3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Maggie: Well, I started my period. Thanks, womankind, for this oh-so-precious gift of menstruating.
I t’s days like today that it really feels like you’re gone, Mom. I’m cramping and my boobs hurt and there’s no one to complain to that will actually listen or care. We both know Chelsea isn’t that person. And Dad and Devon are no help. Hannah and I cycle together, so she gets it but offers no support. As we all know, sympathy is not one of Hannah’s gifts.
Here’s a tiny silver lining: my freaking out at the jump last week? It must have been PMS. Which makes me feel better, honestly. I’d thought I’d snapped or something. And obviously I still don’t want to do it because I’m on my period. Once it’s over, I’ll be back to the old me. Ready to fulfill your wishes.
“Mom’s birthday.”
I scream at the sound of a voice. My phone slips out of my hands, and I bat it around like a cat, trying to get a hold of it, before it lands on my knees and rolls down my leg, landing with a plop on the top part of my foot and then onto the floor under my desk.
“Ow!” I say. The phone hit just the right spot—right on that bone on the top of my Vans-clad foot. It makes me want to both laugh and cry at the same time. I roll back my chair on the epoxy-finished cement floor of my office and reach down to pick up my phone, rubbing my foot before sitting back up.
I look the phone over to inspect it and, sure enough, there’s a tiny little crack at the top of my screen protector.
First my period and now this? I hate this day.
“What?” I say to Chelsea, who’s missed this entire sequence as she’s staring at something on her phone. She’s wearing jeans and a company polo that says Cooper’s on the pocket. I never wear the polos from work, even though I have a bunch in all different colors. I like wearing my own T-shirts. Plus, I feel like polos make my shoulders look bulky. I’ve requested other shirts and even had some designed, but we haven’t gotten around to ordering them.
Chelsea looks up at me, down at her phone, and then up at me again, like she’s forgotten why she’s even here. Mom brain, she calls it. I say it’s her brain starting to misfire from all her multitasking. She does the books for our family-run business, manages a household with two small girls, runs a charity that we do called Drives for Dreams, and still finds the time to be an exercise addict as well.
“Mom’s birthday,” she repeats.
“Yes … May fifteenth.” I wonder if I’m being quizzed or something. What an odd thing to say.
She shakes her head. “Put it on your calendar; we’re jumping then,” she says, impatience in her voice like I’m supposed to read her mind.
“What?” I ask, pulling my calendar app up on my phone and scrolling through three months to get to May. “Why so long? Can’t we just do it in a week or something?”
I’m suddenly super annoyed. Didn’t Dad say I got to pick? I reach up and tug on the k pendant on my necklace. It feels like taking a big deep breath. But I take one of those too, for good measure.
“We have so much coming up with the anniversary party, Drives for Dreams, plus Mark and I are taking the girls to see his parents in April.” She ticks these things off on her fingers as she says them. Then she looks at me, wearily. “Last week really was the best time.”
“Sorry,” I say for the umpteenth time. I really do feel horrible about what happened.
I had a long discussion with Mom over the weekend, via her phone. And even though it was one-sided, I’m feeling better about the whole thing. Plus, like I was just telling her—before getting interrupted by Chelsea—the whole thing was most likely due to PMS. I’m pretty sure.
Chelsea shakes her head in quick movements. “It’s fine,” she says. “Anyway, Dad and I think May will be a good time.”
“You’ve already talked to Dad?”
“Yes.” She nods once. “He thinks it’s a great day to do it. And …” she stops herself, her eyes moving around the room as if she’s trying to think of the words she wants to use. “We both think it will give you enough time to … you know.” She purses her lips. “Get your crap together. Devon used another word, but Mark and I are working on not cussing since Alice called Mark’s mom an ass last time we were there.”
I snort laugh out my mouth. I love that story. If only I had that kid’s gumption. And in Alice’s defense, Mark’s mom is pretty terrible. At least, according to Chelsea she is.
