Life in a Rut, Love not Included (Love Not Included series Book 1)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  Just as Jack walks up behind me with our coffees, Becky does what she does best and chimes in. “Anywho, you know I’m really sorry about what happened with you and Steve and the job. Everyone was so shocked to hear the sad news. I mean, well, those who didn’t witness it. But who would have thought? Steve and Stacey!?” What are the chances Jack has suddenly gone deaf? Since Becky doesn’t know when to stop, she just goes on. “We really miss you at the office. It was hard after you left. No one ever did your job like you. They found a replacement shortly after you left but she doesn’t work as hard as you did.”

  Because spending the rest of my life in prison for strangling her fat mouth is not an option, I put a killer smile on my face, and I mean killer because it is literally painful to be smiling at this point and not either A. crying, or B. throwing up.

  “Yeah, who would have thought? Well I’m glad they’ve replaced me. Wouldn’t want the company stuck in the mud without work being done.” Just as I finish choking out my sentence, I feel Jack’s heat emanating from behind me. He gently brushes his hand against my lower back and hands me my coffee with his other hand.

  “Oh my! Sarah, who is this? I didn’t know you had a brother!”

  OK, that’s it!

  “Hey. Jack.” Jack introduces himself with a head nod, then turns my direction and wraps his arm around my waist and places his body very close to my side. He slowly leans into me and presses a soft kiss to my neck.

  Becky is practically drooling. “Oh, well hello there, Jack.”

  “Babe, you ready to go?” Jack pulls his head away from my neck and locks eyes with me. For a second I am not quite paying attention because I don’t even realize it’s me he’s talking to.

  “Oh yeah. I’m all good. Let’s go. Well Becky, for real, great seeing you. Hope we can make this a reccurring event.” I barely finish my sentence before I start walking towards the door. Jack is right on my heels, still pressing his hand behind my lower back. I toss the door open and try to suck the air into my lungs. I am not looking forward to a breakdown in the middle of a Starbucks parking lot, but with my luck lately it seems inevitable.

  “You OK?” Jack asks.

  “Oh yeah, just fine,” I say while speed-walking to his truck. We reach the passenger’s side and he steps forward to help boost me up, but I need no help since I have adrenalin pumping through my ears. I pretty much jump into the seat. He shuts my door, walks around and gets in, then starts the truck. He turns towards me. I’m pretty sure he’s assessing how safe it is to speak.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

  I’m not sure what there is to talk about. Somehow it all pours out anyway.

  “I think Becky pretty much spilled my beans. Girl has perfect job, perfect boyfriend, and perfect friend. Perfect life. One day girl walks into perfect apartment and catches perfect boyfriend in bed with perfect friend. Girl then proceeds to make an incredible scene at perfect job where she works with perfect boyfriend, then she quits her perfect job. Now perfect girl is not so perfect and is camping out in her parents’ house while waiting for the world to end so she doesn’t have to get back out in it . . . Did you get all of that?”

  He is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Sarah, I’m sorry.”

  I raise my hand. “Don’t. Just don’t, OK? I don’t need your sympathy, all right? Just . . . take me home.”

  We drive back in silence and all I can do is think about how pathetic I must have looked just now. Here I am judging Jack the whole time of being this big McJerk and look who turns out to be the pathetic one. They replaced me at work. I’m not going to deny that I was stalking the job posting that went up not twenty-four hours after my theatrics, or how the position was filled two days later. Seven years of my life I gave that company and they just fill my position with someone in a seventy-two hour time span. I kind of thought they would look past my outburst. Give me some time and ask if I would return. Possibly threaten to demote me due to my unprofessionalism, at worst. I thought I meant something to that company. Apparently I was just another number to them, making them tons of money. I was easily replaced. Just like that. It hurts to know I wasn’t worth fighting for. In my work nor in my relationship. Steve didn’t bother fighting to keep me. He just let me go. He agreed this was for the best. And Stacey wouldn’t even look at me to fight for our friendship. She obviously chose the latter. And the latter was not me.

