I made my way to work and pulled into a parking spot. Vivienne, my work BFF, was pulling in at the same time. After doing the mandatory makeup check in my visor mirror, I grabbed my bag and reached for the door handle, but Vivienne beat me to it. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, opening the door for me.

Even at this early hour, the heat of the day quickly stole into my air-conditioned car. That was what you got for living in California. July in Santa Lena was hot. All the time. We were close enough to Bakersfield to be sisters, but just a tad north.

“Lookin’ good, Harper. What’s shakin’?” she said as I shoved my legs over to step out of the car and slammed the door. I towered over Viv’s tiny frame. She was definitely not skinny, but I wouldn’t call her fat either. She was plain old voluptuous, even more gifted in the cleavage department than me. Her clothes were always daring and fun. Full of personality. Just like she was. Today’s blue-striped fitted blouse had one too many buttons undone as usual.

“Everything’s shakin’ today. How’s it going with you? Have a good weekend?” I asked as I hauled my workbag over my shoulder.

“Dean and I had a food producer banquet to go to. Boring as heck, so we ate too much, drank too much, and then ended up calling for a car on some driving app. OMG, our driver was smokin’ hot. What did you do?”

We got to the front doors of Brentford Organics and I opened the door for Vivienne. “Not much.” Which we both knew meant zippo as usual.

Vivienne strutted her fabulous self in front of me and into the foyer of the building, her curly blonde hair swaying behind her. I turned to my desk and sat down at the computer and pushed the on button while she walked into her office.

She was the sales rep for Brentford Organics, the produce/food distribution company we worked for. Dean Brentford’s office was beside hers. He was the owner. On the opposite side was the manager, Murray Lewis. Behind all this was the huge warehouse of organic fruits, veggies, and fine foods that farmers supplied us with—we in turn provided restaurants and grocery stores with their products. I loved my job as an admin assistant. My desk was front and center of the lobby. I met with clients when they first arrived, answered phones, emails, and caught whatever Dean, Murray, or Vivienne threw at me.

The office was decorated in various shades of dull. Dean’s a guy’s guy and his focus had always been on the business side of things. He couldn’t be bothered by redecorating an office he spent little time in. For now, the beige walls and practical white tile floors ruled the roost. I’d managed to sneak in an office plant or two on occasion without him noticing to give the place some color.

In walked Mr. Dean Brentford. Dean was a tall guy with a lean build. He looked like he was a runner or quarterback in a former life. His dark brown hair was cut short, but stylish. He generally dressed in nice jeans and a button-up shirt of some kind. You’d expect that the boss of a successful company would wear a suit and tie to work, but Dean liked to keep it real. He was out in the warehouse often throughout the day, and that got his big hands—yes, I looked. Damn Roza anyway—and his clothes messy.

“Morning, Harper. Morning, Vivienne. How are things today?” He adjusted his briefcase from one hand to the other.

“I’m on the Anderson account today, Dean. Headed out their way soon.” Vivienne straightened her back and stood taller. “Just have to go over a few things with you before I leave, if you have time?”

“Sure. Harper, hold any calls until we’re done, please.” They both walked toward his office, while Murray walked in, frazzled as usual. He was a middle-aged, African American man with a bit more of the middle-aged spread showing every day. He threw his bag onto my desk and shared his weekend.

“Do not have children. You know what happens when children go to kindergarten? They meet other children. Children with birthdays, thus birthday parties. I thought birthday parties were only for the kids, like a dump and run venture. But Audrey says,” he imitated his wife in a nasally voice, “‘no, Murray, we have to stay and chat with the other parents. Get to know them, so people will ask the twins on playdates and stuff.’” Murray ran his hand over his bald head as he recounted the weekend’s party horrors.

“I asked her why I needed to stay. Well, that just made it worse,” he said, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “So, I shut up and sat down.” Wise move, Murray. Happy wife, happy life. “Do you know how many birthday parties ‘we’ attended this weekend?”

