Fria - Awakening

By Taylor Bideau

Living in New York City can be tough.

Between the many demands of the big city and trying to survive its daily hustle and bustle, Fria, a young adult doing her best to make sense of her life, knows that challenges exist around every corner. Love is hard to find, the commute is stressful, she is constantly broke, and her boss is a spawn of hell. Life, she’s come to realize, is just downright unfair.

An orphan at fifteen, Fria never really knew her father. The loss of her mother will always have a profound effect on her life. Thanks to her ability to see dead people, Fria knows that a normal life is a fairytale. Somewhat resigned to her fate, Fria trudges through everyday hardships, convinced that she is cursed by a strain of unnatural bad luck.

But when a handsome young stranger enters her life, he brings with him even more mystery and intrigue. Fria has a special attraction to this man that she can’t seem to shake and quickly finds herself caught up in this stranger’s story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483421377

Book preview

Fria

Awakening

A NOVEL

TAYLOR BIDEAU

Copyright © 2015 Taylor Bideau.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2138-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2137-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014920130

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Book cover by Jonathan Clement.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 02/09/2015

Contents

Ivy and David

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Ivy and David

I vy lay awake in bed, staring at her ceiling. It had been another sleepless night.

The sun was just beginning to rise, and with the predawn colors already filling her room, Ivy couldn’t help but scowl. She hated the whitewashed walls almost as much as she despised life in suburbia. So, with a brand-new day dawning, a restless spirit plotted within her.

What color could I possibly paint this room?

Ivy was sure that if the walls could talk, at the top of their list would be a dialogue on how to create a cozy feeling for a bedroom in which every single piece of furniture featured sharp edges. But how would she go about accomplishing such an endeavor? Well, start with a superior earth tone, of course. That’s much more effective than adding a lot more furniture with curvature, Ivy thought. She could work with uniquely bold colors that are practical enough and with just a pinch of warmth. Perhaps even an accent wall could be added as well—one with fine-tuned texture and striking, fiery-red contours.

After all, one can never go wrong with such zeal. The color of passion goes with anything! Maybe even settling on a stimulating shade of salmon wouldn’t be a bad idea.

At that, Ivy began to ponder at which point her life had become so mundane that she would ever consider the color salmon as anything but dull.

Really, could things get any worse?

Certainly any alteration would be unlikely to provoke a reaction from David. Ivy had her doubts that he would even notice a change, much less give a damn about a single iota concerning the household. She could cover the walls with human excrement, and David, in his forever-lethargic state, wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just didn’t care. Neither did Ivy, really. But if she didn’t show the slightest bit of interest in their daily lives, the effort behind the marriage would have been in vain. And if there was one thing Ivy could stand even less than life in the suburbs, it was waste.

And who would have guessed that living in Africa could get to be so ordinary? Africa, whose beauty and majesty rests within the abundance of its natural resources—why did she think that, under such circumstances, even there, would make any difference?

Ivy had traveled the world her entire life, but twelve years ago, the time had come to settle down—finally. It was a year before the new millennium, and years upon years of traversing the same old, remote stomping grounds—only to discover that those places had not been as inaccessible and eccentric as in years past—had killed her wanderlust.

For just a minute, she wanted to stand still—to be linear and not to need to think about who or where she would be from one day to the next. What better way to accomplish such an extraordinary feat than to try something totally new? Ivy craved a challenge—an adventure of a different sort. So, at what must have been a dreadfully low point in her existence, she sought assistance from the only accomplice who remained in her life. And after an evening of heavy brainstorming while trekking across the frozen tundra of Antarctica’s icy coast, an idea became clear to her.

Fast-forward twelve miserable years, and Ivy found herself still trapped within the same form, shackled to a monogamous indenture that included a luxurious, contemporary-style, hilltop mansion—very artfully acquired—in a wealthy township of northern Johannesburg, South Africa. Where, oh where, did I go so wrong?

Maybe another project would be just what the doctor ordered. There was nothing like working with a clean slate to get the juices flowing again, and this was the only room left untouched in the house.

Ivy knew exactly why. There was no skirting around the reasons for leaving this room the same way she’d happened to come upon it. In a perfect world, this never would have been the life she envisioned for herself. And since this room signified the start and finish to every one of her days as an outsider forever condemned to looking in, the white walls would always stand as a reminder of something more.

That day, however, it would all change. Ivy was reluctant to admit this truth to herself, but it would be the day she finally surrendered to her fate.