  I snap out of my misery-induced coma-like state to realize we are parked in my driveway. Jack has been sitting here quietly, assessing me again. I don’t look his way. I open the door and climb out of his truck. I walk with a bit of a hustle towards the house, hoping he will just let me go in and pretend this day never happened. Then, as I reach the door and turn slowly to face him, I notice he is practically touching me, he’s that close. He stands just inside my personal space with his hands resting deep inside his front pockets. Due to our height difference I look up and my eyes lock directly with his lips. I can’t help but remember that soft but luscious kiss he pressed to my neck at Starbucks. Subconsciously, I bring my fingers to my neck, where I can still feel the heat of his mouth against my skin. I lift my eyes to meet his. He stares at me intensely, as if contemplating my next move.

  “Hey Jack, thanks for playing hot wingman back there,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “I really appreciate it. Hopefully it gives Becky something to gossip about for the next week.” What I should be doing is throwing myself at him, not talking.

  “Sure,” he says quietly as he looks at me with sadness in his eyes. I give him the goodbye head nod and turn to trek inside. Jack lets me go.

  No sadness here. The last thing I need is for anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m a big girl. I can handle this. I’m totally fine, actually. So I don’t know why I make it to my room just in time to shut the door and fall flat on my bed right before the dam of waterworks explodes and sends me drowning in my sorrow.

  GUESSING BY THE SHADOW coming from my window and the crusted drool sticking to the side of my face, I assume that I have been sleeping for a while. Crying like a five-year-old who’s been denied ice cream can really wear a person out. I sit up and scope out my room. First things first: Search out that coffee. Now I know I am a waste of good looks at this point but a perfectly good latte should not pay the price. I find my neglected cup sitting on a makeshift desk made out of boxes. I sip the liquid goodness, hoping to get bits and pieces of whipped cream (oh yeah, best part) and fail miserably. Then I proceed to exit my Home Shopping Network cave.

  I’ve come to the realization that I need to make a list. Don’t people make lists at my age? To-do lists? Bucket lists? Things they want to conquer before they die? On the fast train of public humiliation that I am on, my time has to be nearing soon. Might as well start making some plans before I dispose of my good-looking self into the abyss of death. I head for the kitchen in pursuit of some writing materials. When I enter, I find good ole’ Aunt Raines preparing for happy hour—already.

  “Hey there, sweet girl. I thought you were never gonna get up,” Aunt Raines says. I scoop up a pen and some scrap paper out of the junk drawer and proceed to sit at the table next to her makeshift bar. “What are you up to, sweet Sarah?”

  “Oh you know, Aunt Raines, just trying to find the meaning of life.”

  She scoots closer to me with her shaker. “Well you have come to the right place, dear. Your Uncle Merle used to sit down with me, a full glass in hand, and tell me there were always answers at the bottom of a glass of happiness.”

  “Uncle Merle said this?” I state a bit shocked.

  “Oh he sure did, sweet girl. Every time I would get into a tiff with life or upset over something silly, he would sit me down, shake me up some happiness and tell me to sit it out while I sip on it.”

  “Huh,” I say, trying to ponder this theory and also imagining my Uncle Merle feeding every problem with a glass of stiff vermouth. Did I mention that my uncle was a minister at a church for seventeen years?<
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  “So what was the outcome? Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

  “Well most of the time, no. But I did find a really good buzz and in the end it didn’t matter what I was up in a rut about, because after a few sips to warm my blood I would relax and realize that life is what you make of it. If you take it too seriously you just end up injuring your own self.”

  Why do I not spend more time with my Aunt Raines? Her words are so simple but so true. Why was I taking everything that went wrong so hard? Why do I feel like the decisions that other people make around me or for me define who I am? I am not the cheater or the betrayer. I’m the victim. But who wants to be the victim either? I just want to be me again. I want to be happy about something. Accomplishments that I earned. I want to look forward and not to my past. I want my past to be just that—my past.

