365 Days Post Divorce

AS A LITTLE GIRL, I was told to study hard, get good grades, go to college, get a decent job, find a nice man, and have a family. My dad told me it would make for the perfect life, and I would be set up for success.

Like a good daughter, I listened. I did everything he said to do, but there were some things he forgot to mention, like the moments that grow in between those life goals and then sprout into the form of ugly weeds—the ones that don’t tear out of the ground without some plant killer. Except plant killer won’t work on an ex-husband, or would it …?

“Good morning, boss-lady,” Brielle sings as she follows me down the row of cubicles and into my office.

My office. Alan, the old-fashioned kind of businessman, and my company’s CEO, shockingly offered me a promotion to the Director of Marketing position earlier this year after I laboriously trudged through the Manager title, levels one through five, even though there are only supposed to be three levels. In any case, it made me feel like I could check off the box next to “successful career.”

“Good morning, Brielle, how was your weekend?” I sometimes live vicariously through Brielle’s weekends because she’s in her mid-twenties and living it up. She has very different goals in life, which makes me wonder if my dad might have been wrong about the certain path that would lead me to success and happiness.

Ever since I got my first Cosmo magazine in the mail when I was fifteen, I’ve had a thing for the publishing industry and dreamt of snagging a job in New York City, working for one of the big, women’s magazines. I imagined a tall, glass building and lots of high-class people walking around all day. I might have watched too many movies in the nineties and got my hopes up too high because some of the choices I made in my twenties got in the way of my dream. I couldn’t give it up completely, though, so I settled for a smaller magazine here in the suburbs of Massachusetts. I mean, I’ve got my own office, so it’s something.

It’s also pink, like baby-girl pink. It was a joke—a high five by a couple of my male co-workers, for being upgraded to an office. I love jokes … if they’re executed properly. However, I’ve been finding it difficult to work for a woman’s magazine while being one of only two women in my department.

“My weekend was fab. First, on Friday night, Adam and I went to Via and met up with some friends. We totally closed down three different bars that night. I don’t even know how it was possible, but clearly, it was.” She sweeps her hair to the side, and I can’t help but watch as each strand falls perfectly back into place. “I was wiped out on Saturday, so I slept until abouuuuut, I don’t know … elevenish? I got manis and pedis with the girls, then had lunch with my old college roomie.” She takes a breather because she’s been talking for a minute straight, but I know she isn’t done. “You know, it’s seriously getting dark out way too early. I can’t deal. Anyway, Adam and I hit up Boston for the night and spent the night at a mod hotel, which was super chic. You should totally check it out sometime. We went to bed wicked early for some reason,” she said with a wink, “but I just couldn’t make it past three that night. I must be starting to break down in age. Gosh, I don’t know how you function in your thirties.” I’ve learned to ignore Brielle’s lack of a filter. It’s great for honesty, no so much for modesty.

“Wow, that sounds like a busy weekend,” I tell her. “Are things better with Adam, now?” Her six-month relationship has been on the rocks, and I guess this weekend was supposed to be a make-it-or-break-it situation.

“Eh, we didn’t really have a chance to talk too much.” I’d ask how that’s possible, but I know how it’s possible. I just really don’t care to hear it. I preferred other activities besides talking at one time … back when.

“Understandable,” I tell her.

“Sunday was pretty much just a lot of ‘non-talking,’ if you know what I mean.” She winks and jiggles her eyebrows.

I got it. You have more sex than a red-light district, and I’m dried up like a prune. I hope that state of being isn’t a permanent feature, like the whole saying: If you don’t use it, you lose it.

“I got what you’re putting out there,” I tell her with a mom-ish wink. “I’m glad you had a good weekend.”

“No problemo,” she chirps while scanning through her phone. “So, you have a ten o’clock appointment with the new temp, a three o’clock sales meeting, and a date with Dickle at seven.” She covers her mouth and pulls in a sharp breath before continuing. “I can be at your house by six-thirty to take care of Cora if you want?”

Brielle is my spirit animal, and I think I might love her, but— “Cancel my date. I’m not ready to meet Dickle anymore.”

“Oh?” she questions in her high-pitched I need to know more tone. “What happened to your bet? I thought you kind of had a thing for him … and his Dickle?” she snorts. It’s been a year of talking to this guy, and she still can’t say his name without laughing.

“I just can’t. That last date I went on, you know, with Sergio—the one I met on that stupid Tinder thing? Maybe I forgot to tell you last week, but it was going okay until it was time to—” I make a nice hand gesture to my mouth. “You know? Anyway, he was super hairy, and he wasn’t shaved or trimmed down there at all …”

She places her hands up and closes her eyes. “Say no more. I did warn you about Tinder. It’s either a hit or miss.”

“I got a pube stuck in between my two front teeth, Brielle. This is life, at ‘my age.’”

