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NATALIE
It’s been four days since my encounter with Tucker. Four days! I’ve told myself over and over again I should get over it and move on, but his words just keep running through the back of my mind.
It doesn’t matter where I am, the grocery store, the library, or at home, all I hear is I want you, in his deep, raspy voice. It gives me shivers every time, which is not something that should happen when you’re trying to pick out chicken breasts at the meat counter.
The girls have repeatedly asked me if I’ve heard from him, and when I tell them no, they suggest I reach out to him. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or a bad idea. I mean, for the longest time, we barely interacted, and now I’m supposed to have a conversation about us dating. I’m not sure what the best choice is and it’s annoying.
In most cases, I’m a take-charge kind of girl. I don’t pussyfoot around, waiting for someone else to tell me what to do. I just do it and I do it well. It’s why I love my job. Plus, being around books every day is a serious perk.
This whole situation with Tucker has made me into someone I’m not. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t just make a decision and follow through with it. It’s what I would do in any other circumstance, make my choice and stick with it.
I guess I should be honest with myself and recognize that by being the one who reaches out to Tucker, I will finally have a solid answer to the fantasy I’ve carried with me forever. Is taking a chance on making my fantasy come true worth the potential of ruining the fantasy all together? Again, I’m not sure.
The sound of little giggles filters through my open office door, providing a much-needed distraction from my thoughts. I get up from behind my desk and peek into our story hour. Watching the wonder on those little faces never gets old.
Our children’s corner has sunshine yellow walls, rugs covered in cartoon characters, and miniature-sized tables.
Today, our volunteer, Sandy, is reading a book about dinosaurs wearing underpants. The kids sit in a semicircle two rows deep, raptly watching as the dinosaurs go on an adventure.
Every time I get to join a story hour, I’m reminded to find joy in even the smallest of things. It also gives me a little boost of happiness, and who doesn’t need that on a weekly basis?
Emily gestures to get my attention, so I quietly remove myself from the group and meet her back at my office. “What’s going on?” I ask, leading her into the room.
“Good and bad news. We’re up to a seventy percent return on RSVPs, and we haven’t even done a social media blast. Bad news, our normal rental supply company for decorations is going out of business and no longer has the majority of their stock.”
“You’re joking.”
Emily shakes her head.
This is definitely bad news. We’re only five weeks out, and we no longer have decorations. I blow out a deep breath while profanities streak through my head.
I try not to let my bad girl show at work, even though Emily is aware my mouth isn’t always clean. I never know who may hear me outside my office, so I do my best to keep it professional.
“I’ve got a list of potential new rental companies, but some of them are quite a distance from here,” Emily says, handing over a pink sticky note.
“God, I love you. Okay, we’ll be fine. We may need to adjust our budget, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Definitely. We could always look into buying some of the old rental company’s neutral-toned stock. That way we’d only have to pay for some of the decorations each year.”
“Brilliant!” I say, pointing at her. “Will you look into that for me while I find us a new supplier?”
“On it!” she says, getting up to leave my office. This throws a major wrench in our plan, but it’s nothing we haven’t had to deal with before.
As the hours pass and my eyes start to blur from staring at my computer screen for so long, I hear my phone ringing far off in the distance.
The muffled sound can only mean it’s stuffed into a pocket of my purse which has been jammed into a drawer of my desk.
I quickly locate it and answer just before it kicks over to voicemail.
“Hi, Spark,” Mom says, using the nickname I’ve had since I was little. “How are you doing? You’re not still at work, are you?”
“I am, although I didn’t realize what time it was until you called.”
“Well, this is me telling you to get your ass to my house. I’m making mojitos.”
“Done!” I say, fist-pumping the air.
My mom’s mojitos are legendary. They’re one of the few things that will make me drop whatever I’m doing to ensure I get one.