  As I finish my first martini, I begin to write out my bucket list. After I finish my third one though, I am scribbling. “Aunt Raines, what would you do if you were in my position?”

  “Well what position are you in, babycakes?”

  It takes me just a second to think of exactly how to word it. “My life is in a rut right now and I don’t know how to get out of it.” Because it feels like I do but in a way I don’t. I feel like if I knew what to do, I would have done it by now.

  “Well sweet Sarah, you need to think about what you find to be so stuck. People have life altering things happen to them all the time. Some turn out to be for the better. Maybe if you give it time you will see it that way.”

  I can’t say I feel too confident with this advice, but I guess I’ll take it. It beats my own advice to myself, and that is to stick my head in the toilet and flush in hopes of a quick and easy death by drowning.

  “Thanks, Aunt Raines. I feel better.”

  “No problem, sweet girl. Now, how about another glass of happiness?”

  A genuine smile crosses my face for the first time in ages as I offer her my glass. “Fill her up.”

  NOW, I AM NOT sure how much happiness Uncle Merle would offer Aunt Raines, but four glasses of pure happiness later and I am as warm as could be on a summer day wrapped up in the arms of a hot construction worker. Or whomever. Construction worker doesn’t mean anything or anyone specifically. What is it with me and hitting my four-drink limit before my mind and my libido turn straight down McJack-me-up Lane? I just keep finding myself, when not thinking about pathetic topics, a.k.a. my life, gravitating towards him. His smile. The way he lavished my mouth in the garage. The way he caressed my back at the coffee house. His sexy mouth pressed against my neck. The way he gazed at me on the front step with that look of concern and thoughtfulness. I wonder what it would be like to kiss that concern right off his mouth. How he would taste, again. His arms wrapped around my waist while I hold on tighter to his strong arms, and . . .

  “Hey . . .”

  Huh?

  Swimming out of the gutter—or out of the bottom of my martini—I begin to refocus on the large object in front of me.

  “You’re looking better than earlier today,” he says. I was looking bad before? Oh yeah: Insert coffee house disaster. Good of him to remember that.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. Things are actually looking up now,” I state, slurring a bit into my glass.

  “I can see that. And how is that so?” he asks.

  “Aunt Raines over here has suggested that all of the answers are at the bottom of this bottle of vermouth. We’re making martinis.” I turn to Aunt Raines and tilt my martini glass in a salute. As I start to giggle, Aunt Raines begins to stand.

  “Well now,” Aunt Raines says, “I think it’s time for me to wrap it up. I have all the answers I need. I’m going to see what your mamma is up to. I’ll just leave you two kids alone.” She sets down her glass and turns to me while winking, then sees herself out of the kitchen. What a bad wingman. Leaving me to fend for myself.

  “Do you mind if I sit?”

  Sure, in my lap. “Nope.”

  “What’s this?” he asks, grabbing at the rough draft of my bucket list. I half attempt to swat it out of his hands because A) I hardly even remember what it says, but I fail because B) It takes too much effort. I’m lacking effort nowadays. I don’t even think I like vermouth.

  “So, is this some sort of list?” he asks with a hint of humor in his tone.

  “You can say that. I figure it’s about time I wake up and get out of my parents’ house. I’ve been here for almost four months now, ya know?” Did I just admit that?

  Kill me now.

  “So what’s stopping you?” he says. Man, this guy’s good.

  “Nothing is stopping me. I’m still trying to figure things out. Where my place is. Maybe I don’t want to go back to a fancy firm with fancy people and fancy things,” I say defensively, more to myself than to Jack.

  Maybe that life was never meant for me in the first place. When I got my degree in Marketing, I wanted to build ads and create powerful logos that stuck with people, that made a difference. I wanted to draw architecture and create billboard ads. I wanted to feel good about a product I was selling and feel honest about the message I was sending across. I felt that way in the beginning of Hamilton Corp. All the fresh faces and challenging projects. I would complete one to jump right into another, knowing that the drive and competition were just part of the thrill. But in the end, it was never fulfilling. I was never able to create an ad and feel homely about it. In the end it was all about selling the client and locking in the highest bidder.