“I said, say no more,” she enunciates more clearly. I know she doesn’t enjoy hearing about my sometimes disappointing thirty-three-year-old life, but it’s real, and she should know what might be in her future if she doesn’t make the right decisions. I’m trying to be a good mentor. “On that note, I think I have some work to do.” Brielle slides her phone into her back pocket and turns to leave.

“Hey, real quick …” I pause to take a sip of the hot coffee as I watch my inbox pop open with a bunch of “Welcome to a big fat case of Monday” emails. “Sorry.” I refocus my attention on her question-filled eyes. “How’s the call list going for the event next week?”

“Ummm—good,” she says, switching her focus to the window behind me. Yup, whatever she’s about to say is a lie. She’s been my assistant for two years, and I know the meaning of all of her body language. “I’m about halfway through.” She takes a moment to look down at her manicure and proceeds to bite her bottom lip. Lie, lie, lie.

“You know, I gave you that list two weeks ago, right?” This is the part I hate about having an office. I don’t want to boss her around, but she isn’t always on her “A” game with the admin duties, which is kind of important, since she’s an admin.

“I do, but some of our vendors like to chat. It’s all a part of marketing. Hannah?”

“Right. Okay, let me know when the temp arrives.” She quickly pivots away from my desk as her long, blonde hair flips over her shoulder like one of those Suave commercials, leaving me to watch her jog out of my office in her four-inch, leopard print Manolo Blahnik heels, kind of like a Barbie on her toes. I’d kill for her hair, clothes, body … I want to be her. I know I sound crazy, but her life just looks so easy.

I dig into my emails and get two cranky notes in when my phone dings with a notification from Dickle15.

The word: date is added to our two-day-long running Words With Friends game. How did he end up with those letters? That might explain all his skipped turns.

At least I have an N left, and there’s a perfect spot next to an O.

A message appears in the sidebar. “Really? A bet was a bet, and I won the last five games in a row. You agreed to go out to dinner with me if that happened.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t,” I tell him.

“Why not?” he responds just as fast.

“I’m still not ready to be back in the dating scene.” This is the third time I’ve broken a proposed date with him. Something is holding me back, and I don’t know what it is.

“It’s me, Hannah. There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’ve been playing Words With Friends for an entire year. It’s not like I’m rushing things.”

“Dickle.” I shake my head every time I type this man’s name. I don’t laugh like Brielle does, but he will not tell me if Dickle is his real name or just a fun username. “I love our conversations, and I don’t want to ruin them.” That’s what this is. With Tinder or a blind date, I can run and hide. I don’t feel like I can do that with Dickle anymore.

“Well, maybe you should find someone else to play with,” he says.

No! Come on. Why can’t anyone be patient? What’s the rush? I don’t understand how it can it be so easy to lose good things in my life. Not that Rick was good, but I thought he was at one point. Whatever. Now, I have no Dickle to play with. Men are so hard to understand. He even told me that he appreciated our conversations mostly because they excluded the most private information in our lives, and that wouldn’t work if we knew each other in person. Doesn’t he realize that?

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I tell him before closing the app. I suspected this would happen eventually. Words With Friends never should have added a messaging portion to the game. It was nice not having to chat when attacking someone with a ninety-point word. Sadly, I’ve gotten good at the game since it’s my only real hobby outside of being a single mom.

I place my phone down, and the display doesn’t even have time to go dark before the stupid thing starts ringing. I look down at the caller ID and curse life. Why? What could it possibly be this time?

I click to accept the call from the school and bring my phone up to my ear. “This is Hannah Pierce.”

“Hi, Mrs. Pierce, this is Miss Ellen, the school nurse. I have Cora here with me.”

I used to have a five-second heart attack every time the school nurse called, but I’m pretty sure I’m on their speed dial now. “Hi, Miss Ellen, is Cora all right?”

“Oh yes, but she has a bit of a hangnail, and it started to bleed.” Cora, a hangnail? She has found more excuses to get out of school than I could have ever taken credit for at her age. She has the imagination and creativity of a mastermind.

“Can you put her on the phone, please?” I tell the nurse.

Brett, the vice president, my direct boss, picks this moment to walk into my office and takes a seat in front of my desk. Unfortunately, he’s heard more than his fair share of my conversations with the school nurse.

“Hi, Mom,” Cora says.

“Cora, sweetie, I need you to pull the hangnail off your finger, have Miss Ellen give you a Band-Aid, and go back to class. Please, Cora. I can’t leave work this morning. You don’t want Mommy to get in trouble, do you?”

“But, Mom, it hurts, and it’s bleeding a little. You know I hate blood. It makes me sick, and I might throw up. If I throw up, I’ll have to come home anyway. It’s the school rules.”

“Cora, okay, I understand. Can you put the nurse back on the phone?”

