by Holly Rayner
Briiing! The phone rings again.
I emit a frustrated sigh and pick up. “Crystal Clear Skin Care, this is Karla speaking. How can I help you?”
The woman on the other line is in a tizzy about some shipment that was supposed to arrive the week before and never showed up. I do my best to calm her down.
“I’m very sorry about any inconvenience we’ve caused you,” I say. “It seems our warehouse experienced a glitch in the ordering system early last week, and some of our shipments went to the wrong addresses. I’ve been getting calls about it all morning. We’re doing our best to sort things out now.”
“What am I supposed to tell the spas I supply? They’re expecting delivery today,” the woman says angrily. “I can’t afford to buy different products, but you know what? I have half a mind to do so anyway. I’m considering canceling my account. This is the second time Crystal Clear has left me hanging like this.”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” I say. “We really value your business. Let me talk to my manager and see what we can do for you. Can I get your contact information?”
She rattles off a number, and when I hang up, I look down at the digits. It’s at the bottom of a long list of contact info that I’ve collected from upset customers in the last two hours.
The phone rings again.
This time, I let it go to voicemail. I don’t have the energy to handle another shipping crisis. I need to think.
What I really need to do is call Garrett. I have to talk to him before he opens that email.
I still can’t believe Christy sent that! And it was signed with my name! Garrett is going to find out about his child through an email. Not only that, but the email was so over the top. Garrett is going to think I’m a wretched person! This is not the way I wanted him to find out about our child. Not at all.
I have to call him.
Shoot! I never saved his phone number after he called all those weeks ago.
I reach for my phone and begin scrolling through my list of missed calls, but it only goes back a few weeks. I don’t see Garrett’s number.
I close my eyes and try to think as the office landline continues to ring incessantly. Now there’s a flashing red light, too, alerting me to the fact that there are stored voicemails that will need to be listened to.
I’ve got it! Garrett gave me the number to his assistant so that I could call for a ride. I never actually called the assistant, but I might still have Garrett’s note in my purse…
I reach down to the spot beneath the metal desk where I stashed my purse. Holding my breath, I begin searching through the loose, random papers within. I find a grocery list, a to-do list, and a few receipts. Then… yes! There it is! The note that Garret wrote so long ago.
Reading it makes me remember how it felt to fall asleep held safely in his arms.
It’s strange to remember Garrett like that—sweet, caring, intimate. The character I’ve built up in my mind these few weeks is nothing like that—he’s cold, power-hungry, greedy.
How have I become so confused?
What is Garrett really like?
I need to talk to him. The thought strikes me with urgency unlike I’ve ever experienced before.
There’s a rule at my new office job: cellphones are to be kept in the breakroom. I suppose this is to prevent employees from getting distracted from work by personal calls. I’ve already broken the rule by keeping my phone in my purse, but I feel justified in doing so because I don’t yet have a locker in the breakroom. Now, I decide to break the rules even more blatantly by punching the number for Garrett’s assistant into my phone. Hopefully, he will be able to tell me how to get in touch with Garrett, quickly.
I lift the phone to my ear and listen while it rings.
After two rings, a man picks up. “Good morning, Justin speaking,” he says.
Before I can speak, I feel a presence behind my right shoulder. A man clears his throat. I turn around, a guilty look on my face I’m sure, and see my manager. He’s standing behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down on me with clear disapproval.
I quickly hang up before introducing myself to Justin. I’ll have to call again once my manager leaves. Maybe I’ll go to the ladies’ room or the breakroom to make the call.
“Oh! Mr. Schneider!” I say, addressing my manager in what I hope is a competent tone. “I didn’t hear you enter the cubicle.”
“Clearly not,” he says. “Have you had a chance to read the employee handbook? We don’t allow personal calls in the office. You’ll have to wait until your lunch hour for that, Ms. Moretti.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m still learning all of the rules. Thank you for reminding me.”
“We have a very strict three-strike policy with our temp workers,” he informs me.
“I’m aware,” I say. Then, to take the spotlight off of my mistake, I hold up my notepad of numbers. “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” I say. “I’ve been taking calls from some very upset customers this morning. Most of our spa suppliers are missing their weekly shipments. I have at least six names here of suppliers who are thinking about canceling their accounts.” I hold the list up to him. “I told them that—”
I stop short, mid-sentence, when I see another figure appear, just behind my manager, in the small cubicle.
It’s Garrett Green. His six-foot frame towers over my short, portly manager’s figure. He’s in his Stetson. Rather than the brown leather jacket he wore back in April, he’s now in a simple pale blue button-up, rolled up to the elbows, and unbuttoned slightly at the neck. He’s as muscular as a pro football player, and the button-up shirt seems to barely contain him.
His gray-blue eyes are smoldering. He doesn’t smile at the sight of me, or look at me with the curiosity and appreciation I remember from the first time we met. Instead, he looks upset.
Very upset.
I’m struck speechless.
I close my mouth, and then open it again.
