Dakota
No.Please, no. Someone tell me that did not just happen.
It’s my last pair of high heels. My favorite pair, the black ones with the gold-studded heel. And now one of them is no longer aheel.It’s aflat,courtesy of the curb and my misstep.
I pause on the sidewalk beside a skinny Aspen tree. A long, deep breath draws in slowly through my nose, my chest expanding, and I hold it until my throat burns.
“So screwed,” I mutter on the exhale.I am so screwed. This is my last pair of work-appropriate shoes. What am I supposed to wear tomorrow? Hiking boots? Converse? I can’t think about that now. I need to figure out how I’m going to hobble my way into the office.
Looking around, I see the streets of downtown Colorado Springs are as crowded as they’re probably ever going to get, which is to saynot much. The inhabitants of this town are smart; they can be found on one of the gazillion hiking trails, not pounding the pavement in one high heel and one flat like me.
I nod at an older man who passes, waiting patiently for him to get far enough away, and then I remove my intact shoe and crouch down. It pains me to do this, like an actual twist in my gut, but what choice do I have? I bring the heel down against the curb until the second shoe matches the first, then slide it onto my foot and stow the broken heels in my purse. They’re officially the weirdest thing I’ve ever carried in my bag. I square my shoulders, look up at the small glass and concrete building in front of me, and march into the front door like wearing flats with the hem of my black dress pants dragging on the ground is something I’ve done on purpose.
My family’s office is one of many in this building. The lobby smells like the cucumber melon scented lotion I used in high school, and a small dark green velvet love seat and matching couch sit near the elevator bank. I’ve never seen anybody using them, so at this point, I’m certain they’re just for decoration.
I keep going past the ornamental couches and walk to the second to last door on the left. Wright Design + Build is written in dark gray lettering on the frosted glass door. My dad started this firm before I was born, and we joke that it’s his third baby. I’ve been working here for six months.Learning the ropes, he says in a hopeful tone. He has always hoped to pass down his business to me or my sister, Abby. The problem is that Abby isn’t interested, and I’m, well… me. I’m more creative than analytical, more right brain than left. I couldn’t possibly run this large of a business. The only reason I’m working here now is because I was fired (let go, downsized,whatever)from my event planning job. I was hesitant to take my dad up on his offer, but I needed money. To eat, to live, and to do that other thing I do with my money that I haven’t told anybody about.
Sheila is the first person I see when I walk into the small reception area. She’s been with the company as long as I can remember, and her personality is what some would call prickly. When I was a little girl, I was frightened of her, but that stopped after a company picnic when she cussed out some boys who were picking on me. After that, we became thick as thieves. Or at least as thick as you can be with your father’s administrative assistant who you see sporadically until you work for the company and become her kind-of boss who probably doesn’t deserve to be.
Sheila’s seated but bent over in her chair, digging through her over-sized purse. “Good morning,” I say to her poof of feathered hair. Sheila never got the memo on discontinuing the use of a small round brush and Aqua Net. Either that, or she got the memo and wrote expletives on it and marked it return to sender.
“Hello to you, Dakota. How are you doing?” She says all this while still moving aside the contents of her purse and does not once look up at me.
Briefly I contemplate telling her about my shoe debacle, but then she’ll ask why it’s a big deal when I have so many other shoes, and then I’ll have to tell her I don’t have more shoes, then she’ll ask what happened to my once-impressive collection, and then I’ll have to lie because there’s no way I’m telling her I had to sell them on an app for way less than I paid for them.
“Great,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. When Sheila doesn’t look my way, I drop the smile.
“Your dad’s in conference room B.” She finally straightens and looks at me, blowing hair from her pink-lipsticked mouth. “He said to tell you to go see him when you arrived.”
I tap my knuckles on the top of her desk and nod. “Thanks, Sheila.” I start for the conference room when Sheila’s voice stops me.
“Oh, Dakota? You have lipstick on your teeth.”
My fingers fly to my teeth a few seconds before I remember I don’t even wear lipstick. “I do not.”
Sheila laughs. “Gets everybody. Even men.”
I shoot her a playful dirty look and keep going down the hall. Offices line either side, and on the walls between the doors are framed pictures of our finished projects.
The conference room is just up ahead, and through the glass walls I see my dad sitting at the head of the table. I push open the door and step in, and my dad smiles at my approach as I walk the length of the long oak table and take a seat beside him.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Junior.”
The affectionate nickname brings a smile to my face and a punch to my gut. Growing up, I wanted to be just like my dad, and I stuck closer to him than his own shadow. That was until I turned into a fourteen-year-old rebellious monster who did what she could to drive her parents to the brink of insanity.
“What’s up? Sheila said you wanted to see me.” I lean back in the chair and cross my ankles, startling when it’s not my heels that bump the ground but the backs of the shoes. The conference room door opens, and Brandt and Jon step in. They are both architects who’ve been at the firm for years.
“You wanted to see us?” Brandt asks, taking a seat opposite me and nodding at me in this clipped way that communicates his dislike for me. It doesn’t bother me. The feeling is mutual.
My dad brings his palms to touch and rubs them back and forth, his eyes shining. This is what he does when he smells a new deal brewing. By the looks of his obvious excitement, it’s a good one.
“I got a call from a realtor in Arizona this morning. The Hayden Cattle Company is looking to sell some acreage.”
“Are you looking to develop land in Arizona?” Brandt asked, surprised.
I don’t know why he looks like he’s been caught off guard. We’ve worked out of state before.