I shook my head and shrugged. “Three, Harper. Three birthday parties,” he said and held up three fingers on his angry hand. “In one weekend. The first one was at that trampoline place on Baltimore Avenue. What a madhouse! Bloody noses, screaming and, my God, do you know what a code yellow is?” I could take a wild stab at that one. Poor Murray, he looked like his head was ready to explode.

“Sounds like you had an eventful weekend, but I’m sure you guys had some fun?” I forced a smile and tried my best to sound convincing.

He wasn’t biting. “Fun? Harper, bloody noses and code yellows are the opposite of fun. And the cake. God, there was cake and icing everywhere.” He teared up slightly and said in a quiet voice, “Listen to me, girl. Do not have kids.” He shook his head, still rubbing it. I wasn’t going to have kids, so his advice was unnecessary.

Don’t get me wrong. Children were great. Other people’s children. But when you’re a once divorced, barely getting by kind of woman, your view of the world changed.

On the back of his suit, I saw a blob of what looked suspiciously like blue Play-Doh. I opened my mouth to say something, but thought better of it. I’d tell him later, after he had coffee.

Once in his office doorway, Murray twisted back around and said, “Do you know how many kids are in their class, Harper?” he asked as he undid the buttons on his brown jacket. “Thirty. And they all have birthdays,” he said dryly. “Twenty-seven more parties to go.”

Again, I tried my hand at comforting him. “Well, more like twenty-six because the twins share a birthday.”

That did nothing to help. Instead, he shook his head and groaned, sulking away to find solace in his office, where bloody noses and code yellows didn’t exist.

The California sun blazed down my back as I locked the car and walked up to my nothing-special apartment building. Marching on the in-questionable-repair stairs to the second floor, I barely took two steps in and closed the door when I heard Roza behind me, knocking frantically. “Open up. Open up. I know you’re there.”

I did as ordered. “Hey, Roza, I just got home,” I told her as if she didn’t know. My feet thanked me as I peeled off my shoes.

“Eat, my darling. Sit down.” She pushed all the way in and handed me a bright yellow margarine container. Only I recognized that there was no edible oil product in that baby. It had to be soup. Roza took off down the hall like she was on fire, I assumed to use the facilities.

The container was almost melted, as were my hands. I strode in careful triumph to grab a spoon, then gingerly placed my treasure onto the counter. “Ow, ow, ow!” I whispered and waved my fingers around to cool them.

Carefully, I opened the lid and inhaled the spicy, steamy aroma. Ah, heaven. Without waiting, I dove in for my first taste and, son of a biscuit, it was hot. “Ouch!” My burnt tongue lamented for a quick moment before I continued to scoop up another mouthful. Mmm, divine. You did not waste time when awesome soup was at hand.

Never having been much of a cook, my culinary skills comprised of boiling pasta, opening cans, and thawing frozen dinners. So, homemade cooking was a special treat.

When I finally emerged from my soup coma, I realized that Roza still hadn’t come back yet. Uh-oh. Panic overtook me as I raced down the hall, spoon in hand.

The bathroom was dark, but oddly, the light was on in my bedroom. I peeked in and there was Roza with half the contents of my closet on the bed. Dark blue dress in one hand, hanger in the other, she seemed visibly frustrated. “This? Where you wear this? A funeral? I don’t think so.” She threw the dress onto the ever-growing disposal pile, and it commiserated with the rest of the other banished clothing.

“Uh, what’s your deal?” I questioned and remained frozen in shock in the doorway, more than a little freaked out. Had she ever been in my room before?

“You have nothing to wear to trap a man. All of this is,” she waved broadly with her arms to the reject pile, “sad. Sad clothes. You need sexy clothes to trap a man. Look at that body of yours and you hide under funeral clothes.” She shook her head and tsked at me. “Those legs. How many women I know would kill for your legs?” Even I had to admit my legs were awesome. But I didn’t think I owned “funeral” clothes, did I?

As I pondered this, Roza shuffled up and barked, “Move. This won’t do.” Afraid of getting hit with all the angry arm movements, I stepped out of her way. Bewildered, I stared at her as she stormed out in complete disgust of my gloomy threads. The door slammed behind her.

