He Used Me, I Destroyed Him

Chapter One The Perfect Couple

I pull into the parking lot of Citizens United Bank at seven fifteen, a full forty-five minutes before the doors open.

The lot is empty except for Linda Carpenter’s dark blue Buick parked in the same spot she’s claimed every weekday morning for the last twelve years.

I grab my travel mug and my bag from the passenger seat and head inside through the employee entrance.

The back hallway smells like fresh coffee and the lemon cleaner the janitorial crew uses every night.

I hang my jacket on the hook beside the break room door and set my bag in my locker.

My name badge is already clipped to my blouse because I put it on at home.

I learned that trick my first week here.

Fumbling with a lanyard while customers are waiting is not the impression I ever want to make.

I’ve worked at this bank for almost six years.

I started as a part-time teller the summer after I turned twenty-three, back when I thought this would just be something temporary.

But I stayed. I stayed because the work suited me and because the people here became something close to family.

Now I’m one of the senior tellers on staff and the person customers ask for by name when they walk through the front doors.

The teller stations are lined up behind the long counter that separates the lobby from our workspace.

I unlock my cash drawer and start my morning count.

Hundreds first, then fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and ones.

Coin rolls next. I log everything into the system and make sure my totals match what the closing teller recorded last night.

They do. They always do, because I count twice and never rush.

"You beat me again." Melissa Koenig drops her purse behind the second station and gives me an exaggerated look of defeat. "One of these days I’m going to get here before you."

"You’ve been saying that since 2021," I tell her.

"And I mean it every single time." She pulls her blonde hair back into a low ponytail and starts unlocking her own drawer. Melissa has been here almost as long as I have. She’s friendly and talkative and impossible not to like. She knows every regular customer’s name and at least two personal details about each of them.

She remembers birthdays, grandchildren’s names, and who just got back from vacation.

Some people might call it gossip. I call it genuine interest in people.

Becky Eastman arrives a few minutes later.

She works the customer service desk just to the left of the teller line.

She’s quieter than Melissa but equally kind, the sort of person who can sit with an upset customer for thirty minutes and never once look impatient.

She waves at both of us on her way past and settles into her chair with her usual green tea.

"Did either of you watch that show last night?" Melissa asks. "The one about the couple renovating houses in Vermont?"

"I saw the first twenty minutes and fell asleep," Becky says.

"You missed the best part. The husband knocked out the wrong wall and the whole kitchen ceiling caved in."

I smile and let their conversation wash over me while I finish setting up. This is my favorite part of the day. The fifteen or twenty minutes before the doors open when everything is calm and predictable and mine.

Linda Carpenter comes out of her office at seven forty-five.

She’s in her late fifties with short gray hair and reading glasses that she keeps on a beaded chain around her neck.

She’s been the branch manager here for over a decade and she runs this place with a quiet authority that I’ve always admired.

She doesn’t micromanage. She doesn’t hover.

She trusts us to do our jobs and only steps in when something genuinely needs her attention.

"Good morning, ladies," she says. "Kaitlyn, when you have a moment today, would you stop by my office? Nothing urgent. I just want to run something by you."

"Of course," I say. "I’ll come by after the morning rush."

She nods and heads back down the hall toward her office. Melissa raises her eyebrows at me.

"What do you think that’s about?"

"Probably nothing," I say.

"It’s never nothing when Linda closes her door."

I shrug and finish straightening my station. Whatever it is can wait. Right now I have a line of customers about to come through those doors and that’s where my focus belongs.

Ben Fulton walks in just before eight. He’s our loan officer, mid-thirties, built like a former college athlete who still makes it to the gym three or four times a week.

He’s got an easy laugh and the kind of personality that puts nervous borrowers at ease.

He drops a box of donuts on the break room counter.

"Chocolate glazed from Tina’s," he announces. "You’re welcome."

"You’re a saint, Ben," Melissa says.

"I know. I keep telling people that."