Ivy never was one to dwell on the past, yet she found herself reminiscing, remembering a time when the perfect canvas lay within her grasp. A great opportunity! A fantastic enterprise! But it had been forever lost to the sands of time.

Best not to think of those days. There wouldn’t be any point.

Ivy never stressed over things that were beyond her control.

But what if everything had worked out in her favor? What would her world be like? One thing was for sure: she definitely wouldn’t be stuck in that shell of a role, playing the nauseatingly normal housewife, Ivy.

And what about David? Would it have been different for him as well? There was a point when just a single thought from him would have flooded an entire landscape. He was never idealistic, just an unflinching, destructive force. Ivy had always admired that quality in him. Unfortunately, that part of him was gone. Forever diminished. All that remained was a broken old soul who had been simply David the past twelve years. But the one thing Ivy could not figure out was why he had to take the role of the lame-ass husband so damn seriously.

Oh yeah, that’s right—because that involves the least amount of effort from him.

David wouldn’t have agreed to anything more.

Each day he got out of bed, only to go about his business as a dejected, mindless sap. Whether it was to journey down to the coast or just to wade idly barefoot through any standing body of water, there wasn’t a thing David did that involved Ivy anymore. Not even the sex, which, at the beginning, had been an uneventful and inept ritual they had executed twice a week, at most. It soon turned into an even more occasional and tedious effort in which David rarely finished. Stamina wasn’t his problem. It was his utter lack of interest in existing. And it wasn’t like their lives had any distractions or complications to make things more interesting. Neither had children—or even a pet. Procreation was laughable, and the phrase man’s best friend didn’t mean a damn thing to either one of them.

So this was life, and what would a new day bring? Friday.

Maybe after choosing a design scheme, Ivy could do something really exciting, like travel down to the coast herself for some kayaking around the shores of Dyer Island. She never really cared for water (that had always been David’s area of expertise). But since there wasn’t an active volcano within walking distance for her to take a dive into, Ivy was hoping that she would be in the water during the height of a feeding frenzy. And if the cosmos was still on her side, the craft would be mistaken for lunch by a giant great white.

Oh, the possibilities!

Ivy got a tingly sensation just from the prospects of being shark bait.

5:37 a.m.

David would be up very soon; like clockwork, he staggered out of bed at six every morning. Whatever day it was didn’t matter; he got up not a minute sooner or later, but six on the dot. Ivy wasn’t even allowed to talk to him between the hours of midnight and six in the morning: David’s unyielding, do-not-annoy time of quiet contemplation. He never wanted to be disturbed; this was a nonnegotiable stipulation of their union. The last time Ivy had broken that rule, David had threatened her with divorce, vowing that he would return to the icepack. That was eight years ago, when a set of daring burglars had broken into the house, practically clearing out the downstairs (and even some of the upstairs guest rooms) of everything that could be carted away by hand.

Ivy had her own provisions for the arrangement of their lives, but David’s were ridiculous to her—especially that morning, now that something was different. A dormant feeling had begun to stir. It was so distant that it took all of her concentration just to focus on it. Ivy hadn’t experienced that sensation in what felt like an eternity, and she wondered if David picked up on it as well.

The feeling had started in her gut as a tiny flicker that had lingered there since early the morning before. Ivy hadn’t thought to talk to David about it then, but she was growing concerned. A sudden jolt had just emanated from that same spot deep within her. It wasn’t strong, but it was something, something that should have been dead and buried long ago. Uncertainty plagued her, and the question What the hell is going on? kept rolling around in her head. Finally, after working up the nerve, she called out, David!

Nothing. And it was not like he was sleeping. She knew he was awake.

Do you feel anything? she asked, even more determined to get an answer from him.

What time is it? he answered, even though the illuminated digits on the clock clearly displayed the time.

"Would you please forget about the stupid rules for just this one time, and tell me if you feel anything." It didn’t take much for Ivy’s frustration to reach its peak, especially where David was concerned.

Feel what? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep over here?

Oh, give me a break! You haven’t slept in twelve years, and you’re not going to start now!

You know that interrupting my hours of rest is where I draw the line, Ivy, David warned.

Ivy pushed some more. Just tell me if you feel anything?

Silence.

David?

What?

Do you feel something? Anything at all?

Again, silence, but Ivy knew when David was giving something careful thought. She granted him the time he needed until finally she heard him say, It’s probably just gas. Try to get some sleep.

Ivy dropped the issue. She knew David well enough to know that it wasn’t a good time to press him. The sloth that was her reluctant partner would never allow him to give in at that hour.