Okay then. Coming out of my stupor, I walked to my “sad clothes” and looked at them. Really looked at them. Was she right? Were my clothes depressed? I picked up my long blue skirt and rubbed the material carefully, trying to get a read on it. “Talk to me, skirt. Are you sad?” Hmm. No answer from the ankle length, sensible, polyester-blend maxi. Perhaps it wasn’t the sexiest thing around, but it was a dream to wash.

Less than a minute later, I heard, “Okay, okay, I’m coming. Don’t drag me.” In walked Roza pulling a scowling Riley. “Geez, where’s the fire?” She stopped, teetering on her gorgeous beige heels, and frowned at the growing mound on my bed. “Spring cleaning, honey?”

“Apparently, my clothes are unhappy.” I shrugged and nodded in Roza’s direction.

“Funeral clothes. All of them.” Then Roza chucked a few more items onto my bed. “She can’t catch a man wearing funeral clothes. You,” she poked Riley on the shoulder, “lend her something or go shopping,” she said with a wave toward the door. “Find sexy clothes. So big, strong man will look at our little Harper,” she bellowed and whirled around. Instinctively, I ducked, scared her arm might inadvertently hit me in her frenzy.

Riley sighed and walked toward the burgeoning pile where she picked a few items up, checked them over with a critical eye, and dropped them. Next, she swayed to my closet and scrutinized what remained.

By this point sweat trickled down my back as my anxiety took hold. Riley’s clothes were so high-class, I was mortified she was anywhere near mine.

Finally, after riffling through every dismal hanger, she turned, arms crossed, and said, “How about a trip to the mall after supper? I’d lend you something, but honey, let’s face it, you’re never gonna stuff your girls into any of my shirts.” We both gazed down at my chest. The woman spoke the truth.

“Yes, great idea. I already brought soup. Riley, eat.” Roza clapped her hands together, making us jump.

“Umm, I sort of ate it.” I smiled sheepishly. “Like all of it. It was fantastic—”

Roza stared at me, her chin gaping open in surprise. “I go get more soup. Nobody move.” She recovered quickly, shuffling out in a blur.

“I don’t think I’m ready to jump back into the dating world quite yet.” I peered up, afraid I offended Riley. The mall was near dead, which suited me just fine.

Strong but kind arms wrapped around me. “How about you try?” Riley’s voice was low and soothing. “Just this once, for Roza and me, and all the big-handed men you are so cruelly denying of your company. One time. See how it goes before you make up your mind.” She looked right in my eyes. “Give yourself a chance to have fun. Nobody said you have to get married tomorrow. But I’d love to have you as my wingman.”

All that sweetness got to me, and the last thing I wanted was to disappoint her, so I nodded my agreement. This earned me another squeeze, and we walked again.

“First stop.” She slammed to a halt in front of the lingerie store. Confused, I thought for a moment she was speaking a different language. A few patrons dodged us, giving us dirty looks.

“I’ve got plenty of under things. We can skip this.” I glanced at the fancy pink sign and kept walking.

Riley grabbed my arm. “Honey, we need to start from the ground up.” Her eyes moved from my feet upward. “It’s okay to remember you’re a woman. We live all day in a man’s world. Nothing wrong with wearing something feminine while we do it.” Gentle fingers brushed the hair away from my face. “You’re a gorgeous young woman. I think you just forgot for a while.” She tilted her head and smiled, but it was a resigned smile, not a happy one. “Well, I think a certain person helped you forget.” A single eyebrow raised as she put her hand on my shoulder and leaned in. “A man should make you feel more like a woman, not less. Never less,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “He’s not a real man if he makes you feel less like you. A man who loves you? He wants to hand you the world, not take it away.” Her eyes wandered wistfully off to the side for a moment. “He makes you appreciate yourself, makes you feel safe to be yourself.” I teared up. “That man did a real number on you, sweetie.” She sighed. “But you need to realize that you let him. Not all men are like that. Never settle for one who dims your light or tries to hide it. Find someone who lifts you up to shine brighter.” Tears shone in her eyes and I was close to losing it, too. Instead, I straightened up, wiped under my eyes to catch the escaping tears, and turned toward the lingerie store.

Then I decided to walk forward because no way was I ever going back.