  Jack starts reading my list, and he begins to chuckle. “What is so funny?” I snap at him, trying and again failing at swatting back my list.

  “Number one—Make a list,” he recites out loud while laughing.

  “Yeah, make a list! You have to start somewhere, don’t you?”

  His laughter softens. “You are correct.”

  He reads on, stopping only to look at me for clarification. “Number two—Plan life.”

  “Yes. It’s probably important to try and build some sort of path or direction.”

  “OK . . . Number three—Fulfill a goal.” Again he stops to look at me.

  “Fulfill a goal. I want to set my mind to something and complete it. I’ve always loved to read. I used to love reading books when I was younger. Lose myself in sappy romance novels. I never do it anymore. I don’t know, maybe I’ll finish 100 books by the end of the year.”

  “You know it’s already June, right?”

  “Yeah. You’re right. OK, cross that one off.”

  “OK, moving on. Number four—Find out what else is at the end of the tunnel.” This time he looks at me in amusement. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Why does everyone always say there is light at the end of the tunnel? So what? What else is there? What if the light isn’t good enough for me? I don’t want to settle for just light, ya know?” We look at each other and lock eyes for some time. I can see the understanding in his eyes. He is agreeing with me. Sometimes there needs to be more than just light.

  “I will take that. Next, number five—Find myself, on a budget.” His eyebrows shoot up as he looks at me again.

  “Exactly what it says, Jackie boy. Find myself. Go in search of who I really am but in an unemployed and on a budget sort of way. You know those people who travel the world trying to figure out where their place is? I want to do that but possibly in this particular suburb, and for less than twenty bucks.”

  Jack just laughs. He doesn’t even try to hold this one in. He simply belts out a huge gust of laughter. His laugh singing in my ears is so infectious it makes my legs squeeze together. Who is this man? And why is he sitting in my kitchen with me all gorgeous and edible and laughing like some Greek god? “You’re staring,” he says when his laughter softens.

  Huh? “Huh? Oh, no I’m not.”

  “Yes you were . . .”

  “Listen, don’t think so highly of yourself, pal.”

  “All right, all right. Moving on. Number six�
�Remember what falling in love feels like.” He finishes the last of that sentence in almost a whisper. His laughter dies down even more and he turns to look at me. I, on the other hand, am staring at my glass. The mood has gotten a bit more serious than I had planned and I’m pretty sure the fun is over. I turn to wrap this party up, and catch Jack holding me in his gaze, waiting intensely for a response. “Care to clarify?”

  Not really. Stupid vermouth.

  “Well, exactly what it says. It’s been a while since I can remember that feeling. The one with the butterflies and the sleepless nights because all you can do is think about the one who has your heart. The warmth you feel when he touches you. When things were real. When it was only you he had eyes for and you can even see that love burning in his eyes . . .”

  At this point I think I just drifted. I’m not even sure I’m really talking to anyone anymore. Why would I even write that? Why would I even care? Love is such a foolish thing to want anyway. So in the end you can be crushed and made a fool? To wake up one day and realize that it was all a one-man show, and suddenly your better half becomes your roommate’s? To feel such emotion for another person and for them to rip it away and take advantage of your heart? To not even care enough to be honest . . . to just end up leaving you in the end?

  I don’t realize that Jack at some point has moved from his chair and is now kneeling in front of me. Nor do I realize that at some point I began to cry.

  With Jack being a gigantic six-foot-two compared to my puny five-four frame, when he kneels in front of me his head is level with mine. He takes his hand and gently wipes the tear that’s spilling down my cheek. I attempt to open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. I am done.

  I’m waving my white flag. I just can’t talk about how sad I am anymore to anyone. I attempt to push him away so I can get up and flee, but he puts his hands on each side of me face and holds me there. I try to look away out of shame that I have opened up about such a pitiful issue, and then proceed to cry about it.