My smile drops as I realize something. “Wait … Devon was there too? So, what … you all had a meeting behind my back?” Annoyance pools in my belly. I suddenly feel like a fragile person who’s left out of conversations that might be “too hard” for me to handle. This is not who I am. I’m the middle child. The glue. Clearly, my family no longer sees me this way.
Sure, I’ve taken my mom’s death the hardest of all of us. But that’s because Mom was my person. I talked to her every day. I told her nearly everything. I don’t have a family to keep me occupied, like Chelsea. And Devon is always busy doing whatever Devon does. Plus, boys don’t stay as close to home as girls do, or so I’ve been told.
But now I feel like I look weak and pathetic in my family’s eyes. And I don’t like it. It sort of feels like everyone else is on the same page and I’m over here in my own corner, feeling all my own feelings. I feel like no one understands me.
Chelsea looks annoyed now. “It wasn’t intentional. We just all happened to be in Dad’s office and it came up.”
“Well, I would’ve liked to be part of that conversation,” I say, my voice full of frustration. “May seems so far away from now.”
“Yes, well, I think it will work out for the best.”
By “the best,” she means the best for me. They must really think of me as fragile. I hate that so much.
I open my mouth to protest more, but then Devon appears in the doorway, next to Chelsea.
“You tell her?” he asks.
She nods.
“Are you gonna freak out again?” Devon turns toward me.
Chelsea punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop it. I’ve already talked to her.”
“What did she say?”
“She’s going to do it.”
“Yeah, but will she really?”
“I’m right here,” I say loudly .
“Right,” Devon says, his face turning toward me again. “And?”
“It’s fine. I’ll be ready.” Even as I say this, though, I feel nervousness swim through me. What if I can’t do it? What if I choke? What if I’m Chicken Maggie indefinitely?
“Good,” Devon says, and Chelsea echoes him with the same word.
“Are we done here?” I ask my siblings after a few seconds of quiet, both of them still standing in my doorway.
“Yeah,” Devon says, and Chelsea nods.
“Good, because I need to tell you that I caught Dad on a dating site the other day.”
“What?” Chelsea and Devon say at the same time.
They both walk into my office and stand near my desk. Without words, we are now in a sibling meeting. It’s something we’ve always done.
When we were younger, we’d get together in Chelsea’s room and sit on the floor, calling our meeting to order so we could discuss things we didn’t like—like the chore chart our mom had started using—or we’d make plans to strike over our allowance (we never followed through with that one). We also used to make detailed, coordinated plans to get our parents to take us places. Like to dinner, or the zoo, or even Disneyland. And it worked, most of the time.
As we grew older, the meetings were less and less frequent, and when we’d have them, they’d mostly be about Mom and Dad. For the past nine months, our meetings had been about health care for my mom, and then what hospice we should use … and eventually funeral planning. My dad wasn’t in a place to make huge decisions, so we’d gather the information, present him with all the options, and let him choose .
Then, after Mom was gone, there were meetings about Dad and what we were going to do for him. How we would take care of him, fill our mom’s shoes as best we could.
“Dad was on a dating site?” Chelsea says, her voice a hoarse whisper, as if saying it fully out loud will make it real.
“Yep,” I say, raising my eyebrows as I look between the two of them.
“Why?” Devon asks.
“To check the weather,” Chelsea says sarcastically.
He looks at her, hands resting on his hips. “I know what a dating site is, believe me.”
Chelsea wrinkles her nose at this information.
“I mean, why would Dad be on one?”
“Apparently, our neighbor June told him to check it out. To see what’s out there,” I say.
“Why would Dad even want to see what’s out there?” Chelsea asks.
“He said he’s lonely.”
We just look at each other, no words, our concerned and questioning eyes doing the talking.
“Maybe I should ask him to move in with me and Mark?” Chelsea says, her voice ending the silence.
“He’s fifty-nine,” Devon points out. “He’s not going to want to do that.”
