4. Emerson
CHAPTER 4
Emerson
T he din inside the offices of Techicom Communications reaches a fever pitch, but it’s more like background noise, like a movie happening around me. People move dramatically, waving their hands and shouting. Someone cries, and a door slams as former employees attempt to confront their superiors.
Or I assume that’s what they’re trying to do.
There should be some dramatic Vivaldi concerto playing to enhance the theater. Papers fly off desks in pathetic acts of defiance. Some jerk thinks he’s macho doing a proper arm sweep, forcing a pile onto the floor.
Moron. That’s only going to create work for the cleaning staff, not punish the executives or give them anything to consider. The only thing the executives are considering is their bottom lines.
But me? I just sit at my desk, staring emptily at my computer screen, waiting.
For what exactly? I’m not sure.
I’m certainly not dealing with any customers, emails, or orders today. I guess I’m waiting for an order or directive. Surely someone at some point is going to tell me what to do. Are we all supposed to leave?
Maybe the company owners will want to give a speech about what just happened, rather than emailing the whole company to let us know we no longer have a job.
Probably not.
I’m sure I’m giving the owners too much credit.
“Emmy?”
The pretty mountain screen saver is supposed to be calming, a sunset against a gray peak, although what it represents, I’m not sure. It comes standard with all the employees’ workstations. It’s been the same for the past five years that I’ve worked for Techicom. I could have changed mine to a photo of something more personal. One with friends from college, or maybe my best friend, Mae. Or I could have used the photo of my mom and me from Belle’s wedding two weeks ago. That photo was about the only good thing to come from that affair, even though Greg had been in it, too. If my stepdad hadn’t been in the photo, I might have made that picture my phone’s screensaver.
Why am I thinking about screensavers? I’m dealing with a workplace catastrophe.
“Emerson!” Fingers snap in front of my face, and for a second, I think someone is about to slap me. I recoil and blink. The floor manager stares worriedly at me. “Honey, are you all right? I’ve been trying to get your attention for two minutes—no exaggeration!”
“Sorry.” I gather my bearings, the mild shock of the mass firing wearing off.
Seriously, get it together, Emmy.
“Heavens, I thought we’d lost you! Are you all right?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Not really,” I tell her honestly. “I mean, no worse than anyone else in here, I suppose.”
I gesture vaguely at the place gone wild, and she clucks commiserating.
“I know, hon, but you’ll land on your feet—probably better than most of these lunatics. At least you’re not off setting things on fire like they are in the mailroom.”
I gawk at her. “Are they really?”
“I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” She shrugs. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll give you a recommendation, you know.”
Well, that ought to make everything all better.
I force a smile I don’t feel. “Thanks.”
It’s not her fault, and I’m sure she feels terrible about this. There’s no need to make her feel any worse when there’s nothing she can do about it anyway.
I turn back to continue staring at the screensaver.
“Emerson.”
Again, I zone out, and she waves her hands in front of my face.
“Hm?”
“There’s no sense in you sticking around here, honey. No work is being done, and I feel like things are just going to escalate. I’m fairly certain I saw someone trying to unhook the urinal from the men’s room a minute ago.”
I wonder if she wasn’t the one responsible for that particular act of anarchy, but I don’t ask.
“You might as well go home before you get caught up in it,” she says.
Swallowing, I stand. “Good idea. I might as well get a head start looking for another job.”
Sadly, she nods. “Me, too. Good luck, and stay in touch. If I hear of any opportunities, I will let you know.”
I make no promises to stay in touch, my heart sinking into my shoes as I head out of the office and forsake the elevator for the stairs. In the parking lot, I stare at the nondescript building I’d given the better part of five years of my life to. I want to curse at it, at the economy, at the company, but I can’t muster the anger. There’s no sense in it. It’s just wasted.
Telecommunications had never been my dream job, but the pay was good, and it enabled me to live comfortably enough here in Austin, at a time when so many people are struggling. It allowed me to use my tech skills, even if the company itself was something of a hamster wheel. I should have had a backup plan, a side gig, something else to fall into just in case. Or at least better ambitions for myself.
I don’t have any emergency savings—at least nothing big enough to carry me through this catastrophe until I find a new job. That damned trip to Vegas had taken a huge chunk out of my savings.
I silently curse Belle again, though I know it’s not her fault. It’s mine. I should have planned better… somehow.
It’s all that damn avocado toast and fancy coffees , I think sarcastically.
I need to find another job right away.
Nausea seizes me abruptly, the stress of the moment overwhelming me.
I barely make it five steps before I’m throwing up in the parking lot, attracting the attention of other displaced workers.
