But it’s harder than it looks.
I end up sleeping in the next morning, and then rushing to work with my clothes askew and my hair a wild mess. And gods, I need gas. The light blinks at me offensively, and I bang my hands on the steering wheel.
It’s all a clusterfuck. A major fucking cluster. By the time I roll into work, all the men are already there, and I see Glenn peer over at me as I exit the car. He has to notice how awful I look. He can’t miss it. It doesn’t help that my scent is frazzled and frayed. Something new.
Burnt coffee.
I clear my throat, wanting to put on a mask of professionalism, but it’s hard. It really is fucking hard.Especially when I don’t feel right, slightly weak, like I’m on the precipice of a natural disaster.
It doesn’t help that I didn’t take care of myself this weekend, sulking and barely eating. And now I have to go back to work like nothing happened.
So, I do my best to pretend no one exists, moving into the trailer and quickly opening the windows to air the place out. I stare at the air purifier, hoping it does a better job than mine did this weekend. Though they were putting in overtime with the lack of showers I’d taken.
I scrub a hand through my hair and smooth out my shirt when the door opens and Glenn walks in.
I hear his sniff, and I stiffen.
But he says nothing, just walks to the coffee machine and brews a cup.
I let out a breath and pull my glasses from my briefcase. When they’re on my face, I sit down in my chair, trying to get shit together. I missed a day. I never miss a fucking day. And yet here I am, trying to put it all back together.
I feel his presence at the other end of the desk, and I peer up at him.
His eyes meet mine for the first time since I left him in the woods, right before I left him at the mercy of the Howlers.
“You don’t look well,” he finally says, and my lips turn down, my ego disappearing into the ether.
“I know that. Thank you for rubbing it in.”
He blinks twice before lifting the cup of coffee up to his lips and sipping.
“Care to fill me in on what happened yesterday? Did everything go as planned?” I finally remember to ask. My cheeks pinken as I smooth my hand over the papers on my desk, trying to keep that nervous jitter at bay.
It’s hard. I’m sure he can hear my bones rattling from here.
“Finished sheathing the first floor, got the framers started on putting up the exterior walls…”
I listen to what he’s saying, making notes on my computer as he speaks. But my fingers twitch, and I misspell most of what I’m typing. He must sense it, smell it. The jumbled mess my mind is. Nothing is working like it should.
“Everything went fine,” he adds, and I nod.
“Thank you. I knew the project was in good hands.”
“It is. And security is here. I saw them pull in Monday evening.”
“Thank you for the update.”
He sips on his coffee and continues to linger. I have no idea why. I can’t even fathom why he’s still here.
That is, until he asks, “What’re the tasks for today, Mr. Wren?”
My eyelashes flutter, and I swear I short-circuit. “I told you not to call me that. How about that for starters?”
It’s a snap, a clashing of teeth. He has to hear it—the irritation in my voice, in my words. But he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Got it.” He pauses and then adds, “Mr. Wren.”
I slap my hands down on my desk and stand up. “Don’t make me write you up for insubordination. I am tired of this. I’m so fucking tired.”
