually cut back a lot before I left Ohio.” Sarah folds her arms across her chest and drops her chin. “I keep telling myself today is the day I’m going to stop taking them again and then something like this happens.”
“Once or twice a day?” I know none of this is my business, but warning bells are going off like crazy in my head. “Even on the days you drink?”
I think back to all the times the look in her eyes didn’t quite line up with the happy-go-lucky stuff coming out of her mouth. Have I been wrong about her? Is she hiding some deep, dark, drug-addicted secret? Is she a giant ball of chaos about to detonate all over my life? Hot damn! And I just lent the woman thirty-five hundred dollars!
Sarah’s lips form a thin line and she stares as if daring me to press the issue. She nods once, the tiniest movement of her head, and then lets out a long breath, her shoulders slumping forward. “I know it’s a bad idea, and I wouldn’t do it if I had to drive…”
“But you just took one now. And you have to drive.”
“I mean combine them. I wouldn’t combine them if I had to drive.” She tosses her hair. “Look, lots of people take medication for anxiety. And lots of people drive after taking them. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It is to me.” I’m afraid to ask if she was under the influence the day of the accident. I don’t want to know the answer. “Have you considered…I don’t know…therapy or something? Maybe if you talk to someone, you could solve the cause of the problem instead of treating the symptoms.”
Sarah pushes off the wall. “Sure. Because all I need is to talk to someone and all my problems will be solved. Thanks for the tip.” She scowls at me as if I’d just suggested covering a knife wound with a Band-Aid and turns away.
“I hate the thought of you hurting, but I promise you, there’s a better way to deal with it.” I wait for her to reply and when she doesn’t, I continue. “What if you tried cutting back this weekend? And if you start feeling the anxiety building up, you can call me and try talking about what’s bothering you?”
I step up behind her, consider placing my hands on her shoulders and turning her to face me, then run my hand along the back of my neck instead. Maybe I should just cut my losses and run.
Maybe she’s another Violet.
Another Bree.
Another dose of crazy that I just don’t need.
She flashes me a look over her shoulder that reminds me so much of Leo that I stop in my tracks. It’s cold and angry, accusatory and rebellious, but underneath it all, she’s begging for help. I don’t know what she’s dealing with, but that look tells me she doesn’t like being this way. In the space of a second, I know that the bright, happy woman I see her trying to be is who she really is and it’s buried deep down under whatever is weighing on her soul.
I watch her come to a decision. That look of angry vulnerability disappears under something much more neutral.
“Thanks for the help today,” she says. “I’ll call my insurance as soon as I get home so I can get you reimbursed.” She pauses in front of me, sucks in her lips, and lets out a long breath through her nose. “Like for real. I mean it,” she says, letting the mask fall away from her face. “Thank you.” She grips my hand, her skin cold and clammy against mine, and then climbs into her car and brings the engine to life.
I follow her back to the hotel to make sure she’s safe. Her gaze meets mine through her rearview as she slows to turn into the parking lot. She lifts a hand, offers a smile, and then gives her focus back to the road. I finish the drive back to my apartment on autopilot as I battle with myself over how to proceed.
Is Sarah worth risking my job for?
My sanity?
Is whatever she’s dealing with big enough to break her, and therefore me, if I stick around?
Or is she big enough to break the habit, as long as she has someone there to help her through the process?
I think of Leo and all the havoc he wreaks on our family. My older brothers are ready to write him off as damaged goods, but I keep figh
ting for him, even though it feels like we take one step forward and two steps back time and time again.
Can I go through that for a woman I barely know?
Sarah
“God damnit!” I slap the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. The horn bloops, startling an older woman as she ambles across the parking lot. She whirls in my direction and I raise a hand in apology. “Sorry!” I call out, heat flaring across my neck and face.
Why did I have to take that pill in front of Frank? Why aren’t I strong enough to handle a bump in the road like shitty insurance without the help of medication? Like a normal person? And for that matter, when Frank actually cared enough to worry about my sanity, my safety, why did I have to run away like a fucking coward?
