She sighs into the receiver. Not a good sign, maybe I was right to start crying. “Hi, Harper. I’m so sorry to do this. When you booked, I was out on maternity leave and the temp they brought in as my backup booked all your rentals when they were already assigned to another event.”
“Which ones?” I grip the phone until there's a slight crack of the plastic.
“All of them.”
The air rushes from my lungs as I register the worst possible outcome. “Please tell me you're joking. Everything we picked is the same?”
“I’m afraid so, both events are Valentine themed and apparently you guys have the same taste. I’m so sorry, Harper.”
I know this isn’t her fault, but I want to scream. “It’s okay,” I say instead.
“I can give you some leads for other companies but they’re all in the Bay, and with Valentine’s Day on a Saturday this year, there’s a lot of parties that weekend.”
What she’s saying is I’ll need a Hail Mary to find somewhere with the items I need.
“Okay, thanks, Veronica.”
Her email with the list, a small list, I might add, must have already been drafted because not even a minute later, my computer pings with the incoming message.
My plans for the morning are now out the window. The Cupid Ball is a town staple, it’s what we’re known for across the county. The amount of money it brings in sustains some departments' budgets for the entire year, and I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I have to cancel. And if I have to tell my father the Ball is canceled because of rentals, I might as well kiss my job goodbye.
I can’t prove my dad hates that I work in the same building as him, despite him getting me this job, but it sure feels like it. There hasn’t been a single report I’ve sent to his inbox that he hasn’t sent back with some sort of note about revisions being needed. Ridiculous revisions at that—like the shade of red on a cover page is too dark, or he wants pie-charts instead of bar graphs. I change them, of course, but each time he does it, a little piece of me withers up inside. And he hates when people figure out I’m his daughter. Hisotherdaughter he always likes to interject with.
Parents shouldn’t play favorites but we all know they do. Ask any middle child and they’d all agree on how easily we’re overlooked. But to my parents, I'm not just the middle child, I'm the less than perfect child, the child who doesn’t fit the image of their idea of a perfect family. The “one boy, one girl, has a Labrador Retriever and house in the ‘burbs” type of image.
No, I’m the child who didn’t come out a boy. I pursued an arts degree instead of business. I’ve been labeled overweight since before I knew what it meant. I always have been and always will be less than, and even if I give up trying to be a part of the family, there is still a part of me that doesn’t want to give more fuel to hate me. Andcanceling his beloved event would only add to an already raging fire.
It took me the entire morning but I finally found one rental place that hasalmosteverything I originally booked. They were out of red table runners but I’m nothing if not resourceful and can easily sew two dozen myself in ten days.
All of that would be great if we didn’t have to pay almost double the original quote.
Which means I need Nolan’s approval.
I’ve been standing on the other side of his closed door for at least five minutes, searching for the courage to go in but it keeps slipping through my fingers. Where is the girl from this weekend, the one who spoke up for herself? I could really use her right about now.
Sadie tsks from behind me. “You can go in, you know? He’s not in a meeting.”
“I know, Sadie,” my annoyance loud and clear.
With my hand raised, I’m halfway to knocking when my phone chimes and being saved by the bell has never felt better. Sadie watches with a confused look on her face as I back out of the room, balancing reports in one hand and digging for my phone with the other.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to her, not that she cares.
I need to see you again.
What happened to hello?
That's what I should say but I don’t. Seeing his words mirror my thoughts sends sparks flying across my skin, lighting up every nerve ending I have and washing me in a sense of relief. I was beginning to think he only asked for my number out of some weird sense of chivalry. You know...I came inside you, made you come multiple times, why not get your number so it doesn’t feel cheap, sort of thinking.
I’d like that very much.
His next text appears before I finish my message.
Tomorrow. Midnights at 8:00
Something about the urgency in his text stokes the kindling on the pleasure leftover from the weekend, but there’s no way he thinks I’m a member and can return. I remember Maxine telling him I was there as part of the open house. At no point was I ever going to become a member, I work in local government. Small town government at that, I barely make the monthly dues in six months. I was there for the experience, he knew that.
I’m not a member at Midnights
