Amanda
The hum of the office around me disappears as I notice the small clock at the bottom of my computer screen. How did I miss lunch again?
I shake my head and reach for my emergency stash, hidden at the back of my desk drawer. A protein bar isn’t exactly the lunch of champions—or the breakfast—but more often than not it’s what I end up eating. Maybe I should think of a better stash. Like those little tiny wine bottles. If I drank a white, I could pretend that it’s water.
Instead, I unscrew the cap from my real water bottle and take another bite of my protein bar.
“Oh my God,” Sally says as she slips into my cubicle. “Tell me that’s a midafternoon snack and not your lunch.”
“I would but...” The words come out scratchy from the dry oatmeal and peanut butter that’s currently working more as a glue to keep my lips stuck to my teeth. I wiggle my lips as I try to swallow.
“Seriously, I texted you about lunch.”
I down a gulp of water and pry my lips from my teeth. “I know. I saw it. But Cruella de Vil has been on the warpath today.”
We both turn as an interoffice communication pings from my computer and my manager’s name appears on the screen.
“See,” I say.
Sally laughs. “Have you thought about Friday night?”
“Are you serious? I didn’t have a chance to remember lunch; Friday night is too much for me to think about right now.”
She settles her behind against the edge of my desk. Crossing her arms over her chest, she lowers her voice. “I promise you’ll like him.”
“I’m not you.”
“That’s good. I’m seeing someone. I can’t go on a blind date.”
My nose scrunches. “Why do they call them that? Even the idea makes my skin crawl.”
Sally is my best-est and longest friend. We’ve been like two peas in a pod since we were young, since the time we both discovered that boys weren’t just smelly, cocky pests, but actually had appeal. A lot of appeal. We’ve seen each other through life’s ups and downs. It’s true that her life has had a few more ups, but no matter what, we’ve been there for one another.
“Oh, sweetie,” Sally goes on, “Brian’s friend Pep will NOT make your skin crawl. No...those goose bumps will all be from the heat.”
“Sally, seriously, I’m not ready.”
“You are. You need to be. It’s just a date.”
My bottom lip disappears between my teeth for only a moment. It's been a long time since I've thrown caution to the wind and let myself go. One night of abandoned, reckless fun. How difficult would that be to do? Would I even remember how?
“See,” she says with a knowing grin. “You're thinking about it. You're actually considering it.”
My computer pings and I turn back to the screen. It's another message from my manager, no doubt reminding me about something she’s reminded me about fifty times, or maybe it’s a new trivial task that she’s come up with for me. God knows messaging me to email someone takes her more time than if she’d actually write the damn email herself.
Shaking my head, I look back at my friend's big hazel eyes.
She bats her eyelashes and opens them wide as she tries one more time. “Okay, I wasn't going to tell you this, but even though he's new in town, gorgeous, funny, and sexy as hell, we’re worried.”
“You’re worried?”
“Well, Brian more than I. I’ve only met him once and he seems really nice. It’s just that Brian’s concerned that there could be something wrong with him.”
“Like what?” I ask.
Her head tilts to the side. “Come on, Amanda. You’d be helping the poor guy out, and I know how partial you are to helping the less fortunate.”
“I leave food out for the puppies and kitties. I volunteer at the homeless shelter at least once a month. I’m not in the habit of helping twenty- to thirty-something-year-old men.”
“Hey, those men need a little help sometimes too. I never thought you would discriminate. I mean, what if he was at the shelter?”
“He’s homeless?”
“No. But doesn’t everyone deserve a little help now and then?”
I take a deep breath, my attention torn between Sally and the persistent pinging of my computer messages. “All right, spill. What's wrong with him? Is he color-blind? Dyslexic? Does he have one testicle that’s smaller than the other?”
I cover my grin as my eyes open wide. Only with Sally would I say such a thing.
She leans closer. “Well, I'm not sure about his testicle. You see, Brian and I made this bet. Brian thinks that his old friend may have an issue with getting it up...too many PED's when he played for the Lightning.” She shrugs. “That’s what Brian thinks. Me, I think that he has a playboy rock-hard body with a soft heart and just hasn't found the right lady.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you want me, hardly playboy-girlfriend material, to settle your bet?”
“No,” Sally insists. “I want you to be that right lady. And,” she adds with a grin, “Brian wants to know if he can get it up.”
I shake my head. “That sounds like too much work. Besides, I'm taken. I have the handsomest man in my life. As a matter of fact, he slept in my bed last night.”
“Jase doesn't count.”
“What do you mean?” I mock shock. “He most certainly can count. He has since he was three. He also knows his ABC’s. Actually, he's a genius and you, Aunt Sally, should know that. He can even write his name, first and last.”
“Honey, you're a great mom. But it's not fair to you—or to Jase—to live like a monk. It's time to see what the world has to offer.”
Again, my computer pings.
“Ugh. I don’t think monks have a million messages backing up. Besides, don’t they take a vow of silence or something?”
“Then a nun,” Sally replies. “That’s it. You’re right. You make a better nun. Celibate and wine drinking.”
“Hey!” I reach up to my long brown hair, currently pulled to the side in a low ponytail resting on my shoulder. “I could never wear a habit. Can you imagine how flat that would make my hair?”
Sally laughs. “Speaking of habits. Try giving up that celibate thing and I know a habit you'll enjoy again.”
I purse my lips. “I don't know. My parents are always willing to watch Jase, but he goes to bed at eight-thirty. I'm sure Mr. Sexy-ex-hockey-player slash rock-hard-playboy isn't interested in a date that turns into a pumpkin at eight o'clock, even if he does have erection issues.”