The man deserves better than that.
He deserves better than me.
He deserves an explanation.
Or to be let off the hook.
Or…something.
I dig through my purse in search of my phone until I finally upend the thing on my passenger seat and pluck the device out of the months of receipts and bits of trash I somehow think is worth carrying around with me all the time. I pull up his contact info, my finger hovering over the call button, before I opt to message him, instead.
Me: When we were stuck in the elevator, you asked me about something that happened when I was a kid. Something no one…
I hit backspace until the words are gone and try again.
Me: I know you’re right about the pills. I know I need to stop running from what’s wrong and just deal with it already but…
Again, I hit backspace until the message section is empty and then stare at my phone, at a loss. Finally, I decide on what to say and tap out a message.
Me: Thank you for your help today and I’m sorry I lost control and ran away.
It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but I hit send and then drop my phone in my now empty purse, wipe at my eyes, and then head into the shitty little room I call home to start leaving messages for my insurance company.
Sarah
Frank accepts my apology via text on Saturday, but doesn’t press the issue about the pills. I’m both glad he knows things aren’t as easy for me as I like to pretend, and worried that him knowing will change the way he sees me.
Or rather, I know it’ll change the way he sees me and I’m afraid he’ll stop liking me now that he knows who I really am.
I know who I am and I barely like myself some days.
How can I expect anyone else to see what I see and feel any different?
Monday morning finds me at reception, bright and early. People greet me as they pass by on the way to their desks, most only pausing briefly to lift a hand, though a few stop to chat. Jason lingers longer than most and rolls his eyes as Bree struts by, her nose so far in the air we could see right up her nostrils if we cared enough to look.
After she passes, he leans over the desk to whisper, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she has a small herd of cats trapped in her apartment.”
“Right?” I ask, as my gaze darts over his shoulder in search of Frank. “Or that she dresses them up in silly outfits, gives them names like Sir Harry McMewerson, and meows conversations with them all evening long.”
Jason closes his eyes and inclines his head as he laughs lightly. “Exactly.” He drops a hand on my desk and straightens before heading down the hallway, still chuckling to himself.
Each time the elevator dings, my head lifts as if it has a mind of its own, a Pavlovian response if I’ve ever seen one. I shouldn’t be this eager for Frank to show up. I should play it way more cool than I am, but the truth of it is that I can’t wait to see him. I need to know where we stand. I need to know if he’s mad at me, if he’s going to talk to me after what happened this weekend. Just because he accepted my apology doesn’t mean he’s cool with what he knows.
The urge to pack up and run is so strong, it’s going to tear me apart. I don’t do this kind of ‘but what will he think of me’ bullshit. As soon as things get difficult, I walk away. Now that I can’t, now that I’m forced to stay here and confront the consequences of my actions, I have no earthly idea how to do such a thing.
The elevator dings and I hear him before I see him, his laughter announcing his presence, echoing down the halls and bringing a smile to my face even as worry spins in my stomach. I sit up in my seat, lift my chin, and square my shoulders, ready to greet him with a whopper of a hello, but two pairs of footsteps work their way around the corner. I pause when I recognize the other man is Brian Kent.
Mr. Kent stops and leans on my desk. “Good morning, Ms. Carmichael. By the sound of it, you’re acclimating well to life here at our little firm.” The way he says little tells me that word was carefully selected to appear humble. He knows what he’s built here and doesn’t believe it’s little for a second.
I manage to meet Frank’s eyes, who lifts a hand before walking straight past me, while I answer Mr. Kent’s question and subsequent small talk.
Yes, people here are treating me well.
No, I haven’t run into any problems.
Ha, ha, ha! Oh, Mr. Kent! That’s the funniest joke about the weather I’ve ever heard in my life!
