Chapter 12 Presley
PRESLEY
It’s taken a couple of days, but I finally feel human again. Sort of. At least enough to eat.
Eating means energy. Energy is something I desperately need because Otis is back to one hundred percent—maybe even one hundred and ten. Making up for his low-key weekend.
Spying an open table in the Hayes cafeteria, I grab it, plopping down in the padded metal chair.
Given how I felt over the weekend, there’s a part of me that wonders if all the different smells in here—whether from what’s actually being cooked up and offered by the catering staff or from the various lunches brought from home—are going to make my stomach riot again, but I need to get away from my desk.
I’ve always made a point of taking a lunch and stepping away, even if it is just to the cafeteria, to give my brain a break. Maintaining balance is important.
Plus, I have been craving my favorite snack since my appetite returned last night—hot Cheetos in Greek yogurt.
Yes, I am aware that’s weird. No, I do not care. It’s oddly delicious and hits the spot every time. I know that it will today too.
Unzipping my lunch bag, I flip open the top and reach in, ready for my taste buds to do a spicy tango. My hand lands on something unexpected. Something very much not my yogurt.
Shit…
Double checking the color of the lunch bag—yes, I grabbed my purple one, not Otis’s green one—my heart plummets.
My mom packed lunches last night, taking that off my plate so I could continue to rest. It didn’t even occur to me to let her know that we have a color-coding system, nor did I check to make sure what was what.
I was too thankful that I didn’t have to think about it to even consider that there was an unspoken part to the routine.
Damn it.
I pull out the contents, my entire body deflating as I take it all in.
A ketchup and bologna sandwich, cut into the shape of a dinosaur, some quartered grapes, a small baggie of Goldfish, and a juice box.
How this kid ended up discovering the combination of ketchup and bologna, I will never know.
The bologna part I understand—one of my father’s favorites is fried bologna.
But never with ketchup. That’s the part that baffles me.
Then again, my favorite is hot Cheetos in Greek yogurt, so maybe he came by it honestly.
Either way, this isn’t my lunch. It’s very much the lunch—and afternoon snack—of a three-year-old.
Which means he has my lunch. I can only imagine the look on his teacher’s face opening it up and seeing what was packed.
Because it’s not the nutritionally semi-balanced meal in front of me.
Otis might eat the tuna packet that Mom told me she packed for me, although depending on what flavor she grabbed, there’s a good chance he turns his nose up at it.
And he certainly won’t drink the flavored sparkling water. He’s going to want this apple juice.
Shit. Does he need lunch now? I’m not sure I have time to get this over to Pitter Patter, the local daycare here in Hickory Hills, and make it back in time for my next meeting, much less eat my own lunch. But if it’s the difference between my kid having lunch and not, then there’s no question.
Hi. Just discovered that I sent Otis in with the wrong lunch. I can be there in 15 minutes with his food.
Miss Reece
Don’t worry about it. We actually just finished lunch. He was not interested in the Thai chili tuna or spicy Cheetos, but he ate the yogurt without question. We keep some Uncrustables on hand just in case, so he ate one of those too.
Thank you so much! I’m so sorry about this.
Also, keep those Uncrustables under lock and key, they’re his favorite
Mine too! Since we don’t currently have a kid with a nut allergy, I can eat them in the open lol
And don’t worry about it. I’ve been there, I’ve done this. Mondays are rough.
Yes, they are. Especially after a weekend of being sick. Extra especially if a good portion of the sick weekend was spent being cared for by a man who you’re not sure if you care for. Or that you’re trying to deny that you care about.
Because there is no caring about Jace Hayes here. None. No feelings whatsoever.
The only thing I’m feeling right now is my gag reflex as I try to force down a ketchup and bologna sandwich.
“Is that a dinosaur?”
The soft, inquisitive southern accent cuts through my thoughts, making me jump. I look up, dino sandwich halfway to my mouth, eyes landing on a beautiful redhead. She smiles brightly back at me, her hair reminding me of the fall colors up north.
“It is,” I admit sheepishly. “I accidentally switched mine and my kiddo’s lunches this morning and didn’t realize until now. So, here I am with a dinosaur ketchup and bologna sandwich.”
The redhead scrunches her nose, her face expressing my own thoughts exactly.
“How about I buy you a real lunch? A grown-up lunch.”