“I hear you, girl,” one of the receptionists calls out as she sashays past. “I wanna puke, too.”
Embarrassed, I wave, and rush to my car to hastily dig napkins out of the glove compartment. I slide into the driver’s seat and slump back against the headrest, willing the wave of dizziness to pass.
A part of me just wants to go to the nearest bar and drink away my sorrows. And if my stomach wasn’t so unsettled, I would do just that.
Instead, I back out of my spot and head home, fighting off the uneasiness inside me.
I need to call someone. Maybe my mom and Greg, or Mae. But I’m humiliated and exhausted.
Sighing, I dial out anyway. Mae’s chirpy voice fills my car through the Bluetooth.
“You’ve reached Mae Dupuis. I’m either in class or avoiding you because you should text like a normal person. Anyway, leave a message.”
The phone beeps, but before I can speak, my other line rings, and I see Mae’s face on my phone screen.
I answer.
“Hi,” I respond, switching lines.
“Sorry, sugar plum!” she chirps. “I missed your call!”
“It’s all right,” I inhale again. “I just got fired… or laid off. I’m not sure which one.”
My best friend audibly gasps. “What?! What happened, Emerson?”
“They’re downsizing, I guess. Our location is closing permanently, so everyone in our building got let go. I don’t know. I kind of zoned out when I got the email. The employees’ reactions were pretty bad. It was ugly. I think there was a guillotine.”
“I bet,” Mae sighs. “I don’t know why they ever did away with those in the first place, to be honest. That’s a trend that never should have gone out of style if you ask me.”
“Amen, sister.”
“Oh, honey, where are you now? My students are at recess, and I have bus monitoring duty after hours. But after the little heathens are out of my care, I can come to your place, and we’ll drink wine and curse out your bosses. Will is working the night shift this week, so he won’t miss me a bit.”
My stomach lurches at the thought of wine.
“Not tonight,” I tell her. “This weekend?”
“You bet. I’ll cancel everything, and we’ll make it a hangover extravaganza. But keep your spirits up. Everything will work out okay. I’ll ask around and see if anybody is hiring…”
She trails off, and I have to smile to myself. “Thanks, Mae. I’ll be fine. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“You bet. I’ll call you later. Don’t you worry about anything. I’ve got your back.”
We hang up as I pull into my neighborhood, but as I stop in my complex, I’m again struck with a feeling of weakness.
Oh, get over yourself, Emerson , I snap internally. It’s a job loss, not a death in the family. You didn’t even like it that much, anyway.
But I do like food. And having a place to live. And clothes. And all the other little things that money buys.
A familiar sense of anxiety threatens to take me over, and I stuff it down. All those years of therapy can’t have been for nothing.
But now, I can’t afford anxiety, either.
My health insurance is going to expire.
* * *
Sweat beads pop over my brow as I look around my half-packed apartment. Tears of frustration well in the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t have the luxury anymore. A month of job searching and hoping hasn’t been enough. Nothing has panned out, not a single goddamn lead.
The unemployment payments aren’t going to cover next month’s rent, car payments, and the rest of my bills. I’ve stretched myself as far as I can, and now I have to make difficult choices.
I have to tell Mom and Greg I need to move in with them until I can get on my feet, but that’s not a call I can bring myself to make. The disappointment in Greg’s voice when I told him I lost my job in the first place still rings in the back of my head, and Mom’s too-supportive optimism makes me feel like such a failure.
She had made it work without anyone when my deadbeat biological father took off. There had been no grandparents to bail her out, no security backup. I shouldn’t need to interrupt her life when she’s finally in a good place. I’m sure Greg senses it coming, too, my stepfather hinting that he could “help” if I “really need it”.
Gee, thanks, Greg.
Honestly, I don’t want their money or to move into their house. I want my life and independence. And I would have that if someone would just give me a chance.
But losing my apartment, my job, and my dignity isn’t the worst of it. There’s an even worse reason I can’t call my mom and stepdad.
At least not until I take care of another call first.
I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep it from quivering. The screen in front of me has been the same for over an hour. I’ve explored every tab on the website, poring over the beautiful pictures of perfectly bred horses and immaculately kept grounds.
There are a few pictures of people, grinning cowboys, and well-postured trainers on graded horses, but the site focuses predominately on the services and history of the ranch. None of the faces are familiar to me even though I’ve zoomed in and studied them at length.
I’ve read the blurb a dozen times already, but I read it again, mostly because I’m procrastinating on my next move. Maybe an asteroid will strike down and save me from having to make any moves at all. The dinosaurs never saw it coming. Could I get so lucky?
