Whitney
Never,in a million years, would I have thought that I’d ever intimately know the broom closet on the eleventh floor of the Nexus Realty Group building.
But that’s where I find myself in the throes of a steamy dream.
With who?
I don’t know, but that’s beside the point.
All that matters to me right now, at this moment, is the way that this mystery man’s lips are tracing over the curves and divots of my neck. Even though IknowI’m in a dream, I can practically feel his hot breath trailing across my skin, eliciting goosebumps to rise all over my arms.
I moan as I tilt my face to him. Though he’s standing right in front of me, I can’t make out the features of his face. But I know deep down inside me that he’s everything to me.
Whoever this man is, he likes as I verbalize my appreciation for him, and his ministrations become more intentional. His hands rest on the curve of my hips, and his thumbs trace underneath the seam of my shirt until he’s touching my bare skin.Though I’m still fully clothed, the idea of his touch sends my body into overdrive, and my pulse skyrockets, as does my pleasure. My breath is ragged and my chest rises and falls against his hand as anticipation builds within me.
I raise my arms to wrap around his shoulders, and I catch sight of the glittering ring on my fourth finger. This dream version of myself isengaged—likely to the man who is kissing my neck in this closet—and that realization makes this moment even more appealing to me.
A deep rumble emanates from his chest, causing goosebumps to rise on my arms once more. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he says in his raspy voice, confirming my suspicions that he is my fiancé in this scenario. “I can’t wait to start our lives together, start a family.”
The idea makes my chest ache, and I smile at the faceless man who is saying all the right words to make me yearn for this dream to be true.
As I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him again, the distant sound of a phone ringing interrupts the moment. Before I can fully grasp what’s happening, the man of my dreams starts to fade right in front of me. Panic strikes my chest, and I reach out to grab him again, hoping to hold onto him for just another few moments.
But it’s no use. Against my wishes, I’m ripped from the moment as my phone continues to ring through the night’s darkness, leaving me feeling alone and empty inside as I’m forced back into reality. The vibration of the ringtone echoing against my nightstand is a stark contrast to the quiet broom closet, full of hopeful kisses and whispered promises of everything I could ever want.
The minute I’m pulled back into consciousness, I reach across my pillows, my hand grasping at nothing for a moment until I feel the familiar outline of my phone. I pull it offof the charger and bring it to my face, squinting in the dark to see who would be calling at this hour.
Stacey Peterson.
I realize the only reason she’d be calling me at this time, and my heart drops.
Swiping the screen, I hesitantly hold it up to my ear. “Hello?”
The older woman sniffles on the other end of the phone, and I brace myself for the worst. “Oh, Whitney,” she begins, her voice wobbly. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but Vance passed away this evening.”
I nearly drop the phone. Though we knew this moment would be coming, hearing that my boss, my mentor, my friend, isgoneis a bit of a shock.
My stomach churns and I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. I can hear the rush of blood from my pulse in my ears, drowning out any other sound.
“Whitney? Whitney, are you there?”
Finally, the sound of Stacey Peterson’s voice pulls me out of my stupor.
“I’m so sorry, I was just—” I pause, unable to come up with the proper words to explain how I’m feeling in this moment. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, dear,” she says before sniffling again. “I wanted you to be the first to know so you can send out the appropriate emails.”
I say a few more words of condolences to Mrs. Peterson, and then hang up the phone, trying not to let myself break down completely. My eyes burn as I sit in my bed, staring at theblank screen of my phone. Though he’s been sick for a bit, knowing that I’ll never see the man who was like a father to me for so long only amplifies the lingering loneliness I’m feeling from that weird dream of mine. Giving a forlorn glance at the time, I roll out of bed and get to work.
I try to bring myself out of the grieving friend position and back into my role as the personal assistant to the CEO. Despite how much Mr. Peterson and his family meant to me, at the end of the day, that’s who I am. Even though it’s still the dark hours of the night, my mind jumps into action, already drafting up the email I’ll send out to the Board of Directors of Nexus Realty Group.
The next few days pass in a blur. I do my best to be supportive, jumping in and taking responsibility of as much as I possibly can, bearing the weight on my shoulders, all while trying to keep it together myself. But every night, after spending the day in the empty CEO’s office, filling boxes of his personal items and memories he’d collected over the years, I go home and turn on the shower, curl into a ball, and let the hot water scald my skin as I cry for everything that we’ve lost.
That I’ve lost.
A few days before the funeral, I start sorting through some of my old, childhood boxes, searching for pictures or memories that Mr. Peterson was a part of. As I’m rummaging through a box filled with notebooks and pictures, my fingers brush a familiar leather cover and I pause, narrowing my eyes. I reach for it again, grasping the pink, leather bound notebook and pulling it out.
I absentmindedly flip through the pages, noting the names and the checklists on each page. Ever since I was fifteen and going through my first breakup—of many to come, unfortunately—I created a list of ten things that I wanted in my perfect man. I know it’s restrictive and ridiculous, but I had dreams offinding a man who would meet all of these things, and then we’d live out our happily ever after together.
