by Hazel James
When I get to my office, I power on the computer and grab a sheet of paper to make a list of everything I need to do. As expected, it’s lengthy. I guess that’s what I get for letting Leilani take over everything, including my office.
Everywhere I look, I see signs of her. The Battles ball cap she stole from me that’s sitting on top of the filing cabinet. The hoodie on the coat rack she used to wear religiously. Her stash of candy in the top drawer, right behind the tray of pens. Those are bad enough, but the photo on the corner of my desk is the worst.
We’re standing with the kids from Helping Hawaii on the last day of camp. While most of us are looking at the camera, Leilani’s grinning at the kid standing on her right. Her whole face is lit up, and even now it’s hard not to smile when I look at the picture.
Resting my elbows on my desk, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes like that will somehow erase the last three months. I wish I had a switch to turn off this part of my brain.
Instead, I shelve the ache in my chest and focus on crossing items off my list.
Upcoming equipment deliveries.
Schedule of interviews and ads.
Spreadsheet of new employees.
Hiring packets—dammit.
I glare at the blinking light on the printer. I’ve learned I can count on three things in life: death, taxes, and the fact that this piece of shit will jam every fucking time I add new paper. Whoever coined the phrase sure-feed printing system can choke on a dick.
“All right, you smug bastard, let’s do this.” I take a deep breath so it won’t sense my anger and grab a small stack of paper from the cabinet. “Rainbows and puppies. Rainbows and puppies.” I continue my chant while easing the tray open, refilling the paper, and nudging it closed with the finesse of a Tai Chi master.
The machine whirs to life. I find myself monitoring its noises the same way I did my dial-up internet connection when I was in middle school—crossing my fingers and praying.
It hums. It spins. It grabs the paper. Good. Yes. GODFUCKINGDAMMIT!
The printer switches to a series of clicks and then stops, and I fill the silence with a string of curse words that would make my drill sergeants proud. I should take a sledgehammer to this fucking thing. Who needs tractor tires when you’ve got shitty office equipment?
I flip the plastic door open and peer into the bowels of the printer. Sure enough, there’s a sliver of white mocking me from the back. Five minutes, one papercut, and a scrape across my knuckle later, it’s out and I’m back to making death threats to an inanimate object if it pulls this shit again.
I double-check the paper tray and push the “okay” button. It starts up again, and this time it spits out papers like it’s supposed to. “That’s what I thought,” I mutter.
Now maybe I can get some damn sleep.
Rebecca hits the red button on her cell and peers up at me through watery eyes. “I think something bad happened.”
I want to tell her she’s overreacting—that there’s a logical explanation for Marshall not showing up for work yesterday or today—but I can’t. His phone has gone straight to voicemail every time we’ve called, and he’s not returning emails. Yesterday afternoon, Rebecca pulled his emergency contact info and tried reaching his parents in Seattle. She got as far as the tri-tone beep and a message saying the number wasn’t in service.
At first, I thought he overslept. If he took Brandy to get some food Sunday night, he probably didn’t get home until after 1 a.m. Then I wondered if he got in an accident. Now I don’t know what to think. Do I file a missing person report? Or did one of my best friends just ghost me?
The front desk phone rings and Rebecca all but pounces on it. “Battles, how may I help you?” Her hopeful expression fades instantly. “Hi, Mrs. Donahue. Yes, I’d be happy to renew your membership.”
I motion toward my office, letting her know where I’ll be until my ten o’clock shows up. Between my regular Monday clients and three of Marshall’s who didn’t mind training with me instead, I didn’t have a chance to assemble everything I printed Sunday night.
I grab the stack off the tray and plop down in my chair. The first document must have been something Leilani printed because it’s not part of my hiring packets. “Of course, you’re the reason I ran out of fucking paper,” I mumble. I start to set it aside when the words at the top catch my attention.
Marshall got a new watch. Acted funny when he saw me looking at it.
