Why wouldn’t she be here if her truck is here? Did she go somewhere with Lewis?
I kick off my shoes by the front door, and that’s when I sense it. Her presence.
I turn and push on the bedroom door that’s partway open. Mira is sitting on her bed, in her work clothes, staring out the window, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. She doesn’t seem to realize I’m there, though I’ve made enough noise to alert her. She’s completely zoning, which shouldn’t be a big deal. I’d probably walk away and let her be, if it weren’t for that incident in the hallway at Blue this morning. Or the expression on her face. Sadness, despair.
Fuck, she’s killing me. I tug at my T-shirt and look away. Am I really doing this?
Yeah, I guess I am.
I push the door open the rest of the way to give Mira another opportunity to notice me and kick me out, but she doesn’t even blink. I walk over and sit beside her on the bed. Right up next to her so that our thighs touch, because she’s starting to worry me and I’d rather piss her off by crowding her than see that look on her face any longer.
“Mira.”
Her delicate throat rolls in a swallow, her eyes barely flickering my way.
“You okay?”
Her chest deflates and she nods, but I don’t believe her.
I rack my brain for some way to reassure her, because she looks like she could use it. “It’s probably a good thing we saw that guy this morning. Now I know what he looks like in case he ever comes loitering. You could go to the police. It will be easy to get his name and address since he worked at Blue.”
My words don’t seem to help. She pinches her lips like she’s about to cry. Jesus Christ.
I’m no pussy when it comes to women’s tears. I grew up the only male in a two-woman household. I’ve seen PMS tears, angry tears, and manipulative tears (Cali in all her glory). That shit does not faze me. And I’ve accumulated smooth words over the years to deal with the female waterworks. But right now, the despair Mira’s throwing off is enough to break me.
I do the only thing I can think of to make both of us feel better. I reach around her shoulders and draw her to my chest. Her face rests against my T-shirt, and that’s when the dam breaks.
Mira is a quiet crier. Little squeaks here and there, her back rising in delicate hiccups. The way she’s crying—as if she’s used to hiding it—has me doing something I never could have envisioned a few weeks ago.
I wrap my arms around her and press my lips to the top of her head. I lift her face and wipe tears from the smooth curves of her cheekbones. “Shhh, it’s okay. Everything will be okay,” I say in a low, calm voice that is the opposite of the storm inside me.
My mind is in turmoil. I don’t know that things will be fine, but I will say anything, anything to make her feel better. To bring back the feisty Mira I know and love—hate. The scrappy Mira I love to hate.
Only this doesn’t feel like hate.
It feels good to hold Mira in my arms. As if that’s where she’s supposed to be.
Mira pulls away and wipes her face with the back of her sleeve, leaving a smudge of mascara on the fabric. She stares at that smudge, and I swear she starts crying harder.
“Mira, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Seriously, Tyler? You really want to know all the fucked-up things in my life?”
I nod. I actually want to know. I’ve always wanted to know what goes on in Mira’s head.
Her hand balls into a fist in her lap. “Where do I begin?” She laughs without humor. “How about running into the guy I thought would either rape or beat me to death in the woods. That was a good way to kick off the day. Then there were the snickers from my female coworkers at various points throughout the afternoon…When I couldn’t work the fax machine, or the phone transfer system—oh, yeah, and when I broke the automatic pencil sharpener.” I lift a brow. “Don’t start with me, Tyler. I visited John and Lewis at Sallee Construction. I never sat behind a desk. I don’t know anything about collated versus stacked. And what the hell is a dictation machine? Then there were the men giving me creepy looks, which were the opposite of the glares I received from the women.”
She looks at me plaintively, her chest rising and falling. “I overheard them, Tyler. The women whispered that I dressed like a homeless person.” She hiccups on the last word, and a new round of tears erupts.
Shit, shit, as my new boss would say. I dug myself into this one. I look around desperately. The walls aren’t offering any advice, the bastards.
I brush my knee closer to her leg and lean my forearms on my thighs. “First, a dictation machine allows someone to record a message, like a letter or whatever, so that it can be typed. Software programs can do that for you now, along with the typing.”
She looks at me in question.
“I was a teacher. We didn’t have a regular secretary. I did my own paperwork,” I say. “As for clothes, if you’ve never worked in an office setting, it’s understandable you don’t have the right clothes. We’ll go shopping this evening. Some of the stores stay open late. We should be able to find you something. And the women stare because they’re jealous. Take it as a compliment. The guys, though…Names. I need names.”
“Really?”
