Reach Me (2 page)

I glance at my cheap Wal-Mart wristwatch to check the time. 1:18 p.m. “She’s consistent if nothing else,” I mutter to myself. Maggie will drag herself in any minute. She’ll flop into the other side of
our
booth with an
oof
and toss her purse on the table. That’s when she’ll start.

My best friend must hold the record for fastest talker on the planet. She rambles on a mile a minute, her junky purse on the table bugs the hell out of me, and her complete lack of punctuality is irritating, but I love her something fierce. She’s understanding and supportive and the only person I really have to help with Trey. My younger brother, Brian, helps when he can but he’s almost always tied up doing something for that demanding mogul boss of his.

My tired eyes drift over to the door of the sandwich shop just about the time that Maggie pulls it open. Even though it’s October, Las Vegas still has days with temperatures averaging in the mid-80s. Couple those temperatures with the arid climate and it seems like my hometown is hot year round. A gust of hot, dry, Las Vegas air comes swooshing in with her and she looks to our booth. I raise a brow and tap my index finger on the scratched up face of my watch.

She looks her typical relaxed self, an eclectic bohemian in strappy gladiator sandals, coral ribbed tank top, and a flowing, long cotton skirt that seems to have every color of the rainbow sewn into the fabric. Her wavy hair is wild and unkempt and she seems as chill as can be. If I dressed like that, I’d look homeless. Maggie looks like a hipster gypsy who’s just back from following Phish.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Maggie huffs and waves her hand flippantly in the air as she makes the short walk from the door to the first booth that we claimed as “ours” so many years ago.

“You know, one day I’m not going to wait and you’ll drag in here late and be left to wonder where I went.” I smile curtly to cap off my idle threat.

Maggie tosses her purse onto the tabletop right on cue and flops down into the worn, cushy booth. Her long, coal black hair drifts easily over her shoulder and I can tell her motormouth is at the ready.

“So?” She leans back passively with questioning eyebrows and I’m honestly shocked.

One word?
Who is this person and where did my mouthy friend go?!

“What?” I ask as I mirror her relaxed posture.

“You know what! Nick said you never called him. What gives?! Do you want to be some old maid with a dozen cats or something?” she spouts off lightning fast, then takes a hefty draw from the iced tea I ordered for us when I got here.

“I’m allergic.” I dance around the issue, knowing full well that Maggie won’t let me skate on this one.

She lets out a low, annoyed growl that seems to emanate from deep in her gut as she drops her head down onto her folded arms. I sit and stare at the top of her head while she mumbles into the small cavern that her arms have made. Her head finally pops up to face me again. “Allergic to what exactly? Happiness? Dating? Casual sex? Orgasms? Which you need desperately, might I add.” She nods and wags her index finger at me.

My mouth pops open in shock. “Hey! Keep it down, loudmouth! I was being a smartass about the cats. I’m not really allergic and I don’t need casual sex. I manage just fine, thank you very much.” I shrug and look down to my lap to avoid Maggie’s scrutinizing glare.

“So you finally bought stock in batteries?” she quips with a smirk. One painted plum purple fingertip pops into the air like a loaded weapon and I brace for the zinger. “Oh, I know, you went and got one of those rechargeable ones, huh? Clever girl, Linds,” she adds, shaking her head sarcastically. “Going green while getting off!” she jokes, her hands in the air like she’s picturing a motto or tagline. “You’re a pioneer, my friend. Even better if it’s solar powered. Do you set it in the kitchen window to charge? Right next to the basil and dick weed? I mean
dill
weed?”

“I’m in stitches. Really. Just so funny,” I say completely deadpan. “Hardy-har, smartass.” I narrow my eyes and nod. “I just haven’t had the chance to call him and quite frankly, I’m not chomping at the bit to hook up with him either.”

Maggie rolls her wide brown eyes dramatically. She doesn’t care about my weak excuse any more than I do. “He’s hot. He’s a gentleman. He’s successful and has no baby mama drama or ex-wives! What’s the issue?” she questions as she ticks off Mr. Right’s attributes.