Six missing receipts.
Two purchase orders that I can’t reconcile.
Overheard him bragging to Rebecca about paying for his truck in cash.
Each entry has a date beside it. The rest of the page is blank except for the number 2 at the bottom. I flip through the pile for the first page, but all I see is the stuff I printed.
Is this what she was holding in her hand when I fired her? I glance at the carpet in front of my desk and play back that moment in my mind. A bunch of papers fell on the floor, but I never saw them because Marshall came in my office to see what happened and helped me clean up.
Fuck me. He was the one who found the fake gym memberships, too.
Dread swirls in my gut as I spin my chair around and yank open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. It’s the same form Rebecca uses at the front desk, but Leilani’s signature is at the bottom of the page instead. I’ve watched her sign credit card slips, so I knew the first time I saw these forms that the loopy Ls and slightly angled letters were legit.
Except…
I compare the first sheet with the second, and then the third. When I layer one on top of the other and hold them up to the light, my stomach sinks and my heart and lungs start a race that leaves me with my head between my knees and one hand on the trash can.
They’re all the same.
The exact fucking same, right down to the gap in the signature line like someone cut out Leilani’s signature, taped it on a membership application, and ran copies of it.
“I can’t believe you have your head shoved so far up your ass you can’t see what’s right under your fucking nose. You deserve everything that’s coming to you. My only regret is not being here to see it.”
Marshall was trying to get rid of her. He knew she had something on him and he wanted her gone, and now he’s gone, and I have no idea what the hell is happening.
Well, aside from the part where I fired-slash-dumped my girlfriend for no fucking reason. That part is perfectly, painfully clear. I also know it’s a good goddamn thing that asswipe skipped town before I found out what he did.
My office phone rings, reminding me I’m still at work and my personal problems will have to take a backseat to everyone else’s for the next eight hours. “This is Cl—”
“The police are here,” Rebecca whispers.
I pop my head up. “What do you mean?”
“Two cop cars just pulled in the parking lot. Wait. Make that three.” Her voice is caught somewhere between fear and panic. “You think they’re here to tell us Marshall’s dead?”
It takes a conscious effort not to reply with I fucking hope so. “I’ll be there in a sec.” I debate whether to take the stack of papers with me but ultimately decide to wait to file a report. I want to go back through my computer to find anything else Leilani dug up, and I should probably call DH to nail down an alibi in case Marshall is stupid enough to show his face again.
When I make it to the front desk, the only thing I see is Rebecca staring through the glass door while her leg taps out a Morse code message on the carpet. Sure enough, three cars are parked outside, so it surprises us when the door swings open and Stephen, my ten o’clock, walks in. I force my rage aside because none of this is his fault. “What’s up, old man?”
“Old man?” He leans toward me with a lowered voice. “That’s not what my girlfriend said last night.” My jaw drops and Stephen laughs, adding, “I hope you’re ready for some burpees.”
I groan. Burpees rank right above a root canal, but I’ll g
ladly do them because him reaching this milestone is huge. Last summer, he told me he’d never be able to get past the loss of his wife and be able to start a relationship with someone else. I empathized with him then—anyone would’ve—but after losing Leilani, I can sympathize with him too.
Of course, he didn’t singlehandedly destroy the best thing that ever happened to him the way I did. I don’t deserve sympathy from anyone.
“You okay?” Stephen’s bushy brows draw together.
I nod, pushing all thoughts of my failed love life out of my mind.
“Good, because I’m getting this on video.” He holds his phone in the air and grins, already enjoying the torture he’s about to put me through.
We head toward the main gym when the front door opens again. This time, a police officer barrels inside, shouting words like “search warrant” and “arrest.” It takes a few seconds and more shouting to realize he’s directing them at me.
Me.
My jaw drops for the second time in as many minutes while he spins me around, cuffs my wrists, and informs me of my right to remain silent. Instinct has me jerking away, but a twist to my right arm reminds me I’m not in charge of anything right now.