Half a day later, while pouring over color samples, Ivy was trying to decipher which variation of crimson best suited a darker shade of charcoal when that same sensation in her gut increased tenfold. Within a blink of an eye, a very bewildered David appeared before her. Ivy wasn’t surprised to see that he had rushed home from whatever counterproductive nonsense he’d been engaged in for the greater part of the day.

With eyes as black as the dead of night, he stood before her with a questioning look. Despite his confusion, that mighty force within him had returned. Ivy couldn’t help but feel content in knowing that after all this time, they both shared something again, for this would be the day the world saw their awakening.

Monday

"T his is Fria Wilson, assistant to that cruel and egotistical bastard, Mr. Man-Whore Harrison. I’m not at my desk … and neither is the prick . But if you have the gall to leave your name and number in the hopes of being contacted, please have your head examined, immediately. Believing that your concerns will be taken seriously in any way will only earn you a spot on the jackass-for-the-day list. Instead, know that any and all messages will be totally ignored. And if for some reason your message is not deleted, it was nothing less than divine intervention, in which case, we’ll have no choice but to return your call—at our earliest convenience, of course. But if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath."

I placed the phone back down on its receiver, wondering if my loathing for Monday mornings (and for my job in general) was in any way reflected in my greeting. Surely, one in the legion of uptight and decaying clientele would call in and, if he or she got the hint, would feel personally offended by my having to serve them.

It’s not like I hadn’t been reprimanded for offenses of that sort. I’d been put on notice for far less: petty, little, inconspicuous faults that shouldn’t have even been an afterthought. But since many of those incidents involved our mostly impatient and spiteful clientele, the result was always a manager’s note in my personnel file.

At first, foolish inexperienced me thought, What can one minor note do to me? Little did I know that those notes come in handy when considering someone’s pay. They are ammunition to throw in a person’s face when you don’t want to compensate her properly for the work she does. And for the more truly concerned and supposed loyal patrons of the old fart, Mr. Harrison, the ultimate duty was to throw the biggest fuss over the tiniest infraction. I guess it all works out perfectly in the end, ensuring that the small fish continue to earn shit wages, if you know what I mean.

Greetings are to be welcoming and courteous. You are never to be curt whether directly or indirectly with our clients. We are nothing without our wonderful and generous clientele.

After that and many other tongue-lashings involving my impetuous behavior with our so-called wonderful clientele, I wondered just how generous some of those people were, since I’d only received a .0025 percent cost-of-living increase in my salary, along with a ten-dollar gift card from Dunkin’ Donuts as a year-end bonus.

Generous?

That word has no meaning to the overworked and underpaid staffers here at the firm. A very poor choice of words for a company that treats its clerical staff like second-class citizens and takes pride in paying us just a pinch above minimum wage. But the paycheck—no matter how skimpy it may be—pays the bills. And I need that money more than anything else in this world.

Defeated, I picked up the phone, cursing myself for not having the guts to leave my personal mark on a stupid ritual that I had to do every morning. I first wiped clean my thoughts and then the recording. Starting again, I garnered the strength for a strained but upbeat tempo and pressed record.

Good day! Today is Monday, February fourteenth, and you’ve reached the desk of Fria Wilson, administrative assistant to Donovan Harrison of Hartman, Harrison, and Associates. As we’re unable to take your call, please leave your name, phone number, and your message, and we will be sure to return your call right away. Thank you!

At least I had all morning to catch up on my work. Mr. Harrison was fortunate to be totally immune to the hustles of a miserable Monday morning. Mr. Hartman and the other nine associates graced us with their presence on a structured work schedule. Mr. Harrison’s was more varied.

He left a message to let me know that he would be working from home in the morning and probably would be in sometime in the afternoon.

Off the record, he was more likely at his mistress’ apartment for an early morning session. A young, blonde and blue-eyed bimbo that had started working at the firm a couple of months before and had caught Mr. Harrison’s eye.

The other, more experienced, women at the office tried to drop Blondey very subtle hints about the womanizing Mr. Harrison, but the poor thing never understood why everyone turned a cold shoulder to her each time she came into the break room swooning over a shiny new piece of—of all things—costume jewelry.

