Page 13 of The Reluctant Hero

I’m halfway down the block when my phone rings. I have a moment of joy, thinking it must be Justin ready to tell me it was all a joke and he’s waiting for me at home.

The delusional thought startles me as I pull my phone out. I’ve lost my damn mind.

It’s been months of silence, even though I keep texting him with the same demand.I want a divorce.I’ve even changed his name to Loser on my phone. A joke between my parents and me about how worthless he is despite all his pathetic piles of money.

We’ve broken down into hoping he’ll file for divorce and take the brunt of the fees. If I’m served paperwork, my lawyerwill cost a lot less. Between my broke ass and the insanely high interest rate on my parent’s credit card, I’m spinning my wheels in this town. I haven’t bothered trying to secure a lawyer due to the lack of money.

A cautious glance lets me know it’s an unknown number.

I answer it quickly, trying to sound confident. It might be a telemarketer, but I’m not risking missing a possible job opportunity.

The voice on the other end sounds harassed and very familiar.

“You start tomorrow, Amanda,” Harriette says without a pause. “I’m getting paperwork ready for you, and if there’s a God, I’ll have you next to me by eight a.m. tomorrow. If there isn’t, you’ll be filing Sarah’s mistakes instead.”

She hangs up before I can ask a single question.

I clutch the phone to my chest and squeal in happiness with a quick dance to celebrate. I’ll work one last shift tonight at the restaurant, and tomorrow will be a brand new day.

* * *

I spend my weekdays at Matthias, LLC, directly after the satisfying I quit moment at the diner. I’m now mindlessly trying to create order in a dismal filing room under the uninterested eye of Sarah, the head of the filing department. Harriette is furious over it.

I rarely see anyone, which makes the transition pretty smooth. Sarah shuffled me into the cramped room with barely a glance and closed me in without any instructions. There isn’t anyone else working in filing, which makes me wonder if the head of the department is a made-up title for Sarah’s bloated ego to prop itself on.

The room doesn’t have windows or air conditioning. I’ve tried convincing myself that it’s an excellent way to lose weight, but it isn’t working well. There are files everywhere. It looks like nothing has been done here for a while.

I enjoy the mindless monotony of it, despite the dismal conditions. My first paycheck doesn’t make me want to break down in tears and buy a box of ramen. I’ve now moved up to hot dogs and mac and cheese.

Most of the paperwork is a lot of nonsense that I ignore. I look at the name and file it. That’s it. It’s an onslaught of paperwork from different ventures. One is the country club Loser goes to every weekend to schmooze people. Then there’s the fancy place called Le Chique close to downtown. Another is a bar on the other side of town called the Bittersweet Outpost. I’ll have to go there sometime. The word bittersweet sums me up perfectly. And I can say I got out of my damn apartment for something other than work or groceries.

A month in, the company gets bought out, and I start sweating about being fired. It becomes a sigh of relief when we’re told that the owner’s brother purchased the place, and no one is getting shuffled around.

To celebrate, I take a car share to the bar and sit alone, wondering what I’m doing. It’s a popular spot, and I get to watch couples dance or play pool.

I’ve never felt so alone before.

When a waitress drops off my celebration nachos I pick at them without much interest. What happened to me? I used to have a lot of friends and spend more time being active.

A body slides into the booth across from me and I glance up with a scowl. Despite being lonely, I’m not in the mood for company either.

The golden-haired man across from me has the brightest aqua eyes. Contacts have come a long way. He relaxes back and eyes my food with a curious head tilt.

“I’m not looking for company,” I tell him flatly and take a defiant bite of a chip.

“That’s ok, company is looking for you instead,” he tells me with a bright grin. It doesn’t sit right on his face. In fact, it makes him look downright psychotic.

“Hey man, I just want to eat my nachos and go home, ok?”

“Sure,” he agrees but doesn’t leave.

I raise both brows pointedly, and his grin gets scarily wider.

“What are those?” He points a finger at the chips and cheese. His nails are neon pink in the brightest shade. It’s like an undiscovered color of pink that’s almost incandescent.

I look at the plate of food and back at him with a frown. He may speak English, but it’s becoming obvious that he’s not from around here.

“Nachos.”

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