“Jonathan. You know they’re still friends, right? I saw it on Facebook.” I cock an eyebrow at her and watch as she has already begun shaking her head at me.

“Who. Freakin’. Cares? Seriously, doll, you need to get over the ancient stuff. We were kids. Both times. You’re nearing your 30s, chick! Time is running out. Besides, I have friends on Facebook that I never even talk to.”

I inhale deeply, prepared to do what I always do. Deny. Delay. Deny some more. “Okay, I’ll call Nick tomorrow.”

“Good!” Maggie chirps victoriously. She smiles widely for only a moment, takes a sip of her drink, and looks back at me sympathetically. It’s that look that kind of look that says plenty.

Great.
I love bad news. “No openings, right?” I guess before she does the ugly job of telling me.

“Don’t stress about it, okay? Michael said that the minute we’re hiring, the first spot is all yours. He promised me. Want me to bone him for extra points? I so will. You
know
I would do anything for you and Trey.”

“No. No. No charity-boning on account of me.” I reach for my iced tea and take a sip just for the sake of stalling for a moment. I battle against my natural desire to slump in defeat and choke back the disappointment I feel. I’m actually starting to get more frustrated than depressed about my lack of a good job these days. If Maggie pats my hand consolingly, like she usually does, I might have to slap her. I’m only a temp right now and if I don’t find something soon, I’ll have no other choice but to get in touch with Trey’s father. I hate the thought that I may be forced to swallow my pride and demand that he help with the son he denied so many years ago.

Ten years ago, I was a whopping 19 years old and a freshman at the University of Nevada, Reno. The most complicated thing I had on my plate was figuring out how much slacking I could get away with before I
had
to study for an exam or write a paper.

He was my first. First love. First trip around all of the bases. First everything and that includes first broken heart. I fell head over heels in love him. He fell head over heels into my panties a few times and that was that. At least that’s how it seems in retrospect.

We weren’t official for very long. In fact, it seems like I got one hell of a case of love life whiplash. We were together and then we weren’t. He, of course, sent me a ridiculous text message that was chock full of bullshit break up lines like, “We’re just so different,” “It’s not you, it’s me,” and my absolute favorite, “Let’s be friends.”

I, of course, cried and ate ice cream until I started puking it back up and said to myself: “Self, something is not right here.”

Two pink lines confirmed what I had already known deep down. I was knocked up, alone, broke, and about to be a college dropout. It took less than a year for me to completely fuck up and lose everything.
Awesome
.

I insisted that Trey’s father meet me so that we could talk. I guess I was naïve enough to think that maybe he would make it all right. He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t even believe me. He said that I was a mistake and he was transferring to a school in Texas to be with his high school sweetheart, Sarah. He said that they were just on a break, whatever the hell that meant. I started crying and spilling my guts about getting pregnant. I pulled the pregnancy test from my purse and things quickly went from bad to hellish when he jumped from his seat and spouted off some shit about me lying to him and trying to trap him just like his buddies said I’d do. Needless to say, I bolted from that Starbucks like a woman on fire and never looked back. I’d never felt so cheap and disposable in my life.

I came back to Vegas and moved in with my dad and younger brother, who were shocked over what I had gotten myself into but supportive nonetheless. Dad mentioned the sperm donor one time, but when I told him that I refused to involve him, that was the end of the discussion. I’ve never been pressured to seek out Trey’s father. Not until now. Trey and I have been our own little family since the beginning. We lived with Dad and Brian until I could afford to move back out on my own four years ago. It’s been a struggle ever since.

I’ve been too proud to try to find his dad even though a huge part of me knows that I need the help. I never wanted a damn thing from him and I was hoping I never would. I already got the best that he could ever give me anyway. Trey is more perfect than I could ever imagine and it never ceases to amaze me that from that catastrophic “relationship,” I came away with this magnificent child.