We all realized that she would not be coming back to work the day she walked in sporting a gold bracelet with diamond studs fashioned into mini hearts. That was about two weeks ago. And even though Blondey never has to work another day in her young, perky life (or until Mr. Harrison finds another love interest), I pitied the misinformed wannabe Mrs. Harrison. I as well as everyone else (including the current Mrs. Donovan Harrison) knew that the Blonde Bimbo would never step foot inside his lavish five-bedroom-with-three-and-half-baths country house situated on a half-acre corner lot out in Suffolk County, Long Island. Mr. Harrison would never leave his marriage of more than twenty-five years, and Mrs. Harrison would never give up her posh lifestyle with unlimited country club membership for an overzealous booty call. But that was just talk for the office rumor mill, and I had the daunting task of reconciling Mr. Harrison’s expense account for last week’s charges.

Too bad Blondey didn’t have access to his account. At least then she would have known that Mr. Harrison had already found another love interest. There was a receipt for a dozen long-stem red roses that were not delivered to her address in Maspeth, Queens. Instead, these flowers were sent to an unfamiliar address in Westchester that I was sure would become more familiar in the coming weeks.

I wondered if Blondey had enough work experience to get a job elsewhere. She definitely wouldn’t be coming back to work, especially if Mr. Harrison stuck to his track record of getting what he wanted from his designated whores, then leaving them high and dry to figure out where they went wrong. All contact between him and Blondey would cease when he was finished with her. Not even so much as a job reference would he ever give her.

Humph … Valentine’s Day. I didn’t know the history behind the holiday, and I didn’t care to know. What was the point of reserving one day to show how openly in love you are with your significant other? Shouldn’t that be like every day?

The day would be so much more bearable if I had a love interest to spend time with. But I gave up trying to find someone for just one day. Nothing is worse than having to pay those outrageous online dating fees only to be matched with an utter loser for such an overly commercialized, kick-in-the-head holiday.

I’m sure that for all those hopeless romantics (or better yet, those Jane Austen, occult-reading, love-at-first-sight, brain-dead lunatics), my life would seem so sad because I’ve never been in love. But it wasn’t like I’d never had any feelings for my former boyfriends, or at least tried to give my past relationships time to grow. It was just that at some point or the other, the potential for a future with those men went so far south, I saw them in a whole different light.

Take my ex-boyfriend Charley, for example, my all-too-sweet-and-sensitive, once-upon-a-time hero beau from Texas, who certainly didn’t make the cut once I found out he had five young mouths to feed with two more on the way. Giving dear old Charley the benefit of the doubt, I thought the only reason he had so many was because he really loved children. But when it took that unimaginable bastard twenty uncomfortable minutes to remember three out of his five children’s names, that was the end of charming Charley and me. I got out of that mess long before there was even a chance for me to join the club as Baby Mama Drama contestant number eight.

And then there was Victor. The sexy and sensual, no-strings-attached love interest who really showed his indecisive side when he admitted that I was one of six women he was sleeping with. That jerk had even pleaded his case. His defense? Well, he just couldn’t make up his mind on which one of us he wanted to be with. Did I mention that Victor was also a newlywed of three months? I don’t have so much to say about that one, except that the dick got what was coming to him. Not too long after we’d broken up, virile Victor caught a nasty venereal disease. That breakup ended up saving me a lot of unwanted and awkward trips to my gynecologist.

And how could I ever forget Damon? The one I chased out of my apartment just two days ago when I caught him stealing money from my purse. I hadn’t been able to prove it, but I knew he had been doing it for a while. Wearing those God-awful white boxers with the pink hearts, that thieving son of a bitch had looked like a deer caught in headlights when I walked in on him. I couldn’t believe the creep was actually pocketing my last twenty-dollar bill until payday. Oh no—he had to go! I kicked his sorry ass out of my apartment; he was wearing nothing but those white boxers.

The other losers were not even worth so much as a brain cell of thought. Were there good times with these men? Yes. But it’s amazing how the bad always trumped the good when dealing with exes. For all the failures I had the displeasure of knowing, all I can remember is where each one fell on the scale of being a complete asshole.

This is my world, and never did it cross into the dreams of some long-dead fantasist. Their hogwash tales of romantic trials didn’t exist in my world, and in this day and age, I doubt anything like it ever will.

Yup, you can definitely say that I had issues with the opposite sex. Contrary to what others might have said about me, I wasn’t bitter—just realistic. And it wasn’t like I never gave any of those men a chance, even though I had firsthand experience of what loving the wrong man can do to a woman. Take my biological father, for instance, who became a deadbeat before I was even born. Then, as if leaving wasn’t bad enough, the man openly and viciously accused my mother (the once love of his life) of being the neighborhood slut. But my mother was a strong woman and had no doubt learned from early on not to rely on anyone but herself. So at the bright young age of seventeen, she gave birth to a healthy baby girl, only to return to work three days later as a full-time waitress. Even though my mother roomed with her girlfriend, Zeta, someone had to pay the bills. And if the daddy-in-denial wasn’t going to help, she had no other choice.