He grabs a donut for himself and disappears into his office on the far side of the lobby. Ben is one of Travis’s closest friends at the bank. They eat lunch together most days and talk about football and fishing and whatever else men talk about when they think no one is listening.

Travis.

I look toward the hallway that leads to the assistant branch manager’s office and smile without meaning to.

Travis Miller has been my boyfriend for just over a year now.

We started dating after the bank’s summer picnic last June when he asked if I wanted to grab dinner sometime and I said yes before he even finished the sentence.

He’s thirty-four, tall, and clean-shaven with dark hair that he keeps neatly trimmed.

He wears pressed shirts and polished shoes and carries himself like someone who knows exactly where he’s going in life.

He’s the assistant branch manager here at Citizens United, which means technically he outranks me, but we’ve never let that complicate things at work.

We’re professional during business hours and ourselves after five.

He appears in the hallway right on cue, coffee in one hand and his leather portfolio in the other.

"Morning," he says to the room, but his eyes find mine first. He walks over to my station and leans against the counter. "You look nice today."

"You say that every day."

"Because it’s true every day."

Melissa makes a quiet "aww" sound from her station and Becky hides a smile behind her tea. This is what it’s always like with us. Easy. Comfortable. Natural enough that everyone in this building assumes we’ll be engaged by Christmas.

Mrs. Evelyn Parker, one of our oldest and most beloved customers, told me last month that she’s already picked out a hat for our wedding.

Harold Briggs, a local farmer who comes in every Thursday to deposit equipment sale checks, asked Travis point-blank last week when he was going to "make an honest woman" out of me.

Travis just laughed and said he was working on it.

And I believed him. I believe him now. Why wouldn’t I?

He remembers to bring me coffee the way I like it.

He texts me good morning before I even wake up.

He listens when I talk about my day and asks follow-up questions that prove he was actually paying attention.

He’s everything I thought I wanted in a partner.

The doors open at eight and the morning rush begins.

Sugar Ridge is a small town, maybe five thousand people, but mornings at the bank are always busy.

Farmers come in early before heading out to their fields.

Business owners stop by to make deposits before opening their shops.

Retirees come in because the bank is part of their daily routine and the lobby gives them someone to talk to.

I help Mrs. Parker first. She’s eighty-two and comes in every Monday to withdraw exactly sixty dollars in cash for her weekly groceries. She could use her debit card. I’ve shown her how three times. But she likes the ritual of coming to the bank and she likes talking to me, so I never push it.

"How’s that handsome boyfriend of yours?" she asks while I count out her bills.

"He’s good, Mrs. Parker. Thank you for asking."

"You two remind me of me and my Henry. He was a banker too, you know. Forty-one years we had together." She tucks the bills into her pocketbook and pats my hand. "Don’t let that one get away, sweetheart."

"I won’t," I say.

Harold Briggs is next. He’s got a check from a tractor parts sale and a ten-minute story about his grandson’s baseball game.

I listen to every word because Harold doesn’t have many people to talk to since his wife passed.

When he finally leaves, he tips his cap at me and tells me I’m the best teller in the state. He tells me that every week.

The morning moves quickly. I process deposits and withdrawals and cashier’s checks.

I answer questions about account balances and transfer limits.

I help a young couple open their first joint checking account and walk them through every step because they look nervous and I remember what that felt like.

By ten thirty the lobby has thinned out and I finally have a moment to breathe.

That’s when Kyle Frederickson walks in.

I notice him the way I always notice him, which is to say I notice him more than I should.

He comes in once or twice a week to handle deposits for Frederickson Ag Supply, the family business his parents built and he now manages.

He’s thirty-three, tall, with sandy brown hair and broad shoulders that come from actual physical work and not a gym membership.

He wears jeans and work boots and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and he always looks like he just came from doing something useful.

He gets in Melissa’s line but I catch his eye and wave him over to my station.

"Hey, Kyle."

"Hey, Kaitlyn." He sets a deposit bag on the counter. "How’s your Monday going?"

"Busy morning but it’s settling down now. How about you?"