For over fifty years, Pine Sky Ranch has bred, boarded, and trained horses for the good folks of Pine Sky, Texas, and beyond. Renowned for its state-of-the-art facilities and world-certified instructors, the Collins Brothers take great pride in maintaining their family’s beloved legacy.
So shoot us an email today! One of our cowboys can take you on a tour and answer all your questions.
There’s an addendum that I half noticed before, but now read with slightly more interest as the fog of my initial shock wears off.
Pine Sky is currently hiring driven individuals to fill two positions: Ranch Hand and Ranch Administrator
Please note that both positions are full-time and live-in. Do not apply if you don’t fit the criteria. There are no exceptions to these criteria due to the inflexibility of work hours.
I look at the job posting in disbelief.
Not that I know anything about working on a ranch. I wouldn’t have considered it under normal circumstances.
But after a month of fruitless job searching following the layoff at Techicom, seeing this opportunity materialize right in front of me feels almost like the universe mocking me.
God. How did I end up here? What the hell had I been thinking—or rather, not thinking—that night in Vegas with the triplets?
It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Just for that night. I never intended to think about them again.
Okay, maybe that’s a lie. I might have thought about them, alone in my bedroom at night with my vibrator sliding between my thighs.
But that’s fair game. How could I not replay that over and over in my head?
Any woman with a pulse would, and it’s not like I can share the story with Mae, who would march me to the nearest church and have me repent.
Of course, she would demand to know all the details, too, and I’m not sure I want to share them with anyone. The experience is exclusively mine.
So much so that I can’t escape it, two months later. And I never will again.
I slump back against the computer chair. Reaching for my cell phone, I flip through the photo album, adjusting my glasses as I do. Lately, my contact lenses irritate my eyes, but I assume my life is going to be filled with a bunch of new annoying grievances I hadn’t contended with before.
My heart catches when my own face peers back at me, beaming and bright.
I’m in the middle of a gorgeous triplet sandwich selfie. I almost don’t recognize the woman grinning back at me, and I feel a pang of loss for her.
She’s me, though, isn’t she? Why don’t I recognize her? Have I really changed that much in such a short amount of time?
I snapped the photo at the bar, when we were all dancing.
My gaze shifts over the photo, and I zoom in to look closer at each of the men. A burst of heat unexpectedly rushes through me, half a dozen explicit memories firing through my brain like pistons.
As if the phone is fire, I toss it back down on the computer desk and reach up to tuck my hair behind my ears.
It’s longer now, past my shoulders and back to my natural red color.
Again, I feel a sense of yearning for the girl in the picture. How was that such a short time ago?
I inhale and close my eyes, knowing that I’ve put it off long enough. I have to make the call before I lose my nerve.
Reaching for the phone, I stare at the screen to look for the number.
But instead of dialing out, my phone rings in my hand.
Startled, I stare at my mom’s exhausted face smiling back at me on the contact photo. It’s such an old pic—one from when she had taken me to Disney when I was sixteen—twelve years ago. She had saved for years to take me on that trip. It’s my favorite picture of the two of us, but it makes me so sad every time I see it because it reminds me of the last time it was only the two of us.
Before Greg came along.
“Hey, Mom,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
“Hi, honeybun! I’m outside your door. You’re home, aren’t you? Oh please say you are! I just climbed all the stairs to get to your apartment, and I’ll just die if I have to go all the way back down again.”
Dread coils inside me as I leap up, looking around wildly at the boxes packed around the living room. I don’t want her to see them, but I can’t very well turn her away if she’s standing outside the door.
“Er… yes,” I squeak, not wanting to lie. “But uh?—”
“Good, open up. I have a ton of stuff, and my arms are about to fall right off.”
She knocks while still talking, but it sounds more like she’s kicking the door. “I brought a bunch of food from the farmer’s market. There’s more than enough to keep you for the week—at least!”
“Oh, Mom…” I hurry toward the door, stuffing down my shame to let my mother inside the tiny apartment.
Hanging up, I take some of the paper packages from her arms.
“Now, I still have to run to the store, so we can stock up on the other essentials you need.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Mom,” I sigh.
She smiles warmly at me as she sets the bags down on the counter. “You’re right. Why would I do something like that? You wouldn’t want people mistaking me for someone who loves you more than anyone else in the world, right?” she teases.
I really love my mom, and I can’t help but smile.
“No one would ever make that mistake.” I join her to put the fruits and vegetables in the fridge. “But maybe they’d mistake you for my older sister.”
“Lying is a sin, Emerson Grace,” she scolds me.
I laugh, kissing her soft cheek.
Her face darkens as she looks through the breakfast window and into the living room. “Emmy… are you moving out?”