“What the fuck is this?” It’s hard to hear the officer’s response over Rebecca’s shrieks and the echo of pounding boots as more uniforms flood the lobby, but I catch a few key phrases like jail, child sex trafficking, and sick bastard. Someone shoves me forward, and then I’m stumbling down the hall amid a swarm of Kevlar vests and curious stares while my entire world crumbles around me.
I wait for my parents doing the same thing I did last night in my cell and this morning during my arraignment—thinking of Leilani. How right she was, how wrong I was, and how I’d give anything to delete the last nine days.
I’ve been up since yesterday. Even if it was possible to find a comfortable position on a jail bed, my mind wouldn’t let me sleep. I saw her every time I closed my eyes. The images varied, but they always came back to one: Her standing in front of the painted wings in Hawaii.
She was the angel who wanted to save me, and I’m the asshole who pushed her away.
The only good thing is knowing my parents are on their way with their bank account intact. My only stipulation when they came down to the station to post my bail was that they didn’t pay for it. I’ve already caused enough problems for the people who love me. I’m not dragging anyone else down in this mess.
A guard retrieves me when they arrive. Mom did her best to put on a brave act when I called them this morning, but the dark shadows under her eyes tell me otherwise. Dad doesn’t look much better.
“I guess this means you got the money?” I ask.
Dad nods and then I nod because there’s not much to say about where it came from. Selling my Chevelle to Kurt stung like a sonofabitch. So did hearing the charges against me this morning. I’ve spent the last ten years building a business and a reputation based on helping people, and it only took three words to destroy it all.
Child sex trafficking.
The worst fucking part is not knowing the full story. I know Marshall’s involved—that much was obvious before they started questioning me—and with the nature of the charges and how young Brandy looked, I’d bet money she’s one of his victims.
But that’s all I have.
I want to shout to the world that I’m innocent, but how fucking cliché is that?
Dad nudges my arm. “Ready?” I nod again, and after some paperwork that further documents the level of hell my life has become, we leave.
Hypertrophy, atrophy, and muscle memory. In terms of physical training, they’re all related. We gain muscle when we start going to the gym, and we can lose it during an extended period of detraining. But thanks to the myonuclei that produce muscle protein, our body doesn’t forget all the work we did. That means when we start going to the gym again, our muscles remember what we did the first time and it’s easier to get back in shape.
Then there’s the type of muscle memory that deals with how the brain processes tasks and repetition. Practice makes perfect, so to speak. It’s the reason we can ride a bike without falling even if it’s been years since we last rode.
With sleep eluding me yet again, I’m counting on both tonight.
Going to Battles to work off my anger is out of the question, so the counselor in me moved to the next item on my list of possible solutions—if I couldn’t exhaust myself into slumber, I’d numb myself there instead.
I mean, what else did I have to lose?
Not a goddamn thing.
So muscle memory took me from my couch to my truck to a store I haven’t been inside since Michael Phelps stole the Beijing Olympics. I used to take pride in my sobriety. I wore that shit like a badge of fucking honor. Now it’s time to see if I can remember how to forget.
Muscle memory brings the vodka to my lips without spilling a drop, and the slow burn down my throat reminds my body of its old routine. Every pull from the bottle takes me one step closer to not giving a damn about Leilani or Marshall or lawyers or anything.
They say it’s called “falling off the wagon,” but make no mistake, I’m not falling. I’m jumping.
Freely.
Willingly.
I don’t care where I land.
It doesn’t matter if I can pick myself back up.
Who knows?
Maybe this time I won’t.
Face Your Battles
DAD SHUFFLES INTO THE KITCHEN just after sunrise with his thin blue robe sashed around his waist. “Thought I heard you in here. When did you get up?”
“Around five, I think.” I don’t mention that I didn’t fall asleep until two-thirty. Although Mom’s the one who’s obsessed with my health, Dad’s still prone to asking questions if he sees probable cause.