By the time Mr. Kent leaves, it’s well past time for Frank to be hard at work, and try as I might, I can’t find a reason to stop by his office or be in the breakroom at the same time as him. What started out as a Monday full of potential slowly becomes an incredibly disappointing beginning to the week. Time ticks by and I’m no closer to knowing where Frank stands then I was when I arrived. I linger past five o’clock, hopeful to catch him on his way out, but after a while, I gather my things and head to the elevator, pausing only to glance down the hallway in the hopes I’ll find Frank heading my way.
No such luck.
I press the button, wait all by my lonesome, and step inside once the car arrives, watching dejectedly as the doors begin to close. Just before they shut completely, a hand shoots through and the doors reverse their path, revealing none other than Frank Wilde, whose face divulges nothing of what he’s thinking when he recognizes me as the lone occupant of the car.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says as he steps inside. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
I search his face for signs of humor or manipulation and find none. “Me? Avoiding you? Right. Because I actually have a reason to pass by your office three times every two hours.” Heat warms my cheeks and I drop my eyes, suddenly embarrassed to admit how hard I tried to run into him today.
“About this morning…” Frank begins.
“Don’t even think about it. I understand.”
I’m less worried about this morning and more worried about this weekend. And now that he’s right here in front of me, I can’t bring myself to ask the questions that have been bothering me since we left the body shop. I keep telling myself to speak, but I stay quiet because I might not be ready to hear what he has to say.
Frank shifts and the space around him takes on a life of its own. “I don’t think you do understand. I like you, Sarah. I really do. And you scare the shit out of me because of how much I like you and how much I don’t know about you.” He steps closer to me. “And I’m irritated that I’d let something like what my boss thinks of us get in the way of figuring out what this is.” Frank leans in, his eyes on my lips. He trails his fingers along my jawline and up into my hair.
“I scare you?”
He nods. “A lot.”
“Why?” My heart thunders so loudly, I can’t catch my breath.
“Why do you think?”
“Because of this weekend?”
He nods again. “That’s part of it. The rest of it is how I’m feeling right now. How I always feel when we’re this close.” His thumb grazes my cheekbone as the elevator lumbers downwards.
I tilt my face and close my eyes, and he kisses me.
Heat explodes between us.
The sharp intake of b
reath.
The rustle of clothing as hands grasp bodies and inhibitions crumble to dust.
He draws me close and I sigh against him, parting my lips, inviting him in. My body screaming yes, yes, my God, yes! Why in the name of all that’s holy have we waited for this? My mind agrees without argument.
Frank’s erection presses against my belly, his thigh parting my knees as wide as my skirt will allow. I grind my hips against him, dropping my head back so he can kiss along my jaw, my neck, my clavicles. He grabs my hair in his fist and yanks, pain melding with pleasure, and I gasp, then moan.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “I want you.”
“The elevator’s about to stop. The door will open. Everyone will see,” I whisper and then moan again as he grips my ass.
Frank slams his hand against the stop button. “Not anymore.” He spins me around and lifts my skirt over my hips, then fumbles with his belt. “I wanted to do this right. Take it slow. Make you come so loud you scream my name. But I can’t hold back.”
I spread my legs. “Then don’t.”
Frank slides my underwear to the side and pushes himself past my opening, sheathing himself completely in one quick movement. I gasp as he fills me, stretching me to my limit, pressing against spots that have never felt pressure before. The sensation leaves me reeling and before I have time to adjust, he’s moving.
One hand in my hair.
The other on my hip,
Pulling me into him.
Faster.
Quicker.
Harder.
I come in an instant, blinding pleasure searing through my body, devouring all thought other than yes, God, yes, God, yes!
Frank moans low in his throat. “I’m gonna come,” he says, his voice taut.
“Wait. I want you in my mouth.” I straighten and then drop to my knees in front of him, open my mouth, and wrap my hand around his cock. Two pumps and he spurts, coating my tongue while I stare up at him and he stares down at me.