My mother worked hard, yet she made time for me whenever she could. I was happy, healthy, and, most of all, loved.

It was the little things she did. From the silly little I Love U messages taped to my lunch every Monday to late-night ferry rides to Staten Island when we would each get a burger with fries and ride the ferry back and forth to the city without getting off.

Those times meant a lot to me. The little things amounted to more she or anyone else would ever know. My mother was my whole world and, naturally, would have anticipated my desperation on such a depressing day of days and sent me some flowers so that I knew someone in this world cared for me. But she was gone … forever. And no matter what anyone else said about her health, I believe it was exhaustion that killed her. Her heart tried to be there for me, but her body just wasn’t strong enough to keep up with the demands of being a young, single parent who was too proud to ask for help.

I think about my mother and miss her deeply. We could have done so much together—like one of those amazing mother-daughter duos. She was my best friend, and I doubt that even in my disturbing teenage years, we would have had any trouble continuing to enjoy each other’s company. But thirty-two years was too short of a lifetime, and fifteen is way too young to lose your mother. Missed opportunities for us both.

Day dreaming again, Fria? Let me guess! That strained, pensive look on your face could only mean one thing: you’re trying to undress me with your thoughts. How’s it going so far? Like anything you see?

I didn’t have to look past my computer screen to know who had just invaded my personal space, and I refused to acknowledge him. His comment had to be sexual harassment, and I would have to consult my employee handbook later.

"My goodness! Life’s so bad that you can’t even engage in some light banter without copping an attitude? Can I at least get a good morning with a smile on the side?"

Unfortunately, that was all it took for me to reach my breaking point. I’d held it for as long as I dared, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. I finally looked up into the handsome face of Austin Sanders (future partner and young protégé of Mr. Harrison), and his beautiful, smiling eyes met my mine with the greatest of expectations.

My reaction was instantaneous; I was at a total loss for words. I could feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as the frown I held so perfectly turned upside down into a smile. I needed to see more. Past those tempting eyes and that wondrous smile, my eyes needed more. They needed to take in as much of this amazing creature as humanly possible. I was at the point of no return, and as usual there wasn’t any disappointment. This guy was—for lack of a better term—drop-dead gorgeous!

Saying that Mr. Sanders was an impressive dresser would never be enough to describe his true splendor. His well-tailored business suit could do no justice to that body. He was toned, muscled, but not astoundingly buff. And from what I could see over my computer screen, everything about him was just right. Very typical of Mr. Sanders’s style, the suit hugged all the right places to make for another amazing impression. Even with my lack of confidence in the opposite sex, I was very much attracted to this beautiful and elegantly formed man. Admittedly, if I were anywhere near his type, taking up the pursuit of his heart wouldn’t be a problem for me, despite the office rumor mill.

Praying that my attention to his detail wasn’t too obvious, I looked back up into his face only to see a pompous smirk. Right there, I was extremely grateful that he couldn’t see me blush and hoped that the goose bumps would stay hidden behind my computer screen.

"See, that wasn’t so bad, Ms. Wilson. You know, that little ruse of yours never works. Every time I come over here, you put up this front, acting like you aren’t happy to see me, when we both know that’s not true. I probably make your whole day just by walking over here. Why do you put yourself through such torture? Just give in already. It would make things so much easier for you."

Irritated, I decided to respond to his affront the only way I knew how, considering he was technically my supervisor. Could I help you with something? Maybe with a copy of the manual explaining what constitutes appropriate behavior in the workplace? I heard it’s a good read among those who are sexual harassed by their male counterparts and are weighing retribution options.

Now it was his turn to flip that smile upside down.

My response had definitely caught him off guard—a first in our awkward relationship. The thrill of vindication swept over me, and I watched as he considered his next move.

Dropping the inappropriate small talk, he addressed me, but this time in a subdued tone. I just wanted to know if Mr. Harrison was coming in this morning. We have to finalize the contracts on the Lighthouse case.

