Page 9 of Pure Abandon

“Next.” The word stretches out in mock annoyance.

Okay, I am not going to win today on anything that has to do with the arrival area. I skim through my notes and come to a particularly great idea. “The event is to benefit children’s music programs. Why don’t we invite a musical prodigy to perform with each musical act? We’ll pick the kids based on the genre of music. Like an awesome pianist playing with Coldplay or a clarinet aficionado alongside Chris Bode.”

Heather’s eyebrows ride up. She doesn’t give me any clue to her thoughts on the idea, but she hasn’t easily dismissed it either. She plays with one gold hoop before she finally spits out, “I’ll consider it.”

Thank God. I was beginning to think we weren’t going to agree on anything.

“It’s a half-assed idea, though.” She turns to me and tilts her head to the side like she’s talking to a baby. “Do you really think A-list performers are going to want to be upstaged by some child prodigy?”

My mouth drops. Man, she is such a bitch.

Heather takes out her Kate Spade handbag from beneath the desk and places her date planner in it. “You can leave now.” She waves at me in a shooing motion. “I have somewhere else I have to be.”

I blink back at her a few times, trying to decide if I should say something or just leave.

When I was in grammar school, I had to constantly hear people talk trash about my dad. He was a pitcher for a major league baseball team, and when your parent has a famous profession, people think they can tell you their personal feelings about them. I get it. I do. If my dad pitched a crappy game, they called him a bum, followed by a few expletives. What they didn’t recognize was my dad was a part of a team and the entire team has to work together to win. They also failed to realize it was exactly that, a game. Someone had to win and someone had to lose. It’s the risk you take.

But what irked me the most was how people would take their aggression out on me just because I was his daughter. I mean, my hairdresser’s kid went to my school and I didn’t talk trash to him because his mom gave me a bad haircut.

I spoke to my dad about it. He was an amazing soundboard. I felt bad telling him things the kids at school were saying about him. But you know what he did? He laughed. He laughed so hard he almost fell off my bed. I couldn’t believe how little he cared.

And it was in that moment he gave me the best advice. He told me to do what he does when he’s on the mound.

Breathe, Kat. Just breathe.

So that’s what I do.

I take a few deep breaths and let Heather’s dismissal roll off my shoulders and head back to my office.

I can’t go to Erik and complain. Who wants to be known as the whiney new girl? Next week, after everyone gets to know me better, I’ll start to voice my opinion professionally. This week, I’ll just lie low.

Throwing my files in the garbage, I say to myself, “I’ll start fresh tomorrow.” A calendar reminder pops up on my computer reminding me I have a meeting with Alexander Asher tomorrow. After my meeting I’ll be able to come back and drum up some new ideas.

As for today, I don’t have a lot to do, as most of my work is contingent on other people getting their parts of the concert moving and then I pick up from there. And what I can get started on is being hijacked by Heather. So, lucky for me, I can head home well before the sun is down.

As expected, Gabriel has worked late every day this week. He is dead set on making partner. If he does, he’ll work even longer hours and then he’ll be trapped for the rest of his life in a job he doesn’t like.

Each night, after Carmen leaves, I take Jackson for a walk in the park. The early summer weather makes for warm evening strolls. As we wander, I point out everything I see… trees, cars, kids, people. Jackson sits up in his stroller, facing me, taking it all in.

And each night, it’s the same routine: bath, bottle, and bed. While I can sit and talk to this little man for hours, it melts my heart to watch him sleep. He is so peaceful and full of hope, my hope for a beautiful future for this little boy.

As I lie in bed, about to close my eyes, the downstairs door opens. Gabriel is home. I hear him walk up and, like every night, he heads straight for Jackson’s room. I roll over and look at the baby monitor. I see Gabriel lean over the crib and caress Jackson’s face with his hand, gentle and soothing, not to wake him. He heads over the rail and gives Jackson a soft kiss on the forehead before exiting the room, silently closing the door.

Gabriel opens our bedroom door and heads straight into the walk-in closet. I hear him changing, kicking off his shoes and hanging his suit up. He finishes, closing the closet door, wearing only basketball shorts and sneakers.

Glancing at the clock, I see it’s after ten. Gabriel grabs his iPod off the dresser and places earbuds in his ears before walking out the bedroom door. I lay my head back down on the pillow and wait in the darkness.

The train glides along the tracks as my first week at my new job comes to a close. I put my headphones on and listen to the sweet sounds of Ed Sheeran. His soft English accent plays in my ears, singing about a girl who messed with his heart. I look down at the paper and read the day’s gossip. I’m a Page Six junky. I never read the society pages since I don’t know who anyone is. It’s the celebrity dish I’m into. Looks like another Hollywood actor is sleeping with another Hollywood costar.

I planned on getting to the office early to prepare for my meeting with the new boss, but my train was delayed. Not a surprise for the Long Island Railroad. It can turn a standard forty-minute commute into a two-hour expedition. If Gabriel and I had more than one car, I’d have taken it. Instead, he drove to Connecticut for a meeting and I’m running late.

And to round it all out, after days of blue skies and sunshine, dark, nimbus clouds have rolled in and as soon as I step foot on to the train, the heavens decide to open up. This isn’t just rain; it’s a torrential downpour. Raindrops pound on the roof of the train car. I can hear it through my headphones regardless of the music streaming in my ears. Hopefully it will let up by the time I get off, because I have forgotten my umbrella.

When the train reaches Penn Station, I exit and walk up the concrete steps that lead to the central arena where thousands of people exit and enter every day, traveling in and out of the city.

Working my way past a sea of people walking in various directions, I finally navigate over to the underground maze that is the New York City subway. I transfer to the crosstown E train, hoping to avoid having to walk outside as much as possible. The subway’s doors are about to close as I approach, so I rush and squeeze my body into the sardine-packed car, hoping all limbs and belongings made it through.

There is a man singing gospel music on the other end of the car, panhandling for a cup of coffee. If I were closer, I’d give him a dollar.