“I’ve contacted a few women,” she begins, tucking the curl behind her ear, averting her eyes. Why am I fascinated with a ridiculous, unruly strand of hair? “I should receive answers by the end of the two-week period you allotted me.”
“Two weeks.” The words taste sour on my tongue. I groan. “That will be too late.”
“Too late for what, s—”
The piercing darts of death I throw her way with my eyes cuts off the attempted title. It makes me feel like I’m my father, which I most certainly am not. Iwillbreak her of this habit.
“You said two weeks on Friday.” Hayden speaks each word slowly and without surety.
“I know what I said, but I need to move faster.” As I stand from my chair, I shove the now crinkled copy oftheTimesin her face. “See.”
She takes a moment to read over the headline:PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE DARCY MARSHALL HAS FOUND HIS FUTURE FIRST LADY?
“Not good,” she whispers. I toss the crumpled newspaper onto my desk.
Hayden rubs her temples, tilting her head down to her chest. When she whips her head upwards, the curl comes loose again.
Before my brain processes what is happening, I take a single step toward Hayden and tuck the curl back into her bun. My fingers linger on her hair, feeling the smooth texture. It doesn’t feel stringy like I expected it to, but soft and sleek. Like moisturizer on my hands.
The silence enveloping us screams louder than the way Father used to yell at Mother, bringing me to my senses.
Jerking my hand away, I take several steps backward and barrel into the sharp corner of my large, wooden desk. My outer thigh howls in pain, but I grit my teeth to keep the curses in.
I stare at the polished, hardwood floor, noticing the shine of my black shoes, before risking a glance at Hayden. When I do, her doe eyes are wide open, her nude lips parted, and a blush coats her slightly blistered brown cheeks. What have I done?
“Hayden.” I say her name with a gruffness that adds another level of embarrassment to this situation. My mouth is a desert, and it feels like I’m swallowing sand when I attempt to clear my throat. “Please maintain a professional appearance while in the workplace.” I internally cringe at the hypocrisy of my words because of my recent actions. That was bad. Unbelievably regrettable.
To make matters worse, she laughs. Belly laughs. In between snorts, she says, “Mr. Marshall, that was highly unprofessional ofyou.”
My neck flares with heat. “It meant nothing. I wasn’t coming on to you. Please don’t take my actions that way.” The words rush from my mouth like a criminal denying the very crime he committed.Keep digging that hole for yourself, Darcy.
Her laugh becomes a cackle, and my face burns hotter and hotter. Hayden throws her hands up. “Don’t worry. I know you hate me. I’ll be going now.”
I start to tell her I don’t hate her, but she turns on her heel to leave before I can utter the words.
Hayden laughs like a hyena all the way out of my office.Oh, God, please don’t let there be a lawsuit for sexual harassment awaiting me at the end of this day.
I rip a tissue from the box on my desk and dab the sweat beads forming on my forehead line. The best course of action is to approach her, say the words “I’m sorry,” and explain my lapse of sound judgment. Instead, I want to choose to avoid her for the rest of the day. Maybe even the week. Confrontation has never been a problem for me, but usually the other person is the one needing to say sorry, not me.
I’m great at confrontation with all of my facts and enigmatic personality, but I’m not the most practiced with apologies.
Avoidance is not probable. I need Hayden to help me with the wife search. It’s a team effort; I most definitely can’t accomplish the task on my own. Women run from me once they get to know me. They end up loathing me because I’m not the friendly, charismaticman in the portrait that the media ignorantly paints. I’m not mean, just introverted. Maybe that comes off as mean and standoffish and hateful sometimes?
Speaking of…
Why does Hayden think I hate her? Does she aggravate me? Yes. Is she my opposite in every way? Of course. Am I nitpicky about her actions? You bet I am. But pure hate? No, I don’t hate her. That emotion is only reserved for my father. I don’t even hate Priscilla for walking out on me.
Maybe Hayden thinks I hate her because I can be a little standoffish and cold in the pursuit of feeling safe in my own skin at times. That’s what my therapist said a long time ago when I sought help after Ophelia died and found out I was autistic through our countless sessions. Have I not course-corrected enough?
With a long, drawn-out sigh, I take a seat at my desk and think through possible scenarios.
One. I apologize to Hayden, we move forward, and she finds the perfect wife for me.
Two. I ignore Hayden, pray she doesn’t file a workplace sexual harassment claim against me, and she gives up finding a wife for me.
Option one. Definitely. Mostly because I don’t want the claim filed against me. And it would be good to apologize to her, show her I’m not the monster she seems to perceive me as at times.
I work through different apologies as I leave my office and head for the conference room where, according to my schedule, Hayden is giving the team a run down of their tasks in preparation for next week’s speech in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia.
