Finding Alana (2 page)

I arrive to work about an hour ahead of my normal start time. The office is a ghost town. The lights aren’t even on yet. I settle into my desk and start reading my resume again and check my calendar. I have several administrative things to do today. My interviews are interspersed between other obligations, and I don’t know why I always volunteer for so much. My current job is the lowest rung of the proverbial ladder. Sometimes I think it’s one step below entry level.

It’s not about where you are; it’s about where you’re going.
Irma’s reminder echoes in my mind whenever I think about her words. Her reminders sometimes feel like admonitions for a lack of faith. I look down at the tattoo on my wrist. It’s a beautiful script, which reads, “Actually, I can.”

Six months ago, when I was having a really low day, I ran across this phrase and knew I needed it as a tattoo. It was such a bad day that I considered quitting school. The only thing that kept me going was knowing how quitting would hurt Irma. It was a day when I was thinking of Ethan, my son.

Ethan was only three years old when I had to run for my life. His tiny face is always in the back of my mind. I don’t have any pictures of him, and I haven’t been able to see him in five years. I had become very good about keeping my thoughts off of him. He lived only in a tiny compartment of my mind that I accessed when I was alone.

On that particular day, I met another Ethan. He was some guy in my civics class. We were doing introductions as it was the first day of the semester. When he said his name, I jumped and turned to look at him. He had light brown hair and green eyes. The same green as my own. The same as my Ethan.

It was a silly, coincidental moment. It wasn’t enough to really call it coincidental. I think Ethan had been on my mind lately, and it was the tiny straw that destroyed the wall holding back all of those pent up emotions. I ran from class, and hid in my car. It was a hell of a thing to explain to the teacher when I returned to class on the following Thursday.

How do you tell your teacher that the guy three rows back reminded you of the son you haven’t seen in five years? You don’t. You claim lady problems.

That weekend, after I told the negative demon in my head—who tells me all that I can’t do—to shut up, I drove to see my friend Allie. She’s a tattoo artist. At first, she gave me shit about the phrase, but she drew it up anyway. She did a beautiful job. It wasn’t as painful as I thought it might be, and the script is what I need on days like this.

It’s a reminder that no matter what shit I’ve been through, I can do anything I set my mind to do. Right now, I just want to get through these interviews.

I start working through my emails, and printing reports that the Dragon Lady will be asking for. If I can do what she wants before she asks, my life goes a lot smoother. Naturally, the printer shared by the entire cube farm jams. I know because I can hear that dinosaur grinding and squealing. I start praying as I walk over to the beast.

Last time this happened, I was less than successful in fixing it. I sincerely detest calling for the systems guy to come up and look at it. Invariably, they make me feel like an idiot for needing assistance.

First, I read the display to see if it points out on the diagram where the paper is stuck. It does, but it says there are four potential locations for the jam.
Oh
boy. I set about opening all the little doors and turning all the little wheels. I have to be careful because the damn fuser is putting off so much heat that I’m scared to burn myself.

Pulling pages out as I find them, I soon have a stack of torn, crumpled, remnants. I look a little deeper to see a tiny piece hanging behind a pressure plate. After studying the diagrams and arrows printed inside the printer cavity, I see I should lift this green lever that looks to release the plate in question.

I can’t seem to move the piece-of-shit lever. So I step back and position my legs to help me. I’m also careful to keep my distance from the machine as my hands look like I’ve been grease-monkeying on cars, not fixing a printer. I really don’t have the money to start replacing my wardrobe due to toner mishaps.

Taking a solid grip on the lever from hell, I bend my knees to leverage some strength from my legs. As I begin to lift, I feel the sudden success of something letting go. I’m just about to fist pump to celebrate my victory over the printer, when I look down to see the lever in my hand—no longer attached to the printer.

“Motherfucker!” I say in frustration, a little louder than I intend. Suddenly, I hear someone behind me clear their throat.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself to see who I’ve offended. Slowly, I turn and plaster on a sheepish smile. Standing behind me isn’t someone I know. He’s grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have some trouble with that printer,” he observes.

