or an attitude of indifference. The guilt presses into my sternum.
I take a deep breath, hoping to relieve regret’s suffocating pressure. I remind myself that there’s one thing I always made sure to protect her from. The one thing that finally sent me running scared. If only I would have left sooner. I may have saved myself from years of—
“Mom?” Her voice trembles.
She studies my face, searching, when a cool, wet drop slides down my cheek. Dammit. “I’m okay.” I wipe it away and force a shaky smile.
“Why are you crying?” There’s a pleading in her voice, but I can’t tell her how bad things really were. I have to keep that a secret.
I dab my cheek with my napkin. “I’m just tired. I haven’t had a real job since I was fifteen.” A weak laugh falls from my lips. “It’s exhausting.”
Elle glares at me then slams her palms on the table. “I’m going to bed.” The metallic scrape of her chair against the linoleum grates in my ears. She stomps off to her room and slams the door.
I’ve lost her. And I want her back. But I don’t have a clue how to do that.
You’re a horrible mother.
For once, the voice in my head makes sense. So I answer, first internally, and then aloud. “I know.”
~*~
It’s the end of my first week working at the UFL Training Center, and I’ve been catching on quickly. I’ve impressed Mr. Gibbs by implementing a new filing system that is easy to use and puts all the paperwork in actual drawers. Something that, from what I can tell, Taylor hasn’t done in the last ten years.
He’s off site all day for various meetings. A list of things to do sits on my desk. I pick it up, ready to end the week strong, and start at number one.
New promotional t-shirts need to be handed out to the fighters. A big box sits next to my desk—that must be them. I rummage through and see that they’re bundled in plastic. Each bundle contains three shirts and has a fighter’s initials scribbled on it in Sharpie.
“Easy enough,” I say and check off number one with a gratifying swipe of my pen.
Dropping my list on the desk, I stare at the box, grateful it’s on a dolly. That’ll make moving the box in heels much easier and a little more graceful. The instructions say that the shirts need to go into their drop-boxes, but I don’t know where those are.
I pick up the phone and make a quick call to Vanessa at the reception desk. She’s warmed up to me in the last few days, in that she no longer scowls at me when I walk past her every morning. She just flat-out ignores me.
With the phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder, I read my to-do list one more time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing about the location of the drop-boxes.
“What is it?” Vanessa says, her attitude proving the multi-line phone system gave me away.
“Good morning, Vanessa. How’s your day going?”
The silence on the phone grows thick. Okaaay.
“I have to put some things into the drop-boxes? Can you tell me where those are?”
She exhales hard, making sure to communicate her irritation. “Locker room.”
No. They can’t be there. That would mean I’d have to go inside where all the guys are showering and changing and… wait a second.
“Yeah, right. Look, I know you’re busy, so am I. If you could just tell me where the boxes are—”
“Locker. Room.” Click.
Did she hang up on me? “Hello?” No reply. I hang up the phone. “What a bitch.”
I study the shirt bundles, chewing my nails, contemplating. What’s the worst that can happen? Sticking my head into the guy’s locker room for a quick peek won’t hurt anyone. If she’s lying, I’ll find help elsewhere. If not, I guess I’ll owe Miss Crabby Pants a thank you.
“I have to do my job.” Groaning, I wrestle the dolly around and drag it down the hallway. It’s still early, and I’m hoping I can get in and out of the locker room before the guys break from training to shower.
It’s quiet in the
I take a deep breath, hoping to relieve regret’s suffocating pressure. I remind myself that there’s one thing I always made sure to protect her from. The one thing that finally sent me running scared. If only I would have left sooner. I may have saved myself from years of—
“Mom?” Her voice trembles.
She studies my face, searching, when a cool, wet drop slides down my cheek. Dammit. “I’m okay.” I wipe it away and force a shaky smile.
“Why are you crying?” There’s a pleading in her voice, but I can’t tell her how bad things really were. I have to keep that a secret.
I dab my cheek with my napkin. “I’m just tired. I haven’t had a real job since I was fifteen.” A weak laugh falls from my lips. “It’s exhausting.”
Elle glares at me then slams her palms on the table. “I’m going to bed.” The metallic scrape of her chair against the linoleum grates in my ears. She stomps off to her room and slams the door.
I’ve lost her. And I want her back. But I don’t have a clue how to do that.
You’re a horrible mother.
For once, the voice in my head makes sense. So I answer, first internally, and then aloud. “I know.”
~*~
It’s the end of my first week working at the UFL Training Center, and I’ve been catching on quickly. I’ve impressed Mr. Gibbs by implementing a new filing system that is easy to use and puts all the paperwork in actual drawers. Something that, from what I can tell, Taylor hasn’t done in the last ten years.
He’s off site all day for various meetings. A list of things to do sits on my desk. I pick it up, ready to end the week strong, and start at number one.
New promotional t-shirts need to be handed out to the fighters. A big box sits next to my desk—that must be them. I rummage through and see that they’re bundled in plastic. Each bundle contains three shirts and has a fighter’s initials scribbled on it in Sharpie.
“Easy enough,” I say and check off number one with a gratifying swipe of my pen.
Dropping my list on the desk, I stare at the box, grateful it’s on a dolly. That’ll make moving the box in heels much easier and a little more graceful. The instructions say that the shirts need to go into their drop-boxes, but I don’t know where those are.
I pick up the phone and make a quick call to Vanessa at the reception desk. She’s warmed up to me in the last few days, in that she no longer scowls at me when I walk past her every morning. She just flat-out ignores me.
With the phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder, I read my to-do list one more time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing about the location of the drop-boxes.
“What is it?” Vanessa says, her attitude proving the multi-line phone system gave me away.
“Good morning, Vanessa. How’s your day going?”
The silence on the phone grows thick. Okaaay.
“I have to put some things into the drop-boxes? Can you tell me where those are?”
She exhales hard, making sure to communicate her irritation. “Locker room.”
No. They can’t be there. That would mean I’d have to go inside where all the guys are showering and changing and… wait a second.
“Yeah, right. Look, I know you’re busy, so am I. If you could just tell me where the boxes are—”
“Locker. Room.” Click.
Did she hang up on me? “Hello?” No reply. I hang up the phone. “What a bitch.”
I study the shirt bundles, chewing my nails, contemplating. What’s the worst that can happen? Sticking my head into the guy’s locker room for a quick peek won’t hurt anyone. If she’s lying, I’ll find help elsewhere. If not, I guess I’ll owe Miss Crabby Pants a thank you.
“I have to do my job.” Groaning, I wrestle the dolly around and drag it down the hallway. It’s still early, and I’m hoping I can get in and out of the locker room before the guys break from training to shower.
It’s quiet in the
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