He Got His Coworker Pregnant, I Took Everything

Chapter 1 The Future We Planned

The coffee is still too hot to drink but I hold the mug anyway.

The warmth feels good against my palms this early in the morning.

It's barely six and the neighborhood is quiet.

No cars on the street yet. No dogs barking.

Just me on the back patio in my old university sweatshirt and a pair of shorts that probably should have been thrown away two years ago.

I like mornings like this. The ones where everything feels manageable. Where I can sit here on this little concrete slab behind my house and pretend the whole world is just this. Coffee. Quiet. The hum of the neighbor's air conditioner kicking on.

Kirk stayed at his apartment last night.

He does that more often now. Three or four nights a week he's there instead of here and I've stopped asking why because the answer is always the same.

Work stuff. Late meetings. Too tired to drive across town.

I get it. He's been putting in long hours at Wildhorse Insurance Services and the commute from his place to his office is only about seven minutes compared to the twenty from mine.

Still. Nine years is a long time to be with someone and not live together full time.

I take a careful sip of the coffee and set the mug on the arm of the plastic chair.

It wobbles a little. I keep meaning to replace these chairs but every time I have a free weekend something else comes up.

The bathroom faucet needs a new washer. The garden bed along the back fence needs fresh soil.

The kitchen drawer sticks and I have to sand it down.

There's always something. This house is small and old and it needs constant attention but it's mine and I love it.

Kirk thinks I should sell it and move into his apartment.

He's mentioned it three or four times over the past year.

But his apartment is a two-bedroom rental on the second floor of a complex near the highway and it doesn't have a yard.

No garden. No patio. No place to refinish the furniture I find at estate sales on the weekends.

I told him I'd rather we find a house together.

Something with a yard and a garage and enough room for both of us.

He said that sounded good and then never brought it up again.

I finish my coffee inside while getting ready for work.

Shower. Hair pulled back. Light makeup because it's going to be warm today and anything heavy will be gone by noon.

I eat a piece of toast standing at the kitchen counter and check my phone.

There's a text from Kirk sent at eleven last night.

Just a thumbs up emoji in response to a question I asked him hours earlier about whether he wanted to come over for dinner this weekend.

A thumbs up. After nine years.

I put the phone in my bag and lock the front door behind me.

The drive to Wildhorse City Hall takes about twelve minutes from my house.

The route takes me through the older part of town where the streets are lined with mature trees and the houses have wide front porches.

I pass the library and the post office and the little bakery on Third Street that always smells incredible in the mornings.

Wildhorse isn't a big city but it isn't a tiny town either.

It's comfortable. People know each other here without being in each other's business every second of the day. Most of the time anyway.

City Hall sits on a corner lot at the intersection of Main and Archer.

It's a two-story brick building with tall windows and a small parking lot out back for employees.

The building was constructed in 1952 and renovated twice since then.

I know this because I work in the Records Department and I've personally handled the original construction permits and the renovation approvals.

Those documents are filed in the basement archives in acid-free folders inside climate-controlled cabinets that I organized myself during my second year here.

I've been a Records Clerk at Wildhorse City Hall for almost eight years now.

I started when I was twenty-five and I'm thirty-three now.

I handle records requests from residents and attorneys and title companies and anyone else who needs access to historical documents.

Deeds. Permits. Plat maps. Council meeting minutes going back decades.

I genuinely enjoy the work. There's something satisfying about finding exactly the right document for someone who's been searching for it.

Putting the pieces of a property's history together or tracking down an old easement that nobody remembered existed.

Amanda is already at her desk when I walk through the front doors. She's the Deputy City Clerk and she sits in the main administrative office just inside the entrance. Her desk faces the lobby so she's usually the first person anyone sees when they come in.

"You look tired," she says without looking up from her computer.

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious. Did you sleep?"

"I slept fine." I set my bag down behind the front counter and sign in on the staff log. "I just got up early."

"You always get up early. That's not new. This is something else." She finally looks at me and narrows her eyes. "Is Kirk being weird again?"

"Kirk is always a little weird. That's not new either."

Amanda and I have been friends since the seventh grade. She knows me better than anyone except maybe my mother. She also has very strong opinions about Kirk that she has mostly learned to keep to herself over the past nine years. Mostly.

"I'm just saying," she continues, turning back to her monitor. "If a man can't bother to drive twenty minutes to sleep next to the woman he supposedly loves then maybe that man needs to reevaluate his priorities."

"Amanda."

"I'm done. That's all I'm saying."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I head downstairs to the Records Department.

The basement level of City Hall is surprisingly bright for a basement.

There are high windows along the east wall that let in natural light and the overhead fixtures were replaced with LEDs during the last renovation.

The department consists of three rooms. The main office where Roger and I have our desks.

The public request counter where residents come to submit records requests.

And the archive room in the back where the oldest and most sensitive documents are stored.

Roger Hanson is already seated at his desk sorting through a stack of folders when I come in.

Roger is the Assistant Records Clerk. He's about fifty years old with thinning brown hair and reading glasses that he constantly pushes up his nose.

He's a genuine history enthusiast who treats every old document like a minor treasure. I appreciate that about him.

"Morning, Brook. There's a stack of property deed requests from Henderson Title on your desk. They need them by end of week."

"How many?"

"Fourteen."

"That's not bad. I can probably get through most of them today."

"Also Mrs. Carpenter called again about her grandfather's building permit from 1947. I told her we'd have an answer by Wednesday."

"I already found it. It was misfiled under commercial permits instead of residential. I'll call her this morning."

Roger smiles. "Of course you already found it."

I settle into my desk and start working through the Henderson Title requests.

The process is straightforward but it requires attention to detail.

Each request needs to be cross-referenced against the original recorded documents.

I pull the physical files from the archive room and compare them to the digital index.

If everything matches I certify the copies and prepare them for pickup.

If something doesn't match I have to dig deeper.

Sometimes documents were recorded under slightly different names or parcel numbers.

Sometimes pages are missing. Sometimes the original recording was done incorrectly decades ago and nobody caught it until now.

Around ten o'clock I take a break and head upstairs to refill my coffee.

Amanda is at the front counter helping a resident with a business license renewal.

Rowena Shields is standing near the copier reviewing a stack of papers.

Rowena is the City Clerk. She's been in the position for twelve years and she runs the department with calm efficiency.

She's professional and respected and she's always been supportive of my work even when I don't hear it directly.

"Brook," she says as I pass. "Do you have a minute after lunch? I want to talk to you about the records preservation project."

"Of course. I'll come find you."

"Perfect. Thank you."

I fill my coffee and head back downstairs.

The rest of the morning is steady. I process six of the fourteen deed requests and call Mrs. Carpenter about her grandfather's building permit.

She's delighted. She tells me she's been looking for proof that her grandfather built the house on Elm Street himself and this permit confirms it.

I make a certified copy and tell her she can pick it up anytime this week.

After lunch I meet with Rowena in her office on the second floor.

She tells me the city has been in discussions with the County Archives about a long-term records preservation project.

The idea is to transfer some of the oldest and most fragile city documents to the county facility where they have better climate control and preservation equipment.

Rowena wants me to lead the project from our end.

I'd be responsible for identifying which records should be transferred and coordinating with the county archivist.

"You're the best person for this," she says. "You know those records better than anyone in this building."

"I'd love to work on it. When do we start?"