But now, my temp position is about to end. In one week, I’ll be jobless. Though I knew that the job wasn’t a permanent thing, it has provided some stability in the months that I’ve been here. Some people would turn a nose up at my peon position here, but beggars can’t be choosers and I’m very near begging. I have no prospects and no idea how I’m going to pay the bills after I get let go. I dread turning to my father or Brian again; they’ve already done so much and I want to continue to stand on my own two feet.

I only have enough in savings to last us one month. Maybe. Brian and just about everyone else I know is keeping their eyes peeled for my next job. I’m lucky to have each of them in my life. I just wish I could get just a little more luck where money and work are concerned. I need it.

“Earth to Lindsay,” Maggie says in her sing-song voice.

My attention snaps to her and I shake off my walk down memory lane. There’s no use in going there anyway. “Sorry. I was just thinking about some stuff,” I mumble as I check my cell phone for the time and secretly hope to see a text message from the one person who might make me forget all about the trouble that awaits me in one short week.

The clock tells me that it’s already 2:10 and I have to get my butt over to pick up Trey; my notifications tell me that I do indeed have a text from Russ.
Thank goodness.
My thumb glides over the screen to open the message. I can feel Maggie staring at me. She doesn’t approve.

“Still talking to the creeper, I see.” She leans back and resumes her relaxed posture.

I sigh and smile as I tune out Maggie’s diatribe about Russ and read his text.

Can’t wait to talk. Will you be free tonight?

My thumbs tap out my response and I send the message along.
Me neither. Bad day. I’ll talk to you soon.

Maggie’s shaking her head with this look of part amusement, part skepticism.

“What? He’s no creeper! I’ve known him for nearly ten years, Maggie. I think if he was stalking me so he could rape and murder me, he’d have done it by now.” With my eyes averted, I start to gather my things from the seat beside me.

“No. Correction, Linds, you don’t know him at all.
Russ
,” she says with disdain. “Who the hell is this guy? Girl? Person? He could be a psychopath! He could be an old man! He could be
anyone
!”

“Yep, and that’s the beauty of it. He could be anyone and it keeps me intrigued,” I chime as I scoot out of the booth and smooth my floral print sundress. “Love ya. Gotta run.”

“Ugh! Bye, Sicko! Only sickos pen pal with strangers for years and years, you know,” Maggie bemoans as she stands and only half-hugs me goodbye.

“Not a pen pal. We chat, email and text message.”

“Semantics,” Maggie grumbles, moving to grab one last gulp of her iced tea as we leave our booth. I secretly enjoy that my “pen pal” clearly annoys her, just like her purse on the table annoys the hell out of me.

I do battle with the usual traffic in the parent pickup line and finally maneuver my less-than-reliable car alongside the curb in the circle drive of the school. The sunshine reflecting off my third true love’s hair as he flounces down the sidewalk brings a smile to my face. The sandy blond hair that I smooth from his forehead every night before he drifts off to sleep is the same as his father’s.

The door flies open so hard that it jars my tiny car, causing the hinge to make an unhealthy sounding noise. I flinch, waiting for the door to fall off, but thank God it doesn’t. Trey tosses his backpack in haphazardly then flops down into the passenger seat. Both are attributes I’m positive he’s picked up from his Aunt Maggie; I’m too methodical to flop. Either that or Maggie is a nine year old stuck in a beautiful 29-year-old woman’s body. In my mind, both scenarios are equally plausible.

“Hey, Bud. How was school?” I glance over to him as I put on my indicator to once again battle the minivan barrage.

“Fine, I guess,” he moans as he slouches down into the passenger seat.

“Uh-oh. Wanna talk about it?” I ask hesitantly as I accelerate in the direction of our apartment.

“Not really. It’s kind of… man stuff.”

Oh shit! So not ready for man stuff.
“Ah. I see.” I purse my lips together and nod knowingly while thinking of plan B. “Well, maybe if you felt like it, you could call Grampa when w—”