“Oh, no. No, no,” I react almost immediately. The last thing I want is for her to take pity on me. “It’ll be fine.”
“Um, no, it won’t. You’re about to eat a dinosaur ketchup and bologna sandwich. Ew. As the granddaughter of a chef, I can’t allow it. Come with me.”
She takes my hand, gently tugging me out of my chair and toward the lunch line. I go with—not only because it’s becoming increasing clear I don’t have a choice—but also because I’m curious. Excited. The idea of maybe finally making a friend in Hickory Hills is too good to pass up.
“I’m Margeaux, by the way.”
Margeaux. As in Margeaux Finnegan-Hayes. Shit.
A quick flick of my eyes at her left hand confirms what I already know, the very large diamond right on a very specific finger leaving no room to wonder.
She is absolutely the wife of Gus, oldest Hayes sibling, executive vice president of Hayes Industries, and heir apparent to take over once Auggie retires.
While also being an incredible lawyer and businesswoman herself.
Oh, and Jace’s sister-in-law.
“Presley,” I sputter. “I’m the new—”
“Social media gal. So I’ve heard.”
Great. She’s heard of me. Just great. Sure, that could be because Bronwyn has been talking up a storm about all the plans we have and how she’s thrusting social marketing onto every department. But it could also be because Jace has said something.
Lord only knows what Jace would have said to his family about me.
“That’s me.”
“I’m excited to see what you do with it. I was always in awe at the things the marketing team at Sulonen came up with, because my brain does not work that way at all. It almost felt like a degree in psychology was needed to listen to them talk some days.”
I chuckle, because I can’t completely disagree with that. “There’s definitely an aspect of knowing what will and won’t resonate with an audience.”
We pause our conversation long enough to order—Margeaux opting for the curry chicken wrap, while I still try and keep it light, going with a Cobb salad.
“Get the hot honey mustard-and-bacon dressing. You won’t be sorry,” Margeaux tells me.
Okay then. I request the dressing that she suggests for my salad, getting an approving nod from the kind-looking older gentleman behind the counter. He tells us it’ll be a few minutes as he finishes punching our order in the computer and they’ll call our names when it’s ready.
“You were with Sulonen?” I ask, the e-commerce giant a well-known and respected firm.
Margeaux nods as she types in her employee number to add our lunch to her tab. “Three years, two of them spent over in Amsterdam. I left to go to law school, thinking I would probably end right back up at Sulonen, but…fate had different plans.”
She smiles—the smile of someone who is still riding high on cloud nine—her cheeks turning a slight shade of pink.
There’s no blaming her. If I were mere weeks off my wedding to the love of my life, I would probably be just as giddy.
Maybe more so, because that would mean that I would have found someone who not only loves me, but Otis.
Someone I fully expect to not find at this point in my life.
A fact that I have come to terms with. I love my kid and the new life we’re building together. Everything is exactly as it should be.
Doesn’t stop me from being the teeniest bit envious of Margeaux’s smile.
“If you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans,” I offer, the platitude feeling extra hollow today.
“Spoken like a woman who knows.”
Boy am I ever…
“Very much so. I thought I had a whole plan, and then I got pregnant.”
“Oh! How old? Girl? Boy?”
“Boy. Otis, after his grandfather. He’s three. Best curveball ever; I just wish the curveballs had stopped after him.”
Margeaux forces a polite smile, but her eyes are full of empathy. As if her mind is running wild with different scenarios.
“My ex, Otis’s father, turned out to be a piece of work,” I continue, hoping that might ease her mind some. “Spent the last few years in court thanks to him.”
“Custody?”
“Paternity.”
Margeaux’s eyes go wide, shock taking over her features. Right on time and as expected. Everyone always expects the custody answer, completely disregarding the paternity one. I manage to catch everyone off guard with that.
“Margeaux!” a lady in a hairnet calls, holding up the plates with our food.
Margeaux turns to grab them, placing them on a lunch tray and turning back to me.
“Not at all my area of law expertise, but you have no idea how curious I am.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, silently thankful for her lack of judgment.
Because there is one thing that almost always comes after I tell people it was a paternity suit—the look.
The one where they are trying to hide their assessment of me, suddenly wondering how colorful—and crowded—my personal history is.
Like they might as well be watching me on a daytime talk show waiting on the catchphrase “you are not the father!”
My real life is anything but. Daytime talk show hosts would be very bored with my story.