His pompous grin had been replaced by a very warm and attractive smile as I lowered my defenses. And I thought, If only it was written in the stars, we would have made a stunning couple. His striking good looks, successful career, and my, well, I couldn’t think of anything special at the moment, but I was sure that my whole outlook on life, society, and just about everything wouldn’t be so dismal.

Unfortunately for us both, Mr. Sanders was only interested in the kind of women that Mr. Harrison frequented. But where Mr. Harrison was discrete in his fancy of the classless opposite sex, Mr. Sanders was shamelessly open about it. He never even had a chance with Blondey before Mr. Harrison snatched her up. Mr. Sanders had made a very obvious play to show everyone that he was interested in her, almost like he had something to prove. But he had immediately backed down once he saw that the bigger fish was interested as well. To me, it seemed like Mr. Sanders gave up to easily—or too quickly. He could have stuck to it long enough to see if Blondey would have chosen him over costume jewelry.

Maybe, like the rest of us, he didn’t have much faith in her intelligence. The girl was incredibly stupid. But even she had an agenda, and it came as no surprise when she picked the man with the bigger wallet. It was good to know that a beautiful and successful man like Mr. Sanders was still on the open market.

Unable to stop from gazing at his beautiful face, I thought how very sad it was that Mr. Sanders strived to be everything like his mentor, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Sanders was so successful in all aspects of his life (with the exception of the womanizing, of course) that I still didn’t think he grasped the true reason behind Mr. Harrison’s success with the ladies. No matter how assiduous Mr. Sanders’s efforts in attracting that certain quality of female were, they were nothing but futile. He still had a very long way to go before he would be making that high six-figure salary like Mr. Harrison. Why he didn’t settle for the smart, successful beauties that hounded him day in day out was beyond me. A guy like Mr. Sanders shouldn’t have any problems attracting that right kind of female, in my mind. Did the world really need another pigheaded bastard like Mr. Harrison?

He stood there waiting for my response with that sweet look plastered all over his face.

It never failed; I always looked like a total moron in front of him. And I hated the power he held over me. A distraction was in order. I considered telling him where Mr. Harrison really was, but then I thought about that paycheck. He’s working from home this morning and probably won’t be in until later this afternoon, I finally said, way too sarcastic and with way too much attitude. Rolling my eyes on working definitely wasn’t necessary.

Mr. Sanders held my gaze for what felt like an eternity. As an experienced legal counsel, I knew that he was dissecting and analyzing every word of my response. His eyes were piercing, unbelievably beautiful, and so full of depth. Coupled with his dashing, all-American-white-boy good looks, I loved the baby blue resonated within his eyes underneath the florescent lights.

I had to remind myself to blink.

With those piercing baby blues, I always felt like he could see right past my façade and know exactly what I knew about everything—even my most personal thoughts. And although Mr. Sanders was not the man of my dreams (or rather, he is not the man I dreamt about every night), he was still very close to that loving yet faceless figure that haunted me.

I had to ponder that one for a moment: not even the man of my dreams had a face. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not attach a face to my mystery guy. Must have been all that pessimism.

Okay, then. Could you please let me know when he comes into the office? Harrison said that he wanted to personally go over these papers, and as you know, I am not one to step on the boss’s toes.

Breaking a contemptuous smile, I knew the real reason behind Mr. Sanders’s reluctance. The great and all-powerful Mr. Harrison kept everyone on a short leash. No one ever truly held his confidence—not even Mr. Hartman and the other nine associates. And Mr. Sanders was kept on an even shorter leash because he was the brightest of the bunch.

Recruited personally by Mr. Harrison, the astute Austin Sanders (who graduated at of the top of his class with a law degree from Harvard) would definitely become a force to be reckoned with someday. What better way to gain a handle on any potential competitors than by taking them under your wing and promising them a piece of your empire? Mr. Harrison saw that Mr. Sanders was going places, and he wanted this exceptional young professional to be on his team. Long after Mr. Harrison retired (not that the man thought about his own mortality), he wanted a great legacy to be imprinted in stone for his firm. But this firm still had a long way to go before it hit renowned status in the industry.

No problem, I said. You might be the first person he asks for when he gets in. We received a call from the Lighthouses this morning. They are looking for a finalization by the end of this week. I’ve already let Mr. Harrison know about their phone call.

Great! Glad to know that you’re on … Mr. Sanders hesitated, and I just knew he was weighing his options. Top of things, he finally said, flashing those perfect, bleached-white teeth and giving me a quick wink above a scandalous grin.

And before I could even think of a smart response to throw back at him, he started up again. Oh, and one more thing."

