Page 2 of Marked By my Boss
I stand there for a moment in the dimly lit hallway of the dispatch center, letting the warmth of Beau’s care settle into my bones, wondering what it would be like to think I deserved this kind of care.
I’m a mess. A big, pregnant, messy mess, and I need to get a grip.
“We doing pancakes, or what?” Beau leans against the frame of the kitchen door, his massive body shrinking the space. I’ll never understand how a manthattall, with bicepsthatbig, is alone. Not to mention the part about how kind and considerate he is. The dude is the total package.
That’s wrong too. I shouldn’t have thought that.
It’s just hormones. I say that to myself over and over again.
Pregnancy does weird things to your brain, like making you crave crayons and cry over laundry commercials. Plus, I hear it’s really common to crush on your boss. I mean, you spend all day with a man who’s dominant, protective, and smells like the woods. A man who listens when no one else does, and doesn’t flinch when I say something weird. A man who makes decisions, handles pressure, commands respect. Who wouldn’t crush over a man like that? It also doesn’t help that we spend hours together every day. I mean, I know so much about him.
What he does. How he thinks. Where he goes hunting on Sundays with his buddies. How he likes his coffee with two sugars. How he has a soft spot for peanut M&M’s.
Oh, and when he notices my work, it does something to me I can’t explain. It’s not just a‘good job’tossed over his shoulder.It’s the way he pauses, looks me in the eye, and says, ‘you handled that call perfectly’or ‘you kept calm when most people would’ve panicked.’
His voice softens when he says it, his brow furrowing like he’s genuinely impressed, and there’s this deepness in his voice like he sees something in me that I’ve forgotten how to see in myself. And God, it wrecks me. It wrecks me in all the ways it shouldn’t wreck me. It’s what I think about when I’m alone, when I’m touching myself, when I need a fantasy to break through all the nonsense.
Realizing I’m still staring like a stupid idiot, I attempt something normal like trying to form a sentence. “I, ugh—” A heavy knock hits the front door, and I know it’s Dave.
I jump at the abrupt sound, my brain transitioning from feeling safe, back toward whatever it is I feel with Dave.
When did I become this person? The girl who can clearly see she’s unhappy, but walks into it anyway.
I’m pretty sure folks call it‘too stupid to live,’though my therapist claims it’s a cycle of abuse. She says I’m stuck in a loop that’s rewired the way I think, the way I feel, and how I react. It starts with me thinking it’s safe to need something, which leads to an inevitable blow up, then there’s sudden tenderness, which makes me question whether I imagined the whole thing. That’s the part that messes with me most. The way he can flip the script and make me feel like I overreacted, like I’m the problem.
After that, things go quiet. We slip into the calm phase. He’s sweet again. I breathe easier and start to hope. You’d think hope was good, but it’s the most dangerous place of all. Hope is what convinces me to stay. Hope convinces me to try again, to need, to want, to believe that this time will be different.
It never is.
The loop resets, and every time it does, I lose a little more of myself. My instincts. My voice. My confidence. My belief that I’m worthy of anything other than exactly what I’ve been getting.
Of course, knowing all these things doesn’t make me an expert on managing them. There still are pieces of me that wonder if maybe I’m exaggerating, if I really am the problem.
“You alright?” Beau is next to me now, his gaze heavy on mine like he really cares.
“That’s probably Dave,” I whisper, breaking our stare in favor of my purse beneath the desk, then my coat.
I need to get a grip, and I need to do it now. I can’t let my little girl come into the world to a mother who can’t think straight.
Beau brushes past me, wide and strong, the scent of cedar on his flannel as he unlocks the front door and pushes it open, greeting Dave with a handshake and a nod.
There’s a split second when I see Dave that I think maybe I’ve misjudged his mood, but then his jaw clenches, and I know I haven’t. Work ended ten minutes ago. He’s probably pissed that I lingered talking to Beau, or that I didn’t rush to the door fast enough.
I step off the sidewalk too quickly, desperate to smooth the night over before it spirals. But as my foot hits the curb, I stumble.
“Woah,” Beau growls under his breath, gripping me in his big, steady, warm hand. “It’s slippery out here.”
My cheeks flush hot. Not from the stumble, but from the way Beau steadies me. It’s the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything, and for a split second, I want to lean into it… just a little.But I don’t.I pull away too fast, like I’ve done something wrong. Like Dave can feel it from across the parking lot where he’s already climbing up into his truck.
“Thanks,” I mumble, eyes darting toward Dave. He’s watching. Of course he is.
My stomach knots. That look means I’ll pay for this later. Not with words, necessarily. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s passive aggression. Sometimes, it’s nothing.
Trouble is, I probably am wrong. I shouldn’t think the things I think about Beau. I shouldn’t have lingered talking to him. I should’ve been ready and waiting for Dave.
I force a smile toward my boss, the kind that says I’m fine even though I’m not. Then I hurry toward the car, heart thudding, already rehearsing apologies.
As I leave, Beau calls my name, and I turn back. His voice is low and steady as he says, “The roads are bad tonight. Let me know when you get home.”