“Hello, Mrs. Pierce. How would you like me to handle this situation?”

“Could you please clip the hangnail and put a Band-Aid on her finger?”

“No problem, I just wanted to let you know we have her down here at the nurse’s office,” she responds.

I love how even though she calls me almost every day, it’s as if I didn’t speak to her just a day or so earlier. “These calls make me very nervous. Is there any chance we can save the hangnail calls for true concerns?” I’m probably out of line for asking, but it’s seriously at least three days a week, and it’s usually a mosquito bite, a splinter, a paper-cut, or a hangnail.

“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. It’s the school policy that we notify you when Cora comes down to the nurse’s office.”

“Ok, great. Talk to you tomorrow, then.” I hang up, frustrated as always.

Once I take a breath and unwind, I look up at Brett, whose eyebrows are hiked up an inch, and I’m wondering what he’ll have to say about this.

“Seriously, that nurse is out to get you,” Brett says with laughter.

“I’ve never heard of a school nurse who can’t just put a Band-Aid on a paper cut or a hangnail!” I’m sure I came home from school with an ice pack after I broke my arm on the playground, and my parents had no clue what was going on until I told them. Now, this is the norm?

“When Caty was around that age, we got the same thing. Every single day. It’s like once the kids figure out they can just leave class and take a little break for a bit, they’ll find anything on their body that needs a Band-Aid and milk it for all its worth.”

I close my eyes and shake the frustration away. “I should just switch the phone number on record to Rick’s number, but then I’d be afraid something would actually be wrong with her and … well, it’s Rick, so …”

“Yeah, you might feel better keeping that control. Plus, you’d start to miss those sweet little calls,” he says. I’m not sure about that, but I suppose he’s right. I cannot trust Rick with that crap.

“So, your new temp is starting today?” he says.

“Yes, he is.”

“Good, good. Hopefully, this one will be better than the last few.”

“I hope so too. I could use the extra hand to prepare for next week’s event.”

“Right, yes, for sure. It’ll probably be good to take the temp with you onsite too if he works out this week.” He smiles and takes a sip of coffee from his “World’s Best Dad” mug.

“I’m not getting my hopes up yet, but we’ll see.” Brett’s one of the only decent men in this office. He’s been a work and life mentor to me since I started ten years ago, except I seem to have fallen off the path he led me on somewhere along the way. He’s got this great marriage to an amazing woman, and three grown kids. I look up to him, hoping I’ll be in his shoes someday, but it seems like I may have to travel to the moon and back before I figure my life out like he has.

I answer a few more emails, and somehow, it’s already ten o’clock. “Hannah,” Brielle pops her head in through the door. “The temp is here. I’m going to go escort him or her up.”

“Thanks, Brielle.”

I have enough work for three temps, but I’ll take what I can get. Granted, this person will likely have no tech or marketing skills because the temp agency despises this company for a reason I’m still unsure of.

During the five minutes Brielle is gone, I manage to buzz through five more emails, all filled with rejections to proposed sales meetings. Why can’t these people try the shit sandwich technique at least? (A shit sandwich is simply the process of layering the negative babble with a compliment at the beginning and the end. Then it’s like nothing bad ever happened.) I swear, I’d respond quicker if they did it that way.

I hear the front door open and close, assuming Brielle is dragging along our newest employee for the week. We’ve gone through a half dozen temps and interns in the past month, so I don’t have much hope for this one. The last woman our agency sent in didn’t know how to “turn on” her email. I kind of just stared at her for a good five minutes before I walked out of her cubicle, but at least I kept myself from asking if she attempted any foreplay. I couldn’t understand why the temp/intern agency would think to send an admin with no technical skills. I did have a little chat with the agency after that, and they promised to send only competent people to me from now on, so I guess we’ll see.

Brielle knocks on my door before walking in, not that she typically does that, but I appreciate her setting a decent example for this person—err—man. I look up from my screen, finding Brielle in the shadow of the new temp. Like, he’s a man’s man. He’s got to be at least six-foot-two, a lot of muscle going on there, salt and pepper scruff, but dark hair that isn’t receding. He has crow’s feet, but he’s working them. He’s not a recent grad. No way. He’s dressed professionally, without fold creases on the sleeves that scream, “I just took this out of a plastic wrapper an hour ago,” and his pants are hemmed to fit perfectly. I’ve been sizing him up for like thirty awkward seconds now, and Brielle is clearing her throat. “Hannah, this is Logan, our new intern,” she says.

Intern? I stand up from my desk, and as I do, a button from my blouse catches on my keyboard drawer and pops off. Shit! I grab my shirt to hide the gaping hole as I reach out to shake Logan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan.”

“You, as well,” he says, politely. Okay then, that is one deep voice. It’s illegal to ask him how old he is, but interns are usually a little younger.