Reaching into the pocket of his perfect suit jacket, Mr. Sanders pulled out a black envelope. Happy birthday! And here’s a little something to make it an extra-special one. He placed the envelope on my keyboard, and my eyes left the defined lines of his chest to focus on it. It had the word Kinks spelled out in dainty, hot-pink script.

I stared at the envelope and then looked back up at my supposed supervisor with total disgust registering all over my face. But Mr. Sanders didn’t seem at all surprised or even offended. It was almost like he had expected my reaction and had already dealt with it.

It’s an invitation to this new Bar & Spa on Forty-Seventh. I figured you needed a sultry, full-body massage and some good-quality booze to help loosen you up a bit—at least for your birthday.

Excuse me? You know nothing about what I have planned for tonight. Did you even consider that I might have a date when you bought this ridiculous gift?

Relax. His smile was so alluring. And those eyes … such a wicked combination! You don’t have a date, and this gift didn’t cost me a thing. A friend from college is part owner of this establishment, and I called in a favor. So you can either stop making this more than what it is or thank me for probably giving you the best birthday gift of your life.

Bastard. Thank you. And I didn’t care if he caught the attitude in my gratitude. He deserved it. And he needed to be gone—out of sight and completely out of mind, so as to give my pride some room to mend.

"You’re welcome. And after you’ve left the place feeling all relaxed and refreshed, I need for you to go online and blog on their website about how wonderful your experience was at the fabulous Kinks. Think you can do that for me, sweetie pie?" He flashed another one of those perfect smiles, surely thinking that I would melt at the sight of it. But for me, he might as well have been all green, furry, and dressed in a Santa suit under some kid’s Christmas tree, stealing presents, because he looked like the Grinch.

Don’t forget to call me when he comes in, he finished, gesturing toward Mr. Harrison’s empty office. I watched as Mr. Sanders turned on his heels and walked away from my desk without even giving my revolted expression a second glance.

He really had some nerve. Who the hell does he think he is—talking to me that way?

I didn’t mind the tasteless, so-called gift or his many flirty innuendos. But why did the pet names always have to be attached to his show of male bravado? I hated every single syllable uttered in lieu of my name, which in my opinion were said only to belittle me and the situation.

Sweetie pie? Who the hell even says sweetie pie anymore? Maybe I should report him to Compliance.

But how could I truly get back at him? I didn’t know. Maybe some kind of passive-aggressive punishment was in order. I would just have to consider it fully. It would have to be something that wouldn’t jeopardize my job.

Watching him glide down the aisle of cubicles, stopping to converse with every single female on the floor, I thought about putting the black envelope (still on my keyboard) through the shredder. He wasn’t too far away. Maybe the sound of a single yet brief buzz would let him know how I felt about his gift.

And he was so wrong. If only he and everyone else knew that my mother was the best gift I ever had, they would all understand why I acted the way I did.

So I was back to the only way I knew how to comfort myself: thinking about my mother and determining to return to my emotional state before Mr. Sanders’s rude intrusion. Despite the day’s triple whammy and Mr. Sanders’s insinuation about my miserable, lackluster life, remembering my mother and pondering what my life could have been like had she been alive always made me feel content somehow. Warmer inside. I didn’t think about the loss—not yet, anyway—just the person she was. And for a minute, my life seemed whole again.

But as the sorrow started to creep in (as it had so many other times before), my phone rang. I recognized Mr. Harrison’s cell phone number instantly. I answered on the second ring. Hartman, Harrison and Associates. Mr. Harrison’s line. How may I help you today?

Fria, I want you to hold my calls and cancel all my meetings for today. A client in Westchester requires my—um—immediate attention, and it will be an all-day affair. I had to stop off in Queens for a brief meeting, and now I am on the train heading into the city to take the Metro.

Sloppy.

Mr. Harrison forgot that he had mentioned working from home this morning. He also didn’t have to tell me that he was in Queens. That could only mean one thing: he must have a lot on his mind. It wasn’t like Mr. Harrison to let slip any details on what he was doing outside of the office.

Let Mr. Sanders know that I will meet with him first thing in the morning. I also need you to set up a meeting with the Lighthouses on Wednesday. Preferably in the afternoon—sometime after lunch. And if my wife calls my personal line, let her know that I won’t be home for dinner. That’s everything. See you bright and early tomorrow morning. Click.

The man truly had no shame. How much did he really think of me and my role as his administrative assistant that he used me as an accomplice in his adulterous affairs? And yet, I still had only three more hours until lunch and then another four hours until I could leave this miserable hellhole and head for home.