“Could we get him a dog?” I ask, the idea coming to me just now. A dog would definitely help with loneliness.
We had a dog once. Butch was his name and he was a golden retriever/boxer mix. He regularly ate my mom’s shoes, and I suspect there wasn’t a lot of love lost on her end when he finally passed away at thirteen years old. I, on the other hand, didn’t think I could ever be more sad about a death. Until my mom died. That was much, much worse.
“Yeah, a dog might work,” Chelsea says. “I’ll look into it.”
“We probably shouldn’t spring a dog on him, though. Maybe we should ask first?” Devon says.
“Right,” I agree. But already my heart is feeling a little less heavy. A dog would be a perfect way to keep my dad from feeling alone at the house.
“Okay, I’ll let you know what I can find,” Chelsea says.
Devon and Chelsea both turn to leave, the meeting over. Gone are the days when we used to stand in a circle, put our hands on top of each other’s, and yell “Coopers!” at the top of our lungs before releasing our hands and shooting them up toward the ceiling.
Just as they’re walking out the door, I hear two taps on the wall outside my office and someone saying, “Knock, knock.”
I would know that voice anywhere. The low, soothing, extra sexy tones of Dawson Hargrove.
“Dawson,” Devon says when he sees him, in that “bro” way guys talk to each other. He gives him a fist bump. “What’s up, man?”
Chelsea also offers a greeting—a more professional one—and then leaves.
I watch as Devon and Dawson start up a conversation about something car related. I appreciate this, as it gives me time to get myself together. I’ve got a sweaty palms and pits situation happening right now.
Dawson is the operations manager at Cooper’s—my family’s shop. He’s worked for my dad for about a year now, and he’s been the object of my affection since the day he accepted the position and said those fateful words to me: “You’re stepping on my toes.”
I was literally wordless when I first met him—seeing that perfect chiseled jaw of his and those stark blue eyes. It took my breath away. It was like he’d stepped out of a magazine.
My dad introduced us, Dawson went in for a handshake, I went in for a hug—because I’d temporarily lost my mind—and toes were stepped on. He was very nice about it, and my embarrassment wasn’t enough to put me off him. I don’t think much could, really.
My crush has ebbed and flowed throughout this year and had become nearly nonexistent with all the things in my personal life, but recently there’s been a new development: he’s single .
This is significant. Dawson has been dating Natasha since I met him. Natasha . I’ve only met her a handful of times, but I could never figure the two of them out. She just seemed all wrong for him. Natasha is super wannabe Instagram famous, and Dawson is more reserved … more introspective.
He’s also the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life, with that beautifully thick, dark-blond head of hair and that gorgeously structured face. He shouldn’t be wasting that face at Cooper’s; he should be an actor or a model or something. That face is God’s gift to the world. But I’m grateful he’s not any of those things. Because, his looks and my sweaty pits aside, Dawson is a great asset to Cooper’s. He works hard and is dedicated to the company, and he runs the shop better than any other hire we’ve had.
My dad thinks the world of him. My mom too. She’d told me more than once that if the day ever came that Dawson was single, I needed to make something happen with him .
Well, he’s single now. Sexy and single. The day has come. And I’m going to go for it, since this is the first time we’ve been alone in my office since the breakup.
“I’ve got a situation for you,” Dawson says when he enters my office after finishing his conversation with Devon.
“Sure,” I say. My heart does a strange skipping thing again—clearly the extra time I had while he was talking to Devon did not help.
He’s wearing charcoal-gray coveralls, a white T-shirt peeking out underneath. His hair is perfectly styled—combed back with some gel to hold it all in place. His blue eyes crinkle on the sides as he smiles at me with perfectly straight, white teeth.
“Have a seat.” I put on my best professional demeanor, gesturing toward the black mesh guest chair facing my desk.
Dawson takes a seat, very cool-like—casually, where he does that thing that guys do, leaning back in the chair, legs spread apart. With his Converse-clad feet and coveralls he looks like someone from the past. James Dean, reincarnated.