I nod. “Yeah, guess I got a little carried away with removing a paper jam.”

He lets out a noise that can best be described as a cough-laugh-snort. “Ya think? You broke the damn lever off. That’s an expensive part to replace,” he points out, ever so helpfully.

Irritation courses through me as heat floods my face. I’m embarrassed and pissed. Embarrassed I was dumb enough to bust the lever of the printer, and pissed he would make fun of me. I have no idea who he is or where he’s come from.
Who does asshole think he is?
I open my mouth to argue with him and let him know what an ass I think he is, but I never get the chance. He cuts me off.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. I had to mess with you. You were just so into fixing that paper jam,” he says, laughing.

I’m not laughing. My eyebrows pull in as I frown and let my resting bitch face slide into place. “How long were you behind me?”

“Long enough.” He winks, and I want to punch him in those luscious brown eyes. “I’m Justin.” He holds his hand out for an introductory shake. “I work for Wilson Technical.”

I don’t shake his hand. I fold my arms over my chest. “And?” I ask. Like I’m supposed to know what Wilson Technical is and why it’s important.

All signs of laughter disappear, and his smile fades. “I, uh, I’m here to replace the printer.” He ends his sentence with a nod that says,
“Get it?”

I shake my head to clear it of the agitation swirling around. “Oh. Okay. Well. Carry on, Justin.” I roll my eyes and walk away. I head over to my desk to grab my coffee cup. This shit went down way too early this morning. I need a drink—a real drink. Coffee will have to do.

Naturally, the pot is empty, but someone left the machine running at some point. Now that’s been sitting all weekend, there is a nasty, thick, black sludge in the bottom of it. I huff as I take the pot to the sink in the break area and start running the water so it can heat up.

As I’m waiting, I place my hands on the edge of the counter, drop my head, and let my shoulders sag. This day is too important, and everything is falling apart. I close my eyes while the water continues to run and practice breathing.
In and Out. In. And out.
I repeat the words in my head to try and regain some focus.

“Water’s hot.”

I jump and let out a surprised squeak as I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle whatever else might come after it. That’s when I see him. Printer guy, Justin.
Really?
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for the observation.” I roll my eyes again, and add soap to the sludge-crusted coffee pot to start scrubbing.

Justin clears his throat with a
pay-attention-to-me
sound. I don’t look at him. I guess he figures that’s permission to keep talking. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I meant it when I said I was sorry.”

Still scrubbing, I say, “Yeah, well, you did. So…”

He sighs. “It was funny because you were working so hard on the printer they reported last week and asked us to replace. You clearly didn’t know it was already dead.” He sounds sincere.

I stop scrubbing, and turn to look at him. He’s your average guy. Not remarkably tall, easily six-foot, but I doubt an inch more. His dark brown hair swoops across his face, clearly too long. It’s annoying and adorable how he flips it back every now and then. His brown eyes are huge and give the perception of depth. They are…interesting.

The exhaustion from being so worked up about the day, and scrubbing the coffee pot hits me all at once. I lean my back against the wall by the sink, and rest my elbow on the counter. Surrendering. “It’s okay,” I mutter. “It’s not your fault I took it so bad. It’s been a shitty start to a very important day. I’m wound up, I guess. Mondays, ya know?” I try to give him a smile, but it feels awkward and fake.

He steps over to the counter I’m leaning against, the corners of his mouth turning up a little bit, “What makes today so important?”

I shrug. “Nothing major to anyone else. I’m interviewing for a promotion I’ve waited nearly a year for them to open up. I need this to go well.”

“That is an important day. And it is pretty major. Sorry I was a part of stressing you out more.”

I really smile now because he’s kind, and there’s an odd peace crawling its way through my veins. Almost as if being in his presence is a stress antidote. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t know.”

“Would it help if I said you got this?” he asks.

