I weave through the hallways of my home until I push my way through the tall, red oak doors leading into the rectangular conference room. Twelve sets of surprised eyes turn towards me, but I’m focused on the set of dark brown eyes that slowly narrow as if they were lasers locking onto their target.
A smirk pulls at the corner of her lips, and I swallow the lump rising in my throat.
“Mr. Marshall, is everything okay?” one of the guys asks. I don’t bother to decipher who because I’m in the middle of one of the most intense games of “don’t blink” that I’ve ever played. Her brown eyes are several shades lighter than normal, and wrinkles form in the corner of her eyes as her smirk deepens.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Marshall?” Hayden echoes. She pouts her bottom lip and tilts her head. She’s hiding it well, but a ghost of the smirk still resides on her face.
She knows exactly what happened, exactly what I’m concerned about, and exactly why I shoved my way through the conference room doors panting and with disheveled, fingered hair.
Because apparently I’m in the mood to touch hair today.
That’s it. I take a deep breath in, close my eyes, and release a breath that moves slower than Congress trying to pass a bill. Unless I’m misreading this situation, she doesn’t seem too concerned that I touched her hair. In fact, I think she might be amused that I did something so out of character for me. Regardless, I still need to apologize and make sure she knows it won’t happen again.
“Hayden, may I speak with you alone for one moment?” The rest of the team in the conference room resumes their work, andHayden, still wearing the ghost of a smirk, clicks her way toward me.
I hold the door open for her as she steps out of the room, and I let it softly click shut behind us.
“Yes, Mr. Marshall?” Her tone is innocent, childlike. It annoys me.
“I’m sorry for my inappropriate behavior. It won’t happen again. The curl kept falling and was distracting me.” There. Simple, true, and upfront.
But Hayden’s eyes continue to smile like there’s a joke I’m missing. “It’s okay. I’ll invest in better bobby pins.”
I nod, unsure of what else to say. It sounds like she won’t press charges. I think she finds the entire situation amusing more than anything, based on the sparkle in her brown eyes and the smirk on her face.
“Thank you,” I say, running my hand through my hair. Again. I spin on my heel and go on a hunt for a comb to style my waves back where they belong.
For heaven’s sake, Darcy. No more hair-touching today.
Icrave alone time like a corrupt politician craves money, but when I receive time alone, I feel…alone. A house of this size and prestige was never meant to host one person. Sure, some of the staff lives here, but that’s the thing. They live adjacent to me, notwithme. The pillow beside me remains empty night after night, and sometimes, though I would never admit this out loud, I desire the warmth of a body sleeping next to mine.
This house is too big. Maybe I should sell it and buy a one-bedroom cottage in the mountains? Then again, my history—my story—is contained within these walls. Meandering the hallways and gazing upon the art hanging on the walls leaves me wanting to name and befriend the pictured faces like Anna fromFrozen. Though I’ve lived here my entire life, I’ve never taken to finding rest and solace in painted faces.
Maybe I’m more like Elsa with a deep desire to shut everyone out so I can’t unintentionally hurt them when I’m unsure of how to react, confused, overwhelmed, or overstimulated?
It was a long day at the group home, as is every Wednesday, and I sat through two movies—FrozenandFrozen II, which is why that dang musical is occupying my thoughts. It was worth getting the songs stuck in my head to see the smiles on the kids’ faces and to hear their voices laughing and singing along with the movies.
Pausing at one particular picture causes a ripping ache in my soul.Ophelia.She’s one of the few faces I wouldn’t have to name in this processional line of artwork. Her cheeks are rosy, blue eyes sparking with mischief and excitement. This portrait was finished three days before she died, and it serves as a constant reminder of my failures as an older brother.
Yes, maybe I am more like Elsa. Lock me away so I can’t make promises to people that I can’t keep. So I can no longer hurt those who love and support me the most.
Before I know it, I’m back in my office with little recollection as to how my feet carried me there.
A long-winded sigh escapes as I collapse into my desk chair. When was the last time I took a break? I ask this question every day, and every time, it’s the same answer: I don’t remember.Breaks are for the faint of heart,Father would say.
A knock at the door saves me from taking a trip down memory lane with thoughts of my father. That lane might as well be called Elm Street.
“Come in.”
“What’s up, my dude?” My short—well, shorter than my six-foot-two self—Japanese friend wearing a snazzy dark green suit saunters through my office doorway.
A grin stretches across my face; my mood instantly lifts.
“Ren, is that any way to greet the future president of the United States?”
“Yep. Better get used to it.” He bows. “Ren Sato: Keeping Darcy Marshall humble since the 1990s.”
I chuckle as I bow in return, already feeling more relaxed in his presence than I did alone and brooding two seconds ago.
