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I wonder again what a life with him would be like but resign myself to believing that it is only a daydream and nothing more.
“You can go now, Joyce,” he says, sitting on the couch, Anna still in his arms.
I’m not used to confrontation. Maybe he forgot that I wanted to talk to him, but I’m not about to let him ignore me.
“I said I need to talk to you, Mr. Bardin, remember?” I say, in a light-hearted tone, but dead serious inside.
“Can we do so now?” I continue.
When he looks at me, it makes me feel frail and weak. “Of course,” he finally says, emotionless, putting Anna down on the cushion by his side. “I’ll be right back, baby. Go brush your teeth, okay?”
She nods and heads to her bathroom.
Without a word, he just turns and starts to walk away. I follow and we end up in his downstairs office.
I know the house well enough, but I’ve never been in this room. It has floor to ceiling windows, although the blinds are usually shut.
It’s airy, bright and clean, has the motherload of all computer setups with three monitors, a huge desk, wall to wall cabinets filled with office supplies, a small couch and a chair that must have cost more than my car.
Mr. Bardin sits at the computer chair and points me to the couch. “What is it that you want Joyce?” he says with his usual impatience.
“Um,” I stir in place, stalling as I figure out how to begin, “I was supposed to be in class right now, Mr. Bardin.”
He furrows his brows, looking confused, “Even more of a reason to make this quick then,” he says nonchalantly.
I let out a small growl while shaking my head with frustration, the bun in my hair coming slightly undone as I do so.
“You don’t understand, Mr. Bardin. This is exactly the reason I’m here talking to you. You’ve been working nights so often that I’m missing my classes and that… That…”
“That can’t happen?” he completes my sentence.
I lower my head and sigh, and when I look up again, his tough façade has turned into a tired, flustered stance.
“I’m sorry, Joyce,” he sounds truly genuine and heartfelt now. “So many new things are happening at the office, and I’m stretched thin lately.”
“I understand, Mr. Bardin, but I must insist—” I feel a catch in my throat.
“Of course, you’re completely right,” he says, resigned. “When do you have your classes? Monday and?”
“Wednesday and Friday,” I say, holding back the need to cry — at first I wanted to cry because I felt like he was being a jerk, but now I want to because he’s being so nice about everything.
“Okay, I’ll delegate things at work a little better, and I’ll let you leave earlier on those days,” he says. “I’m really sorry, I… I completely forgot about your classes.”
I giggle nervously, tearing up. Wiping my eyes on my sleeves, I stand and say, “Not a problem, Mr. Bardin.”
“Why are you crying?” He is looking worried and suddenly he stands and walks over to me.
Please don’t hug me, please don’t hug me, please don’t hug me…
And he does. Tight and comforting, bringing me close to his chest, firm but gentle.
My knees go soft, and I can smell his cologne and feel his warmth. In this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
I begin to sob, and holding me even closer, he repeats, “Why are you crying?”
It takes me a while to find my voice, and when I do, I sound like I have marbles in my mouth, “Because I’m silly!”
He snickers, pulling away from me and lifting my face by my chin. “I don’t like it when you laugh for no reason, but I also hate seeing you cry.”