“You’re an intern?” I question.

“Well, if you ask the temp agency, I’m an intern because that’s what they were looking to place with you. In truth, though, I did go back to school for a bit a little over a year ago after I was relieved from my MLB contract because of an injury—and yeah, I don’t want to bore you with my history, but I am technically an intern. However, we can go with temp if it makes you more comfortable, though.”

Baseball player, tight pants, picturing him in them. I’m the boss, stop it. “Awesome, well it’s great to have you. Do you have a resume I can keep on file? The agency didn’t send me one.” Shocking, with how organized they are.

“Sure thing.” He opens his leather folder and pulls out a resume on actual resume paper, which I haven’t seen in about ten years. “I take it you’re proficient with email?” I ask for my personal, snarky reasons, but come on, who can’t open a freaking email in 2017?

He laughs because he thinks I’m funny. I am funny. “Of course. As you’ll see on my resume, I’m proficient with the Microsoft Suite, Adobe Creative Suite, and web development.” Can I just make him a full-time employee now? I’ve never had an intern or temp with these credentials before. For that little fact, I’ll let the agency off the hook for not sending his resume ahead of time. However, they could have sent me a headshot. That would have at least prepared me a little more for this interaction.

“Perfect! Brielle, will you get him set up in the cube outside of my office and have a tech team member come down and set up his email?”

“Of course,” she peeps. Brielle stands back, allowing Logan to pass by her, and she looks over at me with a look of shock.

“What the hell?” I mouth.

“I know, right?” she mouths back. That’s totally inappropriate of me, but he’s inappropriate for looking so good.

As he sits down at his desk, I realize I can see right into his cubicle from my open door. So, it looks like I’ll have to stare at him until the temp agency either steals him back or sells him to me.

I sit back down in my chair, glancing at my shirt bowed open in front of the roll on my stomach—the one I’ve tried so hard to get rid of with the four million crunches I’ve done this past year. I haven’t been able to get rid of the last of the roll, and now it’s taunting me.

Slouching into my chair, I grab the newbie’s resume and hold it in front of me. Major League Baseball player. No way, I’m not buying it.

Five years at Northeastern University, two years playing in the minors, and ten years in the major leagues for two different teams. Plus, his degree is in technology, which makes him a very smart baseball player with no marketing experience.

I stand up from my desk and paper clip the inside of my shirt together, so I’m not on the verging of being inappropriate. I love Mondays. I really, really do.

I make my way into Logan’s cube, finding him setting up his email without IT’s help. I guess it’s not a surprise since he’s tech-savvy, but it’s a good kind of reinforcement I need at the moment.

I rap my knuckles against the plastic lining of his cubicle, and he swings his desk chair around to face me. “How’s it going, boss?” he asks. That’s a lot of confidence right there for being in the office less than ten minutes.

I like it.

“Good, good. I have a few tests we require all interns and temps to take before starting any work. It’s to help us gauge what level of tasks you’ll be comfortable performing. Performing … dear God. Stop. It’s a combination of Word, Excel, PowerPoint, and some basic HTML. You mentioned you’re proficient with those programs, so I’m sure it will be a piece of cake for you.”

“Definitely. Is the test online? Do you have a link you want to send me?”

My head falls to the side. “Why are you starting out as a temp/intern, whatever?” He seems quite advanced to be claiming this junior title.

He smirks and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He’s way too hot to be working in this office with all these schmucks. Little pricks of pins and needles pinch my cheeks, and I can only hope I’m not blushing in his presence. He should stop smiling at me like that. “Well, the hiring agency had no permanent jobs available within a thirty-mile radius, but they had this intern position open, and it’s five minutes from where I live, so here we are.”

“But this isn’t a temp-to-perm position. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” I ask.

“Sure am, and I might just shock the pants off you and make you change your mind,” he says confidently, with a wink.

Holy, no. This man cannot say that stuff to me. That’s arrogant, and I don’t need to be thinking about him taking my pants off …

“We’ll see about that,” I regain my composure and say in my motherly tone that doesn’t belong in the office. I sometimes wonder who I’ve become. Then, I realize it’s obviously my mother showing through.

“I’m just kidding, but, hey, you never know. Someone might pick up and leave, and it could put you in the position to say, ‘Well, Logan does know his stuff, so why not?’ I’m a risk taker.”

That’s hot. No, it’s admirable in a professional way.

“I suppose you never know what might happen,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to stutter. I’m the boss. I need to act like it.

I tap the top of his cube and turn back to my office, forgetting what I even came to say.

“Oh, and yeah, send me that link when you have a second. The IT guy from upstairs already walked me through the setup, and my email is up and working. It’s [email protected]”

Yes, I work with all men for a magazine named House Moms Today—just like Cosmo, and just as I always dreamed.

“Great, I’ll send that right over.”