He walks past a spread of chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and homemade Almond Joy bars on the way to the coffee pot. “Whatcha making now?”
“Nutter Butters. Kiki should be here in a couple of hours and I wanted to have something fresh for her.”
Dad hums his approval. He’s a sucker for anything peanut butter. He slathers it on waffles and pancakes, and routinely cooks with it too. Yesterday he used it to make a stir fry sauce that put the restaurant stuff to shame. In his eyes, the only thing better than peanut butter itself is adding chocolate to it. On my second night home, we made knock-off Reese’s cups and half the batch fell victim to his obsession.
I expect the same for my Nutter Butters, which is why I doubled the recipe.
With his coffee sweetened to his liking, Dad joins me at the counter. He doesn’t say anything. I hope that means it’s too early for deep father-daughter conversations, but it seems he just needed some caffeine first.
“When are you going to tell us what happened?”
“I already did. We broke up.”
“That’s not—”
I flip the mixer to medium-high and point to my ear, mouthing, I’m sorry, what?
He hides his smile behind his mug, knowing I can’t cream the butter and sugar forever. Still, I wait a full thirty seconds longer than necessary before turning it off to add the eggs, vanilla, and peanut butter.
“Out with it. You’ve been home for more than a week and we’ve let you wallow long enough.”
“Wallow’s a little harsh, don’t you think? That implies lying in bed all day watching re-runs of Chopped while avoiding personal hygiene habits. I’ve showered almost every day since I’ve been back, and I even shaved yesterday.” I lift a brow and turn the mixer on again.
“Fine,” he says above the whir of the motor. “You’ve been stewing long enough.”
If stewing means focusing on the ninety-nine percent of you that wants to stab someone in order to block out the other one percent that wants to buy stock in ice cream and chocolate syrup to numb the sadness, then yeah, I’m a damn pot of beef bourguignon.
“Dad, I told you, we broke up. It’s no big deal. It happens to h
undreds of thousands of people every day.” I bring the mixer to a stop again, this time adding the dry ingredients to form the dough.
“If it’s no big deal, why do you look so upset?”
“Maybe because he’s an asshole and fired me when I was only trying to help him. Or because I thought for once, things would go right for me. But nooo.” I fling the flour in the bowl, sending a cloud of white dust into the air. “Apparently, the universe gets off on giving me the cosmic middle finger when I least expect it.” So much for avoiding deep conversations.
“The universe doesn’t have any fingers, Limp.”
I huff out a laugh. Hearing my childhood nickname in this context is oddly fitting. The heart is a muscle too, and damn if mine isn’t bruised right now. “I assure you she does, but it’s probably like those death horses in Harry Potter. You can’t see them unless she’s shoving them in your face.” I plunk the half-mixed dough on the counter and use my indignation as fuel while I incorporate the last of the dry ingredients.
“Are you more upset about being fired or the breakup?”
“Both. He was supposed to trust me, not just as his girlfriend but as an employee.”
Dad supplies an understanding nod. “And instead, he pushed you away when you were trying to help.”
“Exactly!” My one-handled rolling pin makes a hearty thud into the dough. Kiki got it for me last Christmas after I joked that I was going to use a paint roller covered in plastic wrap to make snowman sugar cookies. “It’s ironic—he’s the one who always said asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness. He should know that accepting it isn’t either.”
“In his defense, accepting help is much harder than asking for it.”
My jaw falls to the floor. “Excuse me? In his defense?”
Dad ignores my murderous stare. “I seem to know someone else who was hell-bent on doing things on her own when other people wanted to help her.” With that, he downs the last of his coffee.
Oh. Hell. No.
“So this is my punishment for not wanting Mom up my ass after I got cancer? Because there’s a huge difference between me being capable of taking care of myself and Clay being oblivious to what was going on in his gym.”
