Chapter 12 – Mindy
CHAPTER TWELVE
Only as friends
Mindy
Climbing from my mother’s deep blue Mazda hatchback, I lift my face to the sun. It’s over eighty degrees today, unseasonably warm for May in Galveston. Maybe I’ll go to the beach later.
“No, you need to find a job,” I scold myself, hitching my purse over my shoulder and crossing the parking lot to the bank.
A few weeks after Mama died, I resumed my apprenticeship, but the bakery was only able to give me work on the weekends, which means it will probably take me two full years to complete it.
In the meantime, I plan to get a full-time job during the week so I can save as much money as possible. But where?
As if the universe heard my question, I notice a sign on the glass door indicating the bank is hiring for several positions. I go inside and see a woman at a desk right near the door. She’s on the phone but offers me a polite smile and a raised finger, letting me know she’ll be with me in a moment.
After hanging up, she looks up at me. “Hi, my name is Sandra. How can I help you?”
“I need to close out an account,” I tell her. “And I’d also like information on what positions you’re hiring for.”
“Of course.” Sandra opens a drawer and pulls out a folder with the bank logo on the front. “There’s a sheet at the front listing the positions and salaries, and you’ll find an application behind it.”
While she makes a phone call to see which account manager is available, I scan the positions.
I don’t have the qualifications for a couple of them, but I see they’re hiring tellers and an administrative assistant for the branch manager.
The salary for the latter is significantly higher and comes with better benefits.
Sandra hangs up the phone and gestures toward the glass offices behind her. “If you’ll just have a seat in front of the second office, Mr. McCoy will be with you in a moment.”
I sit in one of the two chairs beside the closed wooden door and locate a pen in my purse, quickly filling in my information. In the box requesting which position I’m applying for, I hesitate.
Just then, the door opens, and a man emerges. He appears to be a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a warm smile.
“Hi, I’m Roger McCoy. Come on in,” he says, gesturing for me to enter.
“Mindy Espinoza,” I introduce, following him into the office.
We settle, Mr. McCoy in his swivel chair and me on the other side of the desk. He folds his hands in front of him. “How can I help you today, Ms. Espinoza?”
“I need to close out my mother’s account.” At his slight frown, I add, “She passed away earlier this year, and I’m already on her account since she added me right after her diagnosis so I could help her with bills and stuff. And I have power of attorney.”
Mr. McCoy’s smile is filled with sympathy. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I lost my dad recently. It’s not easy.”
“No, it’s not. And I’m sorry for your loss as well,” I commiserate, pulling a manila envelope filled with paperwork from my purse. “Here’s everything you should need, including the d-death certificate.” I still sometimes stumble over the d-word.
The account manager takes the papers out and flips through, inspecting the documents before swiveling to his computer and presumably pulling up my mom’s account.
“Looks like everything is in order here. Do you have an account with us that you’d like the money transferred into?” He looks at me expectantly.
“No, sorry,” I apologize. “I bank somewhere else. Can I just get a cashier’s check?”
“Certainly. It will only take a few minutes to get everything scanned in and completed.” He rises. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“Water would be nice,” I reply, and he returns a couple minutes later with a cool bottle before leaving again. I sip on it and look over the application again, trying to decide what to put in that final box.
Be the white owl, I remind myself. Embrace courage and change.
My promise to Mama to open my own bakery one day flashes through my brain—as does the higher salary—and I quickly write in “administrative assistant.” It will help me get to my goal faster, and I’m confident I can do the work. I’m obsessively organized, good on the phone, and flexible.
When the banker returns, he has some final paperwork for me. I read it over and sign my name at the bottom, but when I begin to write the date, a stab of recognition stills my hand.
Joe.
Today marks exactly one year since our night together. Since he kissed me like I mattered. Since he covered my body with his. Since he looked deeply into my eyes while he was just as deep inside my body and told me I was more.
No. It’s been one year since he fucking lied, I remind myself.
A voice breaks through my reverie. “It’s May seventeenth,” Mr. McCoy says helpfully as if I were simply blanking on the correct date, and I quickly scrawl it next to my signature. Though my brain is still stupidly on the one man I can’t seem to get out of my head.
“Thank you, Mr. McCoy,” I say, picking up my purse.
“You can call me Roger if you want.”
“Okay, and you can call me Mindy.”
He hands me a business card. “I know it can be lonely after losing a parent, so if you ever want to…” Roger swallows, brows furrowing in what appears to be nervousness. “I mean, we could go out sometime if you want.”
“Oh.” I’m a little stunned and not at all interested. As politely as possible, I reply, “I don’t think I’m in a place where I’m ready to date right now, but thank you, Roger.”
He nods as if he expected that answer, and I feel a little bad for him. “Even if it’s just grabbing a coffee as friends, I’m good with that.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say vaguely, tucking the card into my purse.
Hours later, I’m lying on my back on the bed, eyes closed as I pant out the remnants of my orgasm. But it wasn’t Roger who administered the climax. Because I can’t just fantasize about a normal guy who’s nice and polite like the banker.
Nope. That particular orgasm was brought to me courtesy of Joe’s memory, just like every other one I’ve had for the past year.
“Dammit all to hell,” I breathe, pulling the dildo from inside me. The afterimage of the cheating asshole’s face fades away, and I open my eyes to stare at the dark ceiling. “What is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop doing this shit?”
Because he hung on your every word. Because he stared into your soul when he was on top of you. Because he was the perfect mix of kind and sweet infused with demanding and dirty.
“No,” I say aloud, rolling off the bed and marching into the bathroom. Okay, it’s more like stumbling because my legs are still a little weak from… all that.
I’m disgusted with myself. I’ve got to get over this man. It’s been a fucking year already, and here I am, still allowing him space in my head.
After cleaning up, I place my toy back into my drawer and crawl between the still warm sheets.
They’d be warmer if he was here, I think and instantly berate myself for what feels like the thousandth time tonight.
But Joe’s naked body curled around my back while we slept was the most relaxed I’d ever felt in my life, like we were made to sleep together, to share body heat and skin-to-skin contact.
I make a decision. Tomorrow I’m going to put him behind me. How? I have no damn idea. They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, but I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I ever will be. But I could use a distraction.
My mind goes to that Roger guy. He’s nice enough looking. Of course he doesn’t look like a male model like that other man I’m totally not thinking about. But he has nice hair.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll call the banker and accept his invitation to coffee. As friends. Only as friends.