“You told them what?” Mr. Schneider prompts me. “Hopefully you remembered the number one motto in sales, Ms. Moretti, which is that the customer is always right. Did you tell them that we would comp the products? That’s always the first—”
I can’t listen any longer. “Mr. Schneider,” I say, interrupting him. “I’m so sorry, but I have a visitor, and it’s a bit of an emergency.”
I motion to Garrett. My manager whirls around and almost topples over at the sight of the angry cowboy looming over him. He reaches for his heart, taps his chest a few times, and says, “My! I didn’t see you there!”
“I need to talk to Karla,” Garrett says, without even the slightest offer of a polite smile.
Mr. Schneider nods repeatedly as he backs up and scoots around Garrett. “Yes, by all means. An emergency…”
Garrett’s powerful presence seems to not only affect the women he speaks to, but also the men. Mr. Schneider scurries away. I would be pleased, if not for the fact that there is now no logical reason to delay the conversation that Garrett and I need to have.
I know I have to speak to Garrett, but this is not how I expected it to happen.
“Hi,” I say.
He doesn’t return my greeting. Instead he glares at me. His face is slightly red. His muscles look all tense and bunched up around his neck and shoulders. “We need to talk in private,” he says.
I stand. “I know what this is about,” I say. “You got the email.”
He turns and storms out of the cubicle. I follow him.
Garrett walks quickly through the cluster of cubicles, toward the exit. Once we are out in the office building’s main hallway, I expect him to talk. A few workers from Crystal Clear Skin Care and the other companies that lease space in the office building are in the hallway, but it’s more private than the crowded room of cubicles.
Apparently, it’s not private enough for Garrett.
He strides down the hallway, his back to me, heading for the exit that will take us to an outdoor set
of stairs. Crystal Clear Skin Care is on the third floor of the office building. I’ve seen some workers use the outdoor landing as a place to have a quick cigarette break.
He pushes open the door with force and holds it open for me.
I step through and find myself on a small, iron landing with him. A narrow set of stairs descends off one side of the landing, and another set goes up on the other side. There’s a railing, and beyond the railing, a view of the city. The sun is rising in the sky, peeking through a few high-rises across from us. Three stories below us, people go about their day, oblivious to the crisis taking place on our little landing.
Garrett is holding a sheet of paper in his hand. He now shakes it. “I got your email,” he says gruffly.
“Garrett, I’m sorry. I—”
He cuts me off. “You’re pregnant?” he asks, disbelief evident in his voice.
I nod. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I—”
“I have rights as a father, you know,” he says. “I will not stand for being bullied around by your threats of lawyering up. If you want to go down that road, you’d better know that I have a team of lawyers ready to fight for me. Your threat of going to court doesn’t scare me, Karla.”
“That’s not my intention,” I say.
“You want me to just pay up?” Garrett says. “You’re going to treat me like an ATM machine, hm? That’s what this is about? You think I don’t have any feelings at all? Good Lord.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks past me, into the city, shaking his head.
“Garrett, listen to me,” I say. “This is all just a big mistake.”
“You’ve got that right,” he says. He folds the paper in half, and then quarters. He stuffs it into his back pocket as he says. “You go to the press if you want to. Go ahead and tell them how I mistreated you. Tell them whatever you want. I know my side of the story, and it’s that this situation is both of our responsibilities. I’m the father. You can’t just push me out of the picture like this.” He steps past me and reaches for the door handle.
“I’m not trying to push you out of the picture,” I say to his back as he steps back into the building.
“Oh, right,” he says, without turning around. “You want me to pay up, first. I forgot.”
“That’s not what this is about,” I say.
He strides down the hallway, not looking at me.
“That’s not what I want,” I say again. “Garrett, you’re not listening to me!”
He doesn’t stop walking. Instead, he reaches the interior stairwell, pushes the door open, and disappears through it.
“I don’t care about your money,” I say, though he’s out of sight.
“Great,” I mutter. I stare at the stairwell door for a minute, contemplating going after him. But what would I say? He’s not listening to me. He’s too upset. I would be, too, if I’d received an email like that.
He has every right to be upset, shocked, and defensive. While he’s in that state of mind, it’s going to be nearly impossible to get through to him. I have to let him cool down. I have to do some calming down myself.
I feel my chest rising and falling quickly, as I stare at the door and try to process our argument. This is a disaster.
It’s hard enough to bear the child of a man I’m not even in a relationship with, but now that man is upset with me.
He thinks I’m only interested in his money.
He’s probably regretting the night we spent together.
Do I regret it? Do I wish that night never happened?
Emotions sweep through me, turmoil and anxiety in my gut, and guilt in my heart. Is this child a mistake?
No. I bite my lip. This child is a miracle. A blessing. I have to hold on to that. No matter what, I have to remember that I want this child.
I don’t regret the night that I spent with Garrett. I’m glad it happened. I’m glad I’m going to bring life into this world. I’ve always wanted a child. Now, I have to figure out how to handle things with Garrett in a way that will be best for my child.