“I had to give my notice.” I cringe, bowing my head shamefully. “I can’t afford to stay here anymore.”
“Oh, honey! Why didn’t you say anything?”
I don’t answer, and she embraces me tightly before releasing me. “Baby, Greg and I can help! Let me call him right now?—”
“No!” I cut her off, and she stops, leaning back on the counter to fold her arms over her chest.”
“Emerson…”
“Mom, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be fine.”
Cocking her head, she peers at me with those piercing green eyes—my eyes.
“Emerson Grace,” she begins, and nothing good can ever come from a conversation started like that. “I know you have a difficult time thinking of Greg as your father, being you were almost a woman when we married, but he is a good man who loves you. He’s done everything he can to show you that, the best way he knows how. But Lord knows, you don’t make it easy sometimes.”
Aghast, I gawk at her. “I know that, Mom. I’ve never thought otherwise. And I’m sorry if he thinks otherwise.”
“Then why don’t you let him help you? Your real daddy sure as hell isn’t going to come crawling out of the woodwork to do anything, if that’s what you’re still waiting on! You’re twenty-eight years old. He’s never coming to rescue us.”
Blood drains out of my face, my mother’s uncharacteristic bashing of my biological father catching me off guard. “Mom! Where is this coming from? I haven’t mentioned that man in years! I never expected that he would come back! And I wouldn’t ask him for anything if he did!”
I’m appalled she mentioned him, the entire conversation catching me off guard.
Mom eyes me warily and exhales, lowering her eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Greg mentioned that you were… being a bit standoffish when he offered his help. He thought maybe you were comparing him to your real daddy.”
This conversation isn’t making sense. “I haven’t thought about that man in over fifteen years. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were dead.”
She smiles weakly, but I’m choking back my budding resentment toward my stepfather.
I don’t suppose he explained just how eagerly he offered his help, I muse, the sarcasm thick. He probably asked the dentist for a root canal with more enthusiasm than he ever showed when I needed money or a place to stay.
But I say none of this to my mother.
Drawing in a breath, I take my mom’s hand and squeeze it. “I’m working on some options,” I tell her evasively. “And I’m not going to burden you if I can manage on my own, am I? That’s not the kind of girl you raised.”
Her expression softens. “I told him the same thing.” Her shoulders lower with relief, and she pats my hand. “I just want you to love him as much as I do.”
“I know, Mom,” I tell her, choking back my honest opinion. I want her to be happy, even if her husband is acting like a manipulative man-child. But if he makes her happy, it’s not my place to say anything.
She resumes the task of shelving groceries.
“Listen, Mom, I have to make a call right now. I was trying to tell you that this isn’t the best time for a visit.”
She eyes me in surprise. “Oh sure, baby. Is it for a job?”
“Could be…”
She pats my cheeks sweetly and grabs her purse. “Say no more. I’ll get out of here. Good luck, honeybun, and let me know how it goes.”
Sweeping out the door, she leaves a trail of perfume lingering in my apartment, and a wave of nausea strikes me in the aftermath.
The faintest of smells are killing me lately.
That had been my first clue, followed by the endless nausea.
I barely manage to lock the door before sprinting to the bathroom. The pregnancy test sits on the counter where I’d left it, still a glaring, undeniable positive.
Just like the two I’d done before it.
I rise from the toilet and clean myself up, staring dully at my listless face in the mirror. The woman staring back looks nothing like that hot blonde from Vegas. I wouldn’t even recognize me.
Moving in with Greg and my mom is no longer a viable option. He and I will not last in the same house long-term.
I can already see what he’s doing—playing the helpful husband for my mom while making it crystal clear to me, without actually saying it, that he doesn’t want to help.
But maybe there is another option here, one that could work out for everyone.
Instead of telling the Collins brothers about the pregnancy, I could go to the ranch and feel them out first, get to know who they are as people before I decide if I want to have a baby with any of them.
That way, I might be able to find out which one is the real father, too, before I tell him.
But for that, I’ll have to get creative and sneaky. Very sneaky.
Marching back toward my computer, I pull up the job posting for the ranch administrator again, and fill it out before I can change my mind.
I’m playing a risky game here, but I remember how Toby looked at me the morning after. He barely remembered me then, and the other two had been polite, but distant, clouded in their hangovers when I left. Neither one moved from the couch, although they did offer coffee, breakfast, and a ride, almost by rote.
Probably because they’ve done that kind of thing before. This is good news too.
They won’t remember me now, a few pounds heavier, with auburn hair and glasses.
And they know me as Diana, not Emerson Ward.
I hit send on the application and offer a silent prayer to the universe.
How about some good news for a change? Surely I have some good karma coming my way by now, don’t I?