~3~

2018

Brooke

I'm balancing six hot coffees as I trudge across the busy intersection from the bustling café nearest work. With a company as big as the one I work for, there's no shortage of breakrooms with coffee pots going 24/7 on every floor. Caffeinated and Decaf. Half and half and flavored creamers. Sugar and aspartame substitutes. It's a coffee lover's dream.

But Clayton doesn't drink that stuff.

No. He has to have the fancy brew from across the street. He has to have it half-caff, sugar-free, and foamed to perfection, like a little legging-wearing sorority bitch. I gasp as my toe dips into a divot in the street and I nearly stumble forward. One of the overly-filled to-go cups sloshes out amber-hued coffee, despite the little green plastic stopper that's supposed to stay the liquid. It burns my hand; the pain is sharp and radiates up my arm. "Damn it!" I mutter, wanting to scream instead of restraining myself.

And, of course, when Clayton asked me to get him a fancy-ass coffee, he'd asked everyone in the meeting if they'd wanted one too. Thus, the six steaming cups. Thus, me on my second trip back and forth, trying not to get killed by an unyielding cab as I do my 'job'.

I avoid the revolving door this time, opting to hook my shoe in the handle of the regular door and pull it open enough to lean forward and crook an elbow into the gap I've made. It wasn't easier than simply walking through the spinning entrance, but it was safer. On my first trip, it had been moving too fast again and I'd dumped one cappuccino all over the foyer as I'd stumbled out.

I am so damn graceful. Two trips for coffee and twice I've nearly busted my butt.

"Need a hand, Brooke?" Jerome, one of the security guys, is walking toward me, hands already outstretched to take a few of the cups away. I allow him to, gratefulness plastered across my face. He'd been really sweet the first trip too, when I'd nearly gone down in a blaze of coffee-covered glory. He'd even helped the janitors clean up my mess so I could get the coffee upstairs before it cooled. I'd apologized the entire way from the entrance to the elevator.

"You are a lifesaver," my voice is more exhausted-sounding than I expect it to be.

"Having a bad day?" He smiles, that wide lipped grin of his, which makes his teeth stand out incredibly white against his dark lips.

"This is a normal day unfortunately," I groan, realizing that I still have one more trip across the street to go before I've filled everyone's order.

"I will never understand the obsession people seem to have with complicated coffee. Pumpkin this and hazelnut that. Flat white and