Because I can’t. Not now.
I miss him. God, I miss him.
But I missmemore. And I’m finally doing something about it.
Squaring my shoulders, I shake off the feelings bubbling up in my chest and walk through the door. The building is incredibly clean, more modern than I would have expected for a university. I locate the directory on the wall and see that Human Resources is, thankfully, on the first floor.
I really don’t feel like stairs today.
The door is already open as I approach, and I knock quietly so I don’t startle the woman typing at her desktop. She looks up and smiles brightly as I enter, greeting me warmly.
“Good morning! You must be Victoria Foster.”
Yes, I gave them my maiden name. It’s not that I’m worried about Chase finding and physically harming me, but I need the space and anonymity to think clearly and don’t need him finding my place of work and disturbing the peace.
“Hi, yes. Good morning. Ms. Malcolm, is it?” She nods in the affirmative and gestures for me to take a seat.
“It was so wonderful to speak with you on the phone last week.” My, she’s bubbly.
“We appreciate your ability to start on such short notice, all things considered. Poor MaryAnne will be out for at least six months recovering from surgery. We were afraid we’d end up shuffling student workers around to fill the gap but this is much more preferable.”
Six months. That’s plenty of time to figure out what I actually want to do with my life. If I even want to stay in Grand River long term.
“I’m happy it all worked out. I just moved to the area and am excited for the opportunity.”
If she senses the lie in my tone, she doesn’t show it, instead pulling a folder with a stack of paperwork from the side of her desk and handing it to me.
“You can go ahead and fill these out here, and when you’re finished I’ll take you on a tour of the campus and then over to the mathematics department.”
I smile, nodding along as she speaks. Am I smiling too much? I feel like I’m smiling too much.
“Do you need a pen?”
“No, thanks, I have my own,” I say, taking the folder from her and opening it to see a handful of forms.
Some I’ve seen before: standard tax withholding forms and a straight forward employment application. Some that are specific to the university: employee code of conduct, an informational brochure, a campus map.
And behind it all, a sheet detailing the compensation package.
My God, secretaries make barely anything. How do these people afford to feed their families on this little income?
Trying not to react to the abysmal sum in front of me, I return my gaze to Ms. Malcolm, nod, and smile again—my God, Tori, you probably look like a lunatic—before getting to work completing the forms.
I stop when I reach the tax form boxes that ask if I am filing single, married filing jointly, or married filing separately.
I don’t know.
Am I going back to Moraine? No.
Will the divorce be finalized before tax season is upon us? I’d hope so, but I can’t be certain.
Ugh. All I want to do is keep a low profile and not clue anyone into my personal business, and here I am not five minutes into the day and I’m about to ask a stupid and revealing question, all because I can’t figure out a tax form?
For fuck’s sake.
I marksingle.
If that’s incorrect, I’ll update it later. But for now, I’m claiming my independence, be it legally factual or not.