“What did you need to talk about?” I ask after Dawson doesn’t say anything.
“Right.” Dawson clears his throat. “Your dad’s not here, so I thought I’d run this by you. I think we have to redo Andy Lawrence’s car … for free,” he says, his smile falling.
My smile falls, too, with this news. “Why?”
“The wrap looks bad. There’s some bubbling and the edges were done poorly.”
“Who did it?”
“Chad,” he says, with a knowing look on his face.
“Right.”
Chad is Devon’s friend, and Devon begged us to give Chad a job here. Actually, Devon never begs. He just told us that we were hiring his friend Chad and that was the end of it. Only Chad has no clue what he’s doing, and it’s becoming more and more apparent that whatever training Devon gave him, it was either half-hearted or, most likely, not much training at all.
We’ve been wrapping cars for nearly fifteen years now—even before it became a popular thing to do. My dad had been doing vinyl decals for cars—business cars and race cars were his bread and butter. But since the invention of the full-body car wrap, we’ve been working on all kinds of vehicles. Some customers want to save the original paint for value, and some just want something different and original—for their car to stand out. Whatever they want, Cooper’s can do it. That’s our motto: “Whatever you want, Cooper’s can do it!”
This isn’t exactly true, since there are state laws and limitations for what can and can’t be put on a car. Like naked people. Or even cartoons of naked people. This has been requested. A lot.
It’s a family affair at Cooper’s. My dad does most of the selling and runs the shop, I help run the day-to-day when he’s not here and I do all the HR, Chelsea does the books, and Devon … well, we’re not entirely sure what he does. He can sell like no other and wrap too. He’s kind of all over the place. My mom, when she was alive, liked to pop in and visit, but she mostly stayed away from the business. She liked to have her own thing, which up until her diagnosis was real estate.
“So what do you want to do, Boss?” Dawson gives me a wink.
I’d allow my stomach to throw confetti if this were a new thing. But Dawson has been a winker since day one. It clearly means nothing. The “boss” thing isn’t new either. But I get a little pang of butterflies every time he says it. I’m not technically his boss. My dad is the main guy around here.
“I guess we have to do the wrap again.”
“I figured. Just wanted to run it by you.”
“And give him ten percent off his next wrap too,” I say.
“Will do.”
“And we should probably give Chad an easier job.”
Dawson rubs his chin, his fingers running over the tiny bit of stubble there. I’m feeling envious of a jaw. This is a new low for me.
“I think I can train him; let’s give him another chance,” Dawson says.
My heart does a little stutter. See? Even knowing that Chad has cost us time and money, Dawson still wants to give him another chance. He’s the perfect man … Dawson, not Chad.
“Okay, then.” Dawson leans forward in his seat, placing his hands on the tops of his knees. “If that’s all, I guess I’ll get back to work.”
He stands up and then turns to walk out the door.
“Wait,” I say, the word coming out extra breathy sounding. I stand up from my chair as Dawson turns around, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
This is it. My chance. We’re alone in my office. I can ask him. I can make a move.
“I was wondering,” I start, but then my mouth runs dry. The blood between my ears is making a loud whooshing noise.
I don’t continue. I just stare at Dawson, suddenly feeling fear and doubt course through me. It’s instant. There’s no preamble or warning—it just happens. A lot like what I experienced before I ruined the jump last week .
“Yes?” Dawson asks, pulling his eyebrows inward, his look now one of concern.
“Well … um … I was thinking that …”
Oh dear, my heart is pounding. I can hear it in my ears. I feel my face flushing as panic rises.
“Are you … is everything okay?” Dawson asks.
“Ya-yeah,” I finally choke out. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, what were you wondering?” he asks.
“You know”—I shake my head and then give him the first excuse that comes to my mind—“I forgot,” I say, and then laugh awkwardly.
Dawson’s mouth moves as if he’s going to say something, opening and closing, and then all he says is, “Okay,” and with a wave and a smile, he walks out of the room.