Placing the phone back down on its receiver, I began to reconsider that ominous black envelope still sitting on my keyboard. I thought about all the things I’d missed out on, most of which were due to my less-than-pleasant attitude, and I knew I couldn’t help it. But I made a decision, plucked the black envelope off my keyboard, and opened it.

To my horror, the paper inside was blood red with stark white lettering, and I wondered if the décor of the establishment was anything like the invitation.

Scary. But at least it’s on quality paper. That’s a good sign.

I also noticed that I had a reservation for a two-hour session at seven and would be allowed to bring one guest—with a bold emphasis on one. If I was going to that place (which I had to admit was pretty much a done deal), I was going to have to call Jules.

My mind raced back to Mr. Sanders. I figured it was sensible not to do anything rash about his behavior toward me. After all, he would most likely run the place someday.

Better not risk getting on his bad side—just in case I am not fortunate to be out of this firm by the time that happens.

Besides, despite his rudeness, I had to admit that Mr. Sanders had always been something more like a friend to me. He was the only one at the firm that dared (or that I allowed) to approach me on a personal level. Not only was I desperately attracted to him, but there was just something more to Mr. Sanders that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Even though I knew it was unlikely in this day and age, I wondered if it was possible for a guy to have mind-blowing good looks and still be sensitive to a woman’s needs, all while being a successful registered attorney in the State of New York?

I knew I could probably cut Mr. Sanders some slack; after all, it was not a good day for me. It was the start of the workweek, and I was already on edge. And it was Valentine’s Day. Everything seemed to be working on my nerves. I was so tense that I could practically feel it in my shoulders. I thought maybe I needed that gift from Mr. Sanders and hopefully a couple of strong apple martinis to work on my mood.

Luckily, my night courses didn’t fall on Mondays, and I was already up to speed on the reading assignments for my Community and Social Development class. And in recognizing that, for the first time in a long time, something had actually worked out in my favor, I just couldn’t believe it. As much as it pained me to admit, I had Mr. Sanders to thank. Good thing I hadn’t gone with my gut reaction and shredded the envelope. I hoped Jules would be available, because, as much as I needed to go out, I refused to do so alone.

•••

I’d decided long ago, while working for Mr. Harrison, that I was going to be a definite nine-to-fiver. Most days (especially when Mr. Harrison wasn’t in the office), a number of preparations had to be made for me to depart this wretched place. With my hair and makeup already refreshed, all of my personal belongings securely packed, and the stiff handles of my pocketbook in the upright position, I was ready to leave at a moment’s notice. By four thirty, I usually switched my phone to the do-not-disturb function. Anyone that dared to call after that time would have to leave a message, because unless the building was on fire, I refused to answer any calls.

My eyes also seemed to triple in strength around this time of the day. So much that I could almost make out the fine, individual lines of white stitching on my coat a couple of yards away behind the tinted screen doors of the coatroom. And today, there was no exception. My usual desperation to be out of the office was being agitated by my anticipation to start my night out. I also knew that the tingly sensation plaguing my right hip was due to my train fare burning a hole in my pocket.

I had called Jules, and we were supposed to meet up in front of Kinks before seven. I had to get home so that I could storm my closet, because I really couldn’t think of an appropriate thing to wear to a spa that also doubled as a bar. So I promised myself only half an hour’s worth of time getting ready, meaning that I had only about fifteen minutes to come up with my top three choices. And from those three, the final decision would have to be made, however long that might take.

It was only four forty-seven, and I doubted anyone on my floor missed my revolted expression as I glimpsed the time on the clock. I couldn’t believe that minutes, even seconds, could move so slowly. It was unnatural! I still had another ten minutes before I could officially put another miserable day at the office behind me.

At least no one (with the exception of Mr. Sanders) knew that it was my birthday. Every time the mailroom clerk came up with a different set of flowers or balloons, I thought, Maybe someone found out—somehow—that my birthday and Valentine’s Day are one in the same. Since I started working for Mr. Harrison almost a year before, Mr. Sanders’s stunt was the first time something personal about me had ever been acknowledged by anyone in the firm. It was kind of depressing to know that the people I saw every day, most of them for the past year, knew absolutely nothing about me beyond my desk.

Whatever.

I never made an effort to remember anything about my coworkers that didn’t concern work. In fact, I was very successful at keeping my distance from mostly—well—all of them. So why should I care that no one knew that it