I have to talk to Garrett again. I have to tell him that the email wasn’t from me. Then, when we’re both calm, I’ll explain that if he wants to be involved in our child’s life, he can be. We’ll talk it through like two mature adults.
I take a shaky breath and begin to find my center. After a few more deep breaths, I move down the hallway, back to the Crystal Clear offices. I make my way to my desk, turn off the computer, and gather my purse. Then I stop by my manager’s office.
I knock on the edge of the door. “Mr. Schneider?” I say. He’s at his desk, and at the sound of my voice he looks up.
“I have to leave for the day,” I say. “Something has come up. A bit of a… family emergency.”
It’s a bit of a stretch, but technically the truth. My unborn child is my family.
Mr. Schneider nods curtly. “I regret to inform you that this is your second strike,” he says.
“But it’s an emergency,” I say.
He purses his lips. “I understand, but our policy is very strict. All absences, regardless of the reason, affect team performance. I’m sure that given your background in business, you understand.”
I think of Garrett. I think of my child. I have to fix this situation. The thought of going back to my desk and dealing with more angry customers makes me feel like I might vomit. There’s no way I can focus on answering calls after what I just went through.
“Well then, two strikes it is,” I say. “I have to go home to take care of some things. Thank you.” I turn on my heel and stride away from his office.
It’s a relief to step out of the Crystal Clear office space—and even more of a relief to burst out into the mid-morning sunshine.
I drive home, running my conversation with Garrett over and over in my head.
What strikes me, more than anything, is how passionate he was about having rights as a father.
Maybe he wants to be involved in raising this child.
I’ve already given up the idea that he wants to be with me, but that’s a separate issue. This child is his, just as much as it is mine.
I pull into the parking garage attached to my apartment unit and then make my way to my apartment. It’s empty, of course, except for my laptop on the counter.
I feel flustered and out of sorts. I have to think clearly, but I’m not in a state to do so. I strip down and take a quick shower. Then I dress again and pour myself a glass of cold water. There are a few ice cubes left in the freezer, and I add them one by one and carry my drink to the living room and sit on the floor. For nearly an hour I sit with my thoughts, going over every emotion that I experienced with Garrett’s visit.
At the bottom of the confusing, chaotic heap of feelings is attraction. My body felt magnetically pulled toward him on a deep level, even as our words clashed on the surface. I don’t know what to do with that information, so I push it aside and move on.
It’s clear to me that I need to try to talk to Garrett again. I don’t have his number, but I do know how to reach his assistant.
At about noon, I pull out my phone and make the call.
He answers. “Hello, this is Justin.”
“Justin!” I say. “You’re Garrett Green’s assistant, is that right? I really need to talk to him.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Green is in meetings for the rest of the afternoon,” he says.
“That’s impossible,” I say. “He can’t really have back-to-back meetings for the entire afternoon. Please… could I have his number? It’s important.”
“I can take a message if you like,” he says kindly.
“I need to talk to him personally,” I say. “I just saw him a few hours ago. He visited my office. This is Karla. Karla Moretti.”
The name seems to ring a bell for the assistant. Perhaps Garrett mentioned me to him.
“Oh! You’re Karla Moretti!” he says. His tone becomes wary. “I really can’t give out Garrett’s private number,” he say
s.
“I’m carrying his child, for heaven’s sake!” I burst out. I’m frustrated and at the end of my rope. Flying off the handle is a trait I picked up from my grandmother, along with talent in the kitchen. I feel my cheeks flushing, my heart pounding in my chest. “Don’t try to tell me that I can’t talk to Garrett! There’s been a huge misunderstanding, and if I don’t talk to him now things are going to become so much worse.”
I think of Garrett’s suggestion that he can lawyer up just as swiftly as I can. I don’t want it to come to that.
My outburst knocks some sense into the assistant. “Karla,” he says, “I’m being straight with you. I understand that you need to talk to him, but he’s unavailable for the rest of the afternoon, and he’s leaving town after that, heading for his ranch in Texas. I’m sorry, but the best I can do for you is take a message. I’ll be sure to get it to Garrett.”
The information he just shared is helpful, though he likely doesn’t realize in just what way. “Okay, just… just tell him Karla called,” I say, and we end the call.
When I hang up, I consider Justin’s words. Garrett did mention his ranch in Texas, during our evening together. He even told me the name of the nearby town. What was it? I close my eyes, willing myself to remember. I can’t.
I’m out of water, so I stand and walk to the kitchen to fill my glass. As I turn on the faucet, it comes to me.
Willow Creek! That was the name of the town.
I whirl around to my laptop and type “Willow Creek” into the search bar. A town map pops up. I switch the map to satellite mode and then scan the area until I spot a ranch. There’s only one on the edge of the town. It’s huge—bigger even than the town itself.
That must be Garrett’s ranch! He’s going there tonight.
I have to be out of my apartment tomorrow morning. I was going to go straight over to Christy’s after the walk-through with my landlord at eight, but what if I drove out to Texas, instead?
I type in the address of the ranch and discover that it’s a four-hour drive away. Doable.
