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Gerry blew out his breath into the speaker. “I need more than just a bit of arm candy. I need someone who’ll pay me a bit of attention, and not just when she needs a refill of her wine glass. I need someone I can talk to when that’s what I need, not when you have a moment between files and clients. Cara, I needed you to be focused on me every once in a while, but you kept shoving me aside for work. I wasn’t important to you. Not at all.”
“That’s not true.” Because it wasn’t. I did need him. That’s why he was the one I was calling now.
“I moved a few of my things from your apartment back to mine last week. Did you even notice?”
Wracking my brain, I came up empty. Everything seemed to be the same, and nothing was misplaced or moved or randomly set someplace to be noticed. “Of course, I did.”
“Tell me one thing that’s missing.”
Closing my eyes, I mentally swept my bedroom, the office, the bathroom, the living room, and all throughout the kitchen, trying to recall or visualize something out of place. Sadly, all I saw was the breakfast layout.
“You can’t remember because it wasn’t important enough to you because it wasn’t work-related. I wasn’t important to you for the very same reason.” His voice hitched. Good grief, was he crying?
“Oh, Gerry.” My tone tightened and a surge of anger flared. How could he do this to me? Today. Right now. Five minutes after being canned?
“Goodbye, Cara. Please don’t call me again.” With that, the call ended.
What in the world? Two phone calls in a moment of minutes, and I wasn’t allowed to debate the issue, or give a defense statement? Amanda would lose her mind.
I smacked the steering wheel, screamed as loud as I could, and for as long as my breath held out, and fell like a weighted blanket back into the contours of my seat, staring out at the world around me.
The first snowflakes fell and melted on the windshield, turning into tiny pools of water.
What was I going to do with my life now?
After two years with Baker-Bloom, in a single whoosh, I was jobless. Because why? Because I wasn’t a team player? Did everyone have to be a team player like the brown-nosing Jacob? I worked better alone, because I understood what the expectations were, and I didn’t have to wait for some slacker to get his or her butt in gear and get the job done. Doing the job right the first time was a quality I rose to exceed, and I expected it as much from my colleagues. Too often, they disappointed me, running home to be with their significant others or to play with their children, which was all fine and dandy, but maybe they should’ve worked smarter and harder while at the office.
Well, screw Tory and his team.
I faded into my memories of successful projects, and of the launch parties of our clients, although a waste of time. One could be back home or in the office working on another project. Maybe that’s why Tory let me go. It wasn’t the work; it was the partying after I hated. The dressing up, the mingling with clients, and putting on a brave smile when I felt smothered in the crowds and couldn’t breathe. That was it. It had to be.
I shook my head and repositioned myself in the seat. Time to leave the parking lot, but before I left it in the dust, I spied a post office and threw a quick glance at the portfolio on the passenger seat. First, I needed to overnight all the paperwork and files to Tory, no sense holding onto those.
Once the package was sent, I sat back in my car as the snow fell in larger flakes. Putting the car in drive, I exited the parking lot and made a right turn, just driving. I had no rhyme or reason and put the retro playlist I’d discovered on Spotify. Sonic Youth came on first, and I cranked the volume until I couldn’t hear the thoughts in my head.
As I drove out of town and hit the highway in excess of the speed limit, I let the music wrap around me and carry me away. It carried me quite the distance and after an hour of heading toward the towering mountains, I stumbled into another town, but this was far different than where I was from. This had old-world charm with quaint brick buildings from a hundred years ago, to rustic signs hanging above the storefronts. People scurried across the street, staring at me as I silently drove through.
I didn’t drive into a big city; I drove into a Hallmark movie.
Finding an open parallel spot, I parked the car and grabbed my fur-lined leather mitts and my Dior handbag. I zipped up my leather jacket and adjusted my silky scarf, gazing around at the flannel-crusted folk walking on the other side of the street.
Wherever I was, this was exactly what Grant Michelson was looking for. They canned me too soon because now I wasn’t going to mention to anyone about this area; their loss. I hadn’t looked on the map, and at the moment, didn’t care. I wanted to see this town, this strip of movie magic, in the real.
Locking the car, I pocketed the keys and started meandering, pausing every once in a while under an overhanging to see and feel the strip in its full glory; with the snowflakes falling, the all-encompassing dampened silence, and the smell of freshness. The occasional car drove by, sloshing through the muddy pools of water, and I instinctively stepped further back lest I get sprayed.
I continued walking, taking it all in, full disbelief of what my senses were picking up. Surely this had to be a dream. The whole afternoon was. It had to be. If I blinked three times quick, I’d find I’d be back in my office lifting my head off the desk from a quick ten-minute snooze I needed because I’d been up until three in the morning working on a project.
One. Two. Three.
I opened my eyes, and everything was still the same. Doggone it. However, my gaze focused on a quaint shop – the Coffee Loft – and suddenly I was desperate for a steaming cup of something warm and comforting, plus a much-needed bathroom break. Looking both ways down the empty street, I crossed and made my way up the seven concrete steps leading into the brick building.
I had expected to hear bells ringing overhead as I opened the door, but there was no such thing. Not sure why I was so relieved, maybe it was the intoxicating aroma of freshly ground beans hanging in the air mixing with a healthy dose of cinnamon and baked bread zapping the waning disappointment. What was this place?
I shook my shoulders, dusted off the accumulated snow, and stomped my feet before walking over to the display case and drooling over the donuts. And all the pastries. And, oh my, they had trays of baked goods as well.
“Can I help you?” A young man asked.
“Just a minute, please.” I threw a quick glance to the overhead board listing all the beverages. “They all sound amazing.”
