Page 88 of Common Grounds

She goes completely still, her confusion morphing into concern. “No. Should I have? Is everything okay?”

I shake my head slowly. “She got a couple of messages this morning, and we got into a fight. She was upset and told me about some comments she had left on her own article.” I shrug helplessly. “She threw me for a loop.”

Cass cocks an eyebrow and leans back on her stool, crossing her arms over her belly. “She broke things off with you?”

“It would seem so,” I say miserably.

She draws in a huge breath through her nose and tips her head to the ceiling to let it out the same way.

“Well,” she begins, her tone completely and utterly exasperated. “You’d better get me that muffin and then tell me the whole story.”

Mike springs into action, crossing over to the pastry case.

I look at Cass in bewilderment. “Isn’t this something you and her should talk about? Like sisters?”

She laughs humorlessly as her gaze meets mine. So much like Emery’s, those dark eyes, though Cass’s are a little rounder. It’s almost disconcerting.

“Oh, I’ll talk to her.” She sounds almost menacing as Mike puts the muffin in front of her and goes to work making her drink. “But if I know Emery, she won’t give me even half the details. So, spill it, lover boy.” She takes a huge bite. “From the top.”

Chapter thirty-three

Emery

The rest of Sunday passes in a blur. My phone has been off since I left Trevor’s apartment. When I get home, I toss it in my work bag and don’t think about it again. I wander aimlessly for the rest of the day. Opening and closing the fridge and finding nothing I want to eat. Doing some laundry but leaving it in piles on my bedroom floor because I don’t feel like folding it. Trying to read a book, but realizing ten pages in that I have no recollection of what has happened on any of those pages. Eventually, I fall asleep on the couch, wake up when it’s dark out, and drag myself to bed.

Monday morning isn’t much better. I wake up, shower, and get ready for work. When I look at myself in the mirror, I appear normal. Navy ankle-length pants, white blouse, red loafers. Hair falling in loose waves over my shoulder. Makeup looking natural and put-together.

My reflection squints back at me. What would I see if the mirror could show me what’s inside, not just outside? Sadness, probably. But not only from yesterday; from years of people determined to convince me that I wasn’t good enough to stay in their lives. Frustration that I can’t fix our family for Cass, and that my little niece or nephew might never know their grandparents or have large, family parties for their birthday. Trepidation about this meeting today, writing the last article, possibly seeing Trevor again.

I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and unnecessarily straighten my blouse. One thing at a time, I suppose. First up: the meeting.

When I arrive in the conference room about ten minutes early, everyone but Randall is already there. Baker’s Grove Living doesn’t have a huge staff, but since he told everyone to clear their schedules, the room is full. People line the walls, and there is no shortage of sympathetic glances as I enter. Ethan and Josie flank an empty seat, as if they’re sentinels standing watch over me.

As I slink into the chair, Ethan slides a mug of breakroom coffee toward me. I can smell the burnt edge to it from here, and my stomach rolls over. I don’t look at him as I shake my head slightly and push it back in his direction.

“Break room coffee isn’t good enough for you now that you’ve had a taste of the good stuff, huh?” he teases.

I shoot him a sidelong look. “Break room coffee has never been good enough for anyone.” The words come out more acidic than I intend.

He frowns at me, tilting his head to the side as he moves the mug out of the way. “This is not the attitude I’d expect from someone who is poised to win a bet.”

“Breakroom coffee isn’t a celebratory drink. And besides, don’t get ahead of yourself. The invitation to this meeting was cryptic at best,” I counter. “It’s a classic power play. Randall wants me off-balance. He’s probably about to make up some ridiculous rule or find a loophole out of spite to keep me from succeeding, even though I’ve done what he asked and then some.”

Ethan leans in and lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “If he wants you off-balance, the best thing you can do is stand tall and straighten your crown.”

I deflate a little and face him. “I’m too tired, Ethan.” And that’s the moment I realize it’s true. I’m so tired of all of it. Of fighting for something better from this dead-end job. Of wishing my life wasn’t such a goddamn mess. Of being a woman who had to turn herself to stone to withstand blow after blow from job, husband, and family.

And you’re stuck in the present.

That was a blow yesterday. I can’t pretend it didn’t land square in my chest, right next to my heart. But he was right. I’m stuck. I have been for a while.

Then again, look what happens when I try something new. I get my heart handed back to me on a platter next to a waffle and a Turkish coffee.

As if he can see everything I’ve encompassed with that one statement, a corner of Ethan’s dark lips lift in a sad smile. “Well, then,” he says softly as he reaches up and adjusts an imaginary crown on my head. “Good thing you have friends here to do it for you.”

Josie, who must have heard the whole conversation, puts a reassuring hand on my knee and squeezes briefly.

My eyes sting, and Ethan’s face goes blurry as the door opens behind me. By the way the room silences, I know Randall has entered. I take advantage of the time it takes him to walk around to the head of the conference room table to pack my emotions into a little bag and set them to the side for later. I won’t be able to ignore them forever, but I can keep it together for the length of this meeting.

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