I chuckle as I turn to face him and let go of the last of my animosity. “I’m not sure what that means, or how you would know, but yeah, that helps.”

The smile he gives me is megawatt-bright. “Good. You got this! I should go finish my work order.” He straightens and starts walking toward the door.

“Thanks,” I say in a near whisper.

As he’s about to leave the kitchen, he turns back. “Oh, who should I say broke the printer?”

I give him a sarcastic smile. “Alana.”

“Wine after work tonight.”
I text Kate on my way back to my desk.

Her response is nearly instantaneous, and, as usual, emphatic.
“Hell yeah! Only, let’s skip wine at home and go to the bar.”

I chuckle and text her back a time to meet at the house. I’m glad I have her. She’s been seriously dependable and more supportive than any other random roommate I could’ve found. She’s a blessing.

Work is rote as I finish preparing reports. My manager, Bernice, AKA the Dragon Lady, has decided she wants all reports presented in a color-coded file system. I have an instructional document on how to present reports to her.

It’s fucking ridiculous, yet I keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told, playing the get-along game. I need this job, and I need the promotion even more.

Checking my calendar for the millionth time, I note that I have ten minutes until my first interview of four today. Four interviews for a single-step promotion. I won’t even be a manager level, yet I need to interview with four people to get there. It’s a tad excessive.

I consider my answers to the questions I hate the most:
What is your biggest weakness? What is your five-year plan?
Dude, I so just want to answer:
I have no weaknesses. My five-year plan is to have a job and stay alive.
That won’t float, so I polish my professional responses.

I have to convince them I want to be here for the rest of my life.
Go Web Design, Inc.!
I bleed blue and white. Damn it! Maybe I should have worn a company logo shirt. Too late now. I find myself watching the clock as my thoughts ramble.

I remember how Rhae used to look at me when I would chase rabbits. She used to call me a squirrel. The memory puts a smile on my face.
It’s time. Get your shit together.
I stand and walk toward the conference room.

The first interview is with the hiring manager, Dee. She is a sweet lady. Her questions are easy. She’s very casual and makes me feel comfortable. Surprisingly, she never asks me the dreaded weakness question. Interview number two is another web designer that works for Dee. I guess he’s her number one since Rhae left. He’s a cocky prick. I have to overlook that to be as personable as possible.
I need this job. I need this job.
I repeat as I do my mental mantras that keep me on the right trick.

I’ve used mental mantras since, well, since that night. I needed them to keep my feet moving. I’m my own best inspiration and motivation. My mind wanders as I answer the same questions Dee asked.

It’s like muscle memory. My answers are consistent, witty, and real. Before I know it, I have his cocky ass laughing. It makes me feel like I might be able to fit-in on Dee’s team.

I have a break after the second interview to grab some lunch. It’s already much later than I typically go out. My body is exhausted. It’s as though I’ve been running a marathon after these interviews. I think I tense my muscles while I’m in those meetings.

Maybe I’m making this too big a deal in my mind. There has to be a way to relax through the process. What’s the worst that could happen? I don’t get it? Big deal. I still have my administrative job if that happens.

I decide to lunch alone at the deli two blocks away. As I leave our building and step out onto the sidewalk, the temperature hits me like I’ve walked into an invisible wall. The wind lifts my hair from my neck and blows it straight back. I fight with the hood of my coat to cover my ears as I silently reprimand myself for not putting the hood up while I was still inside.

Eventually, I tame all the bits of red by tucking them under it. I’m still not really used to being a red-head. I started coloring my hair after I left. Now, I change it every so often to keep it fresh. Well, that’s what I tell everyone.

The real reason is I’m not sure if my ex is still looking for me or not. I constantly worry he’s going to show up one day. Okay, I don’t worry. I’m petrified that will happen. I’m not sure how he would be able to find me.

The women’s shelter I lived in for a year had contacts in law enforcement. They helped me apply for a name change, new social security number—a whole new identity. Something I will never be able to repay.

I’m beginning to regret taking lunch alone because being alone affords me nothing but time to dwell on everything. It’s very easy for me to get lost in those memories. Every time I start down this road, I feel like a gaping hole punches through my chest. Guilt and pain consume me because I am the worst mother in the history of the world. I saved myself and left my baby there.

The only minor comfort I can give myself is knowing, or thinking, Kent would never lay hands on our boy. Ethan was always supposed to be his greatest achievement. His legacy. He wouldn’t abuse him the way he did me. He couldn’t.

As I approach the deli, I can see Lucy and Jules sitting at a table near the front window. They catch sight of me and start waving me over to sit with them. I’m so relieved not to be alone that I don’t even hesitate. I hug them both, and take a seat at the table.

“Girl! We would have invited you to come with us, but we didn’t think you were going out for lunch today,” Lucy rambles an explanation.

I smile. “I know you would have. I didn’t think I was either. I’ve had two interviews this morning, and two more after lunch. How’s Monday going for you guys?”

We talk a little while and order food. I opt for soup and a salad. My mind drifts a little as the others talk about their day. I’m looking around distracted and see a newly familiar face walk in the door. Justin, the printer guy, comes into the deli. He seems to be scanning the room as if trying to find the people he’s meeting. As he moves closer, I stare down at my food, hoping he doesn’t notice me. I take a deep breath and decide to reach for my phone to use as a busy disguise. When I take it out of my coat pocket, I drop it on the floor. Heat creeps into my face, and I know I’m blushing. I close my eyes to try and calm myself down.

“Oops, here you go.”

I know who it is without looking and know he’s holding the phone out to me. I glance up and look right into his eyes. Those dark comforting brown eyes. His all-American, megawatt smile seems out of place with his tattoos and beanie hat. I immediately notice the script on his forearm. It’s wide, bold, Old English font. I don’t know what it means. Looks like Latin, if I had to guess. I must look confused because he feels the need to explain.

“You, uh, dropped this. Not your day for technology,” he muses.

“Yeah. Not my day. Sorry.” I shake myself and take the phone. “Thank you. Rescuing me again.”

“I don’t know about a rescue; I just seem to be where you need me today. Alana, right?”

I nod. “Justin, right?”

“Yeah. Glad you remembered. Has your day gotten any better?”

I smile. “It has. Lunch with my girls makes everything better.”

Realization crosses his face, and he reaches up to pull his knit hat off his head. That dark brown hair stands on end. It’s the best hat hair I’ve ever seen. My breath hitches. Justin sets about introducing himself to Lucy and Jules. They are left speechless, which is saying something for this group.

I start wishing Rhae was here. She’d have some odd sarcastic thing to say. When he finishes smiling and shaking hands, he leans closer to me. “See you later.”

Before I can help myself, I reach up and smooth down his unruly hair, and say, “Sure thing.” It’s a habit response, I think. I have no idea if I’ll ever see him again. Chances are, since he’s assigned to our business account, he’ll be in the building more often.

Justin clears his throat, and I realize I’m still patting his hair down. I freeze, and slowly pull my hand back. Rolling my lips in so they disappear, I force myself to avoid eye contact with him and mutter a very small, “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” he says in a voice just a quiet as my apology. I glance up in time to see him walking away to join his lunch group and catch the small wave he gives me as he goes.

I exhale and I feel like a weight has been lifted. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. This is new. I haven’t thought about any guy like that since…

“Earth to Alana!” Jules says. Lucy is laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes. “Where did you go over there?”

I shake my head. “What are you talking about? I’m right here, dopey.”

“Yeah, well, you are totally into him,” Jules gloats.

“I’m not. I just met him this morning.”

Not letting it go, Jules goes on, “Uh, yeah, so if you aren’t into him, then you are feeling motherly toward him? What is up with you fixing his hair?”

I glare, speechless.

Lucy interjects, “What happened this morning?”

“He was an asshole,” I answer. “He stood there watching me try and remove a paper jam in that stupid printer. Never said a word, then laughed at me when I snapped a lever off the damn thing.”

“Mr. Man doesn’t seem like an asshole. Maybe slightly hipster, but not asshole,” Jules observes.

Lucy adds, “Yeah, what did he mean he’ll see you later? Did you get his number?”

“Settle down. Seriously. You know I don’t date. I don’t have his number. He’s the new account rep for the tech company that handles our outsourced hardware. I think he meant he’ll see me around the building. You two are incurable romantics.”

Jules shrugs. “We helped Rhae work that out, didn’t we?”

I roll my eyes. “No. Rhae did that on her own. Speaking of which, we need to call her later. I miss her something crazy.”



When we return to work, I rock the last two interviews. I’m floating through the remainder of the day, and by five-thirty, I’m in the car headed home to meet Kate for a night out. It’s a pre-promotion celebration! I’m in the bathroom changing clothes when she gets home, late as usual. If I want her somewhere at six P.M., I tell her five-thirty to be sure she’ll be on time.

“Hey, Alana! You ready?” Kate yells as she walks through the front door, slamming it behind her.

“Yeah. Five minutes,” I yell back.

“Two minutes,” she replies, standing behind me.

Startled, my heart leaps into my throat. “What the fuck, Kate? You know I hate it when you surprise me like that!”

She holds her hands up. “Sorry. How did the interviews go?”

“I rocked that shit. Let’s go drink!” I answer as I pull my long-sleeved pink V-neck T-shirt over my head. I had put my jeans and combat boots on before Kate showed up.

“Ready,” I say and let Kate lead the way as I follow her out of my room. I grab my jacket and purse right before closing the front door.

We live down the street from our favorite bar. It might be our favorite bar because it’s just down the street. Convenience wins when you don’t have a designated driver. We walk in and find our usual table empty.

Kate waves at the bartender, Todd, as we head for our favorite table. He waves back at Kate, then throws a, “Hey Alana!” at me. Todd has been after me for a long time, but I’m not interested. He’s nice, not bad looking; just not for me. We slide into the booth, sagging into the squishy seat, ready to drink away our day. I don’t want to talk about my day, so I let Kate take lead on this conversation.

She’s been having problems with a guy at work. I think its sexual harassment, but she’s afraid to say anything because the guy has family connections to the owner. It’s a bullshit answer. I don’t think that is ever okay.

I start mentally planning to help her get my old admin job once they officially promote me. No woman deserves cat calling and random comments about how hot she is at work. No matter how hot she may be, and Kate is very hot. I don’t say anything about reporting him anymore. I know she won’t, and it upsets her when I say anything about it.

Todd comes over to the table with a couple of beers. Someone starts the jukebox. I much prefer live music to the jukebox. Mainly because there’s no telling what people will pick. Kate and I are good friends with the band that usually plays here. As we should be since we hang out here all the time. She actually has an on-and-off thing with the singer. I keep telling her how cliché that is, but Kate is her own person. She really, truly doesn’t care if someone is judging her. It’s their problem, not hers.

Kate takes a break from her rant about the asshole at work to ask about my day. I shrug her off because I don’t want to rehash the whole interview process. It’s boring as hell. I take a big drink off my beer, and when I put the bottle down. I simply tell her, “Nothing major happened. Average day in the cube life.”

“Just average?” I look up to see Justin standing by our table with a friend I remember from his lunch group. I never even saw them come in the bar.

I’m stunned by the fact he’s here, and this is the third time today we have “run into each other.” Something starts to feel not-random about it, but I can never tell if it’s a real feeling or my paranoia getting the better of me. I narrow my eyes at him before I answer, “Nothing major. Just average.”

He laughs, and it is a great laugh.
Oh God.
I decide how much I like that laugh. Something inside me melts. My resolve and suspicions become cloudy. My mind aches as I try to resist the urge, but my body doesn’t listen to my mind around him. I find myself smiling.
Fail.
Kate invites them to sit down.