“Melissa, get me Alpha Funds Management on the phone.” I freeze in place, not even a twitch of a muscle as I process his request.
Kyle.
Kyle works for Alpha Funds Management—he’s one of their most successful representatives —which was why he’s always gone for work. Surely, he won’t be the one the call is forwarded to, right?
Fingers numb, I dutifully dial the number all while silently praying that anyone but Kyle takes the call. To my great relief, a bright feminine voice answers the phone.
“Alpha Funds Management, Chloe speaking. How may I help you?” Air whooshes into my lungs in relief since I stopped breathing the moment the phone started ringing.
“Hi, Chloe. This is Melissa calling from Lappin, Snyder, and Hamp Associates.” Chloe’s a nice girl. We’ve had many encounters and phone calls before the contract between our companies was finalized.
“Yes,” she replies, “let me forward you.” She doesn’t even wait for me to respond or request to speak to someone. She automatically forwards me.Shit. My anxiety ratchets up as the phone begins to ring, yet again.
Why the hell couldn’t she have waited?
After several rings, a voice I know so well enters my ear.
“Kyle Howard speaking.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A gaping hollow opens in my chest at the sound of his voice. I had hoped that I was beginning to move on from him, but the way he hurt me won’t heal overnight. No matter how hateful he was.
Swallowing hard, I work on stamping down my emotions, trying to keep them at bay. Be professional. It doesn’t work as well as I’d hoped though. My voice comes out thin and brittle. “This is Melissa from Lappin, Snyder, and Hamp Associates. I have Mr. Lappin on the line.”
If he has any feelings, Kyle doesn’t show them. “I’m ready.”
“Great,” I swallow. “Let me connect you.” Pushing the correct buttons on the call, I inform Vance that Kyle’s on the phone before connecting the two lines. Placing the phone back on the cradle, I fight back tears.
My emotions are still so raw. Has it really only been a week since he broke up with me? Pushing away from my desk and grabbing my cell phone, I head toward the women’s restroom.
Melissa:I just spoke to Kyle.
Christy:the fuck? Y?
Melissa:Didn’t mean to. Vance needed his company on the phone.
Christy:Where r u?
Needing someone to talk to about this, I reply, telling Christy where I’m at. Splashing cold water on my face, I attempt to erase the evidence of my tears, but it doesn't work. My face is red and splotchy, my eyes swollen from crying.Damn it.There’s nothing I can do to hide it.
Christy comes barreling in, pushing the door wide open before striding in. She sees me staring at my reflection in the mirror and immediately walks towards me, wrapping me in a hug.
"Oh, girl,” she soothes, hands stroking up and down my back as I bury my face in her shoulder. “You don’t need to cry over him. He’s a piece of shit anyway.” I nod my head against her in agreement before pulling back. I know my face is scrunched up from trying to hold back the tears, but Christy doesn’t care.
Sniffling I say, “I thought I had everything under control. I thought I was actually beginning to get over him. But now, I’m not sure.” Christy hands me a wad of toilet paper that she grabs from a stall. Gently dabbing it under my eyes, I try to keep my mascara from running any more than it already has.
“He hurt you, babe. It makes sense that you’re not healed yet. It’s only been like a week.” Her voice is soft and gentle, still trying to comfort me. After a moment, she scoffs, “At least it’s one less week that you had to put up with that asshole.”
A chuckle bubbles up my throat, unable to help myself. She’s right. “I knew I could count on you to cheer me up.”
The rest of the day goes by without incident. Vance had an afternoon full of meetings, so I was able to spend the time in solitude, working away at my desk.
Once home, I go straight for the wine. It’s been a crap day and I need to drown out my sorrows. Popping open a Spanish Red from my monthly wine subscription, I pour a hefty glass of the maroon liquid. Tonight’s all about comfort, so I’m wearing a giant sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, so large that it hangs on me, going past my shorts making it look like I have nothing underneath.
Folding my legs beneath me, I plop down on the couch, ready to drink my problems away—or at least numb myself a bit. Breathing deeply with my eyes closed, I tilt my head back, willing my body to relax after everything I went through today.
I can’t believe I let three little words get to me: “Kyle Howard speaking.”
