But I guess that never happened.
With a shake of my head, I close the notebook, putting it off to the side and shoving down the feelings of loneliness once more.
On the day of Mr. Peterson’s funeral, I find myself standing in a rickety, old church, amongst all of the other people who loved him deeply. Our voices ring out as we sing a melancholy song and try not to give into the grief I know we all are experiencing.
When the melody ends, the preacher instructs us to be seated. Then, he begins his long sermon about how life is precious, yet even precious things must come to an end. I situate myself to be more comfortable as I listen to his deep, soothing timbre. The wooden pew is hard and unyielding against my spine, making the muscles in my lower back scream out in protest. We have already been here for around forty-five minutes. As much as I loved Mr. Peterson, I am itching to get out of here and into the fresh air.
The church smells of an interesting mix of death and hopelessness. It lingers over us, giving no signs of ever letting up.
Of course, I guess that’s what you should expect at a funeral. I don’t know why I thought it would be different. I hate funerals. Primarily because if I’m at one, it means someone I held very dear to my heart is gone—my mother, my father, and now, Mr. Peterson. The aura of my surroundings also takes its toll on me. I can feel the negative energy draping across the sanctuary like a heavy blanket. It’s almost suffocating as it weighs us all down.
I fight back the tears as I glance around at all the guests. Everyone bows their heads or gazes at the preacher, listening intently. There isn’t a trace of any color besides dark blues,grays, and blacks. I suppose it is the standard dress code for these types of occasions.
Mr. Peterson was a good man. He was kind to everyone who stumbled into his life, even if they didn’t deserve it. He had been my boss for only a few years shy of a decade, but my friend for much longer. I was his assistant on paper, but our relationship was much more than that.
My father passed away when I was only ten. That was my first experience with grief. Then, only eight years later, my mother died, after fighting a vicious battle with cancer. After that, Mr. Peterson took me under his wing as if I were his daughter, welcoming me into his home and his family as if I was always meant to be there. With the Petersons, I had a safe haven. They were two people that I knew I could count on, no matter what. When he brought me on to be his full-time assistant at Nexus, I couldn’t believe my luck. I actually enjoyed working for him. He had taught me everything he knew about the business world, giving me tips and tricks that I’m not sure I would’ve picked up elsewhere.
I sit there in numb silence, pretending to listen to the preacher drone on as I replay memories of Mr. Peterson over and over in my head. I keep thinking about how, come Monday, I will walk into our office and everything will be different. I will never see him again, and that’s a hard fact that I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to fully comprehend.
Though he’s been gone from the office for the last few weeks, seeing the casket up there makes his absence feel more final. More permanent.
After what feels like an eternity, we sing one more song and the service concludes. Once we’ve all filed out, I find Mrs. Peterson and wrap my arms around her. She holds me tightly and then, when I pull away, kisses my cheek.
“You take care of yourself, dear. I know Vance would wantyou to be happy. I do too.” I smile at the kind, old woman and again give her my regards. She is going to be moving down south, where theiractualchildren live, so I likely won’t be seeing her anymore after this, though I hope we’ll stay in touch a little bit. I was much closer to Mr. Peterson than I was to her, so I wasn’t surprised when she told me she’d be leaving town. She has no interest in taking over Mr. Peterson’s business, rather, desires to spend the rest of her time with her family. I can’t blame her.
After one more hug, I let go of her and walk out of the church and into the new world, of which Mr. Peterson is no longer a part of. It stings, knowing that he won’t be around to celebrate when I finally get engaged, or to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He won’t be there to cuddle my first baby. I won’t get to see him look at them with so much love in his eyes that it makes his eyes water.
And all of these realizations hurt, like a thousand knives cutting me deep to the bone.
All this time, he’s encouraged me to chase my dreams, and now, he won’t even be around to see me finally achieve them.
As I walk to my car, one stray tear streaks down my face and I swipe it away, taking a deep breath and swallowing down the anger and sadness threatening to bubble up from inside of me. On a whim, I decide I need a little pick me up. My favorite coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, isn’t too far from here. My best friend, Leila, and I are frequent fliers there and know the entire staff by name. It opened up last year, and it quickly turned into the prime hangout spot when we are both off work, which is seldom, considering we both live busy lives.
When I’m a block away from the coffee shop, the sky opens up, unleashing a torrent of rain down onto my little car. My windshield wipers work furiously to clear my vision. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find a parking spot, which is quicklyreplaced by a grumble of frustration when I can’t locate the umbrella I typically keep in the glove compartment.
Deciding to make a run for it, I hurry out of my car and sprint to the door, satisfied that I only end upmostlysoaked to the bone. Right away, I feel the warmth from the small shop surround me.
Uncommon Grounds is such a quaint, little space. The shop itself isn’t that large. In fact, it is relatively small compared to other places. It has an electric, stone fireplace on one side, surrounded by comfy leather sofas and little tables spread throughout the area.
Upon first walking in, guests are immediately greeted with the sweet aroma of fresh baked goods, like their infamous blueberry scones or the café’s signature brew. The spectacular essence that the shop gives off never ceases to amaze me. The comfortable leather of the couches is always inviting. I rarely ever pass it up when I’m in the mood for something warm and cozy. Sometimes, I even come here after work hours to do some last-minute work for Mr. Peterson. I wonder if my new boss will require me to put in extra, off-the-clock hours like Mr. Peterson did.
Not that I minded; he always was grateful for any extra work I did on the side which made it worthwhile for me. And besides that, I do enjoy my job. There is something so satisfying about working with a powerful CEO and assisting in tasks to help further the company into new and exciting ventures. Though I don’t hold an executive position,exactly, with Mr. Peterson, I was still a valued member of the executive team. He respected my opinions just as much as anyone else, and he was always open to anything I’d suggest.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to prove that to the new CEO as well.
I walk up to the register and order my favorite seasonaldrink, a pumpkin-spiced latte. They make it quickly, and soon, I’m settling into my favorite two-seater booth next to the fireplace and the window.
The rain is still falling heavily outside, and I take a sip of my drink, watching it fall to the ground. This is exactly what I needed.
The last few days have been high stress, as we finalized all the details for Mr. Peterson’s funeral. Mrs. Peterson helped where she could, but a lot of the responsibilities had fallen onto me. I was happy to help her through this, but now, I am feeling the effects weigh heavily on my shoulders.My muscles ache and I feel like I can barely keep my head up.
It is strange being forced to say goodbye to one phase of my life and immediately get thrust into the next one. Come Monday, I’ll have a new boss, new expectations, and essentially, a new job. Nerves bloom in my belly, and I feel on edge about the whole change. I don’t have any idea of what I will be walking into on Monday morning, and I hate to feel unprepared.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and once I’m settled in my booth, I pull out my phone and open up the search browser. I type the name,Theodore Hurst—exactly as it was spelled in the company-wide announcement email from our Board of Directors yesterday—into the search box and click thegobutton. After it takes a few seconds to load, pictures and articles come up about the man who I’ll soon be working for.
My mouth goes dry as soon as I see his face for the first time, and I reach for my coffee to take a sip. It’s a photo from what looks to be a gala. He’s looking away from the camera at something else, but his face is lit up in a broad smile, which makes his dark eyes glitter, even through the stationary image.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