“I bet if you ask nicely, your parents will keep Jase overnight. As a matter of fact, I know they will.”
“You know?” I ask suspiciously as my stomach twists.
I'm not ready for this. I should be. Jason just turned five years old and it's been nearly five years since I last saw his father. The memories incite the same emotions they always do. I see his blue eyes, the same ones I see daily in our son. I remember his parting words, telling me he'd return safe and sound. I remember the touch of his lips on mine just before he pulled away from me and headed toward his unit. And then I remember the terrible knock on the door. I knew what had happened before I opened it. No military wife wants to see a man in uniform at her front door who isn't her husband.
The following few weeks are still a blur. I can't remember how I functioned, if I ate, or if I even took care of Jase. He was so young. I tried. Thank God for my parents.
Somehow we survived. Somehow time has moved on.
In a few days, Jason will begin kindergarten as a relatively well-adjusted little man. I couldn't be prouder of him, and I know Jackson would be too. That's why I let Jase consume my life: he deserves more than what I can give. He deserves two parents. Thanks to a roadside IED, it's up to me to be both.
Yet there are times that I wonder what it would be like to be a twenty-five-year-old woman, instead of the responsible mother, if only for one night.
Ping!
“Shit, Sally, I need to get on whatever Ms. de Vil wants. If I don't, I won't hear the end of it.”
“You didn’t even take lunch. You deserve a few minutes.”
We both know that won’t happen as long as the puppy killer is on a rampage.
“Okay, fine.” My friend brushes my shoulder. “Call your mom and ask her to watch Jase on Friday night, or I will.”
I shake my head. “Sometimes you're a real bitch.” My accusation is quiet and accompanied by a big smile.
Sally lifts her chin as her grin grows. “That's why you love me. Don't make me call your mother, because I will. We both agree you deserve a life beyond Jase.”
“Are you seriously ganging up on me?”
She doesn't answer.
Before she walks away, I ask, “You mean this Friday night?”
“Yes, just the four of us.”
It's only Tuesday. “Give me a day to think about it.”
“I'll give you until five o’clock; Brian needs to talk to Pep.”
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as my attention is quickly diverted to the list of things my manager needs done ASAP. Number one: water her plants.
Are you shitting me?
I put myself through college to get a degree in financial planning to water plants?
“Careful,” Sally whispers. “You don't want anyone to think you're using my endearment on someone else.”
My face snaps upward as I stand and peer about the room of cubicles. Thankfully, no one is looking my way.
“Go. Get out of here. I have work to do. God knows that if I don't, puppies may die.”
“Save the puppies and the sexy men,” Sally says as she walks away.
My boss's name isn't really de Vil. It's DeVoe.
One evening, not long after I got my job, Sally came over to my apartment. Jase loves her and so do I. She was the one who recommended me for my job. The title, administrative financial assistant, was everything I wanted.
Sometimes ideals and reality don’t match.
With Jase in bed, Sally and I talked about work over a bottle—or two—of wine. It was purely a slip of the tongue. I could probably blame it on Jase's obsession with Disney. Nevertheless, instead of DeVoe, de Vil came out—as in Cruella de Vil. Ever since, whenever I'm upset, I imagine Glenn Close and the animated character, and it makes me smile, well, other than the twinge over the puppy coat. That's easier to imagine in cartoon form.
“Amanda.”
My neck straightens as my name, accompanied by the click of Christine DeVoe's heels, reaches my ears.
“Amanda, have you received my messages?”
“I have,” all five hundred of them. I don’t say the last part. “I've contacted the purchasing department and Jim is supposed to get back to me. I was waiting until I had an answer. I’ve sent the emails about the withholdings—”
She nods as her lips come together. As if she were expecting it to be my first priority, she asks, “And what about my plants?”
“They're on my list.” Along with fifty other more important things. I don't say that part either.
“Don't forget. Phil is looking a little limp.”
It takes all of my self-restraint not to burst out laughing. Phil is a large philodendron in her office. However, after the conversation with Sally, a limp Phil has taken on a whole new meaning. “Let me get right on that. The spread sheet for Mr. Smithson can wait.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs in agreement as she walks away because heaven knows that her plants are more important than the new distribution costs.
Bitch!
I smile as I walk toward her office to get the watering can. This time that title wasn't meant as a term of endearment. That plus the extra toothy smile on Cruella in my imagination adds to keeping my sanity.
A few minutes later back at my desk, my phone rings.
“Hello,” I say. “Amanda with Stevens Financial Planning.”
“Mrs. Harrison?”
My heart rate triples as I suck in a breath.
When Jackson and I were first married, there was a mix-up with my name change. Someone at some government office checked the wrong box. Though I went by Harrison for two years, it wasn’t legal. It was the first year we filed taxes that we discovered the discrepancy. Though I was Harrison in my heart, on paper I wasn’t.
At first we laughed about it, saying we knew we were married—that was never questioned—and other than on legal documents, it didn’t matter. Like many other plans we had for the future, we thought we would have time to get it all straightened out. With the military, nothing is easy. Jackson went away on deployment sooner than we planned. We figured it could wait. And then, after his death, my life and Jase’s were too mixed up. My legal name paled by comparison to other worries on my list of concerns.
Of course, Jase was born with his father’s last name. Therefore, though my name was never legally Harrison, I'm only called Mrs. Harrison when it has to do with Jase or Jackson.
“Mrs. Harrison?” the woman says again.
“Yes?”
“Ma'am, it’s Trisha from ABC Preschool. I’m sorry to bother you, but this is about your son Jason. There was an altercation...”