Chapter 6 Straight from the Movies
Ren
I laugh at myself. A lot of good that thirty minutes of being bad did me.
I’m already back to my good-girl habits, stressing over being on time.
Not to mention the ever-present worry that Lewis may have told others what he saw.
I don’t regret it for a single second, but it’s not something I want everyone I work with—well, worked with to know.
My legs feel heavy as I cross the parking lot to my building. I’m so emotionally exhausted. I spent half the weekend crying and half the weekend in a stupor, trying to convince myself that the giraffe barn with Roman actually happened.
When I see Dr. Lewis waiting outside the entrance, I feel like I could simply collapse, but the rough asphalt is less than appealing. Where’s Belinda and a pile of hay when you need it?
I used to get a beautiful rush of butterflies when I’d arrive at work to find him waiting for me, just so he could tell me good morning in person. Now, it’s all I can do to keep walking, ignoring him the best I can.
Even when he runs up to me and grabs my arm, I don’t look at him as I try not to burst into tears and say, “I’m going to be late. Let me go, please.” I hate that my voice cracks. I hate that I say please instead of slapping him in the face, which is what I really want to do.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.” He sounds genuinely hurt, genuinely confused. I think it’s that he sounds like the victim that makes me finally snap.
I rip his hand off me. “Because you’re married!” I whisper-yell, in case someone passes.
He pleads with my full name, “Serenity—”
“No.” My heart cracks a little more. “No, Lewis, you don’t get to explain or apologize or whatever bullshit is about to come out of your mouth. There is nothing I want to hear from you.”
I don’t give him a chance to respond. I push inside and head straight for the lobby bathrooms. The door swings closed behind me, and I practically run to the first empty stall.
I bury my face in my hands and scream every cuss word and insult I can think of.
I try to lose myself in writing up the post-event report; if it’s the last thing I do here, I’m going to do it right.
I fixate on every small detail to get it perfect.
Before lunch, I’m meeting with my boss, for what I suspect will be the last time, to supposedly go over said report.
It doesn’t serve as a great distraction when the event only reminds me of what else happened that night.
Finding out my boyfriend is married was pretty devastating.
I was—am—furious, but what happened after in the barn has been playing on a loop in my head.
My cheeks still flush when I think about the way Roman’s demeanor changed from cold and unaffected as he told me to get on my knees to barely holding it together when I did.
It was almost like he didn’t expect me to but was pleased I did.
It could have been an objectively demeaning situation, me on my knees, following the orders of the man about to come on my tongue, telling me I can only have what he chooses to give me.
Lord knows I felt demeaned when Lewis did similar.
And Lewis said please. But it didn’t feel that way with Roman.
It was the complete opposite. I wasn’t a toy for his use. I felt like a treasured gift.
By the time the calendar notification comes in for my meeting, I’ve failed to distract myself. I knock on Jeff’s open office door that reads Executive Director. At the sound of my knock, he looks up from this computer and smiles. “Hey, Ren, come on in.”
Before I sit across from him at his desk, I realize he doesn’t have a copy of my report printed out like he usually does for our debriefs.
I hold off on sitting, saying, “Oh, would you like me to make you a copy—or here, you can have mine.” I offer my stapled packet and anxiously laugh.
“It’s not like I don’t know what it says. ”
“Thank you.” He takes it but doesn’t spare it a single glance, setting it face down on his desk. “Listen, Ren . . .” He proceeds to explain that my position in the Development Office is being eliminated and all fundraising events will now be run through the Office of Special Events.
I don’t let on that I know. I don’t want Eliana getting in trouble for breaking confidence. Even though I knew it was coming, I still feel sucker punched. It doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with my performance, but how can it not feel personal when I’m the person getting fired?
As I stand, he tries to apologize. Thank God for years of conditioning because despite feeling totally dejected, I’m able to politely smile and effuse, “Oh, it’s okay, no problem at all, thanks.”
I walk out of his office, finally processing that I no longer have a job. This is in fact a problem. A very big one.
Why did I just thank him for firing me?
I return to my office and sit down, staring blankly at my computer. After a few minutes, Eliana slinks in with a look that is part apologetic, part guilty, and part forced optimism. In her hands is a cardboard file box.
“Where did you find that?” I ask, perplexed. This is a scene straight from a movie.
“Charles gave it to me.” Her intonation goes up like it’s a question.
I explain, “I swear the only time I’ve ever seen a box like that is in movies when someone gets fired—you know, they shove picture frames and fake plants into it for their walk of shame through the office. I’ve worked here for four years and have never seen one until now.”
“Why is that what you’re worried about?” She pushes her thick, curly hair out of her face.
I laugh pitifully. “Hey, at least I don’t have to risk running into Lewis everyday.”
“This is so unfair.” She huffs but begins to gather my small collection of fake plants dotting the office. She sets one in the box and gives me a look of support. “And I’m not letting you do this so-called walk of shame alone.”
Thirty minutes later, Eliana and I are stepping out into the noon sun, my stupid movie-prop box filled to the brim. It feels surreal.
She gives me a hug as best she can with the box still in my arms and promises to call me when she “murders Jeff and/or Lewis.”
I genuinely laugh, followed by a wave of bittersweet. “I’ll miss you.”
“What are you talking about? We’re still going to see each other all the time—you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Eliana and I met through work but have become really good friends. I’ll miss seeing her every day and hope that our friendship doesn’t fizzle out without that daily connection. But I’m not optimistic.
Once she goes back inside, I make my way to my car and sit in the driver’s seat.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
It’s ten days until Christmas, so the only people hiring are seasonal retail jobs.
My parents would probably tell me not to even think about getting another job right away.
They’d say something about returning to Mother Earth and listening for her guidance, to follow the sunbursts of my soul—whatever the fuck that means.
The first part of their assumed advice isn’t that bad. I have enough savings that I don’t need to rush into another job. But the idea of dipping into the rainy-day fund that I’ve meticulously grown gives me hives, even though I know it’s for situations exactly like this.
That’s the problem with growing up in a hippie commune bordering on a cult. My parents were, and still are, so free-spirited that I became the complete opposite for some semblance of control and ability to function in the real world.
When your parents give all their spare money to community living, budgeting every paycheck to the penny becomes a coping mechanism.
When your parents bounced from job to job, sometimes solely relying on selling folk art at a roadside fruit stand, you get a degree in accounting because at least then you’ll always have a job.
Well, look how well that turned out for me.
I startle when my phone rings and curse when I realize it’s somewhere at the bottom of the box. I dig through my stuff without great care, trying to reach it before it goes to voicemail.
It’s a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Honey bear, it’s Mama.” Her voice has gotten raspier with age, but it’s still a soothing coo. Every sentence she speaks sounds like she’s reading a bedtime story.
“Mom? Is everything alright?”
“Of course, beary boo, why wouldn’t it be?”
I may call her Mom, but I’ve always felt more like the parent. “Because you’re calling me from an unknown number. What happened to your phone?”
“Oh, that.” She laughs, the sound both comforting and aggravating. She provided a life based on seeking joy in the mundane, but she would also laugh when all I wanted was for her to take a single thing seriously. “I seem to have misplaced it. I’m borrowing Celeste’s.”
“Again? I bought you that one less than a month ago—”
“Well, I don’t know why you did. I have little use for one on the ranch—that’s why I’m always losing them.”
I hold back an aggrieved sigh. We’ve had this conversation so many times, it’s exhausting. “Because I need to be able to reach you or Dad in case of emergencies. What if I got in a car wreck? I could be dead for a week before anyone gets a hold of you.”
“Oh, nothing like that is going to happen to you, honey bear. The Great Divine will protect you.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, attempting a calming inhale before continuing. “What did you call for, Mom?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice, sweetie.” I wait silently for her real reason. After a beat, she continues, “And to let you know that your father and I won’t be able to make it to the city for Christmas.”
“What?” My heart sinks. They may annoy the hell out of me and have the technological skills of neanderthals, but I still love them dearly and was looking forward to seeing them.
Especially now that every other part of my life is crumbling around me.
“We’ve had this planned since before Harmony left. ”
I find myself fighting back tears. Since my sister, Harmony, has been a student at June Harbor University, she’s been spending the holidays with me in the city, but a few months ago, she left for the Peace Corps. My parents offered to come so I wasn’t alone on Christmas.
My bottom lip wobbles as I ask, “Why?”
“It’s Popeye,” she says solemnly. Of course this would be about one of the commune’s barn cats. “We think the coyotes got him. No one’s seen him in days. Everyone’s rocked. It would be an insensitive time to leave when the family is suffering.”
Of course the family she is referring to doesn’t include me.
“What about Lewis? Can’t you spend Christmas with him?”
I simply can’t handle answering that question right now, so I lie. “Hey, Mom, sorry about Popeye, but my boss is calling me. I have to go.”
“Alright, hon, love you.” I can hear her smile through the phone, oblivious to my pain.
“Yeah, love ya too,” I say quickly before hanging up.
I flop my head down on the steering wheel harder than intended, making the horn blare.
“Fuck.” I jolt upright and glance at the clock. It’s barely past noon.
Eh, fuck it. I need a drink.
1. Play "Brutal"—Olivia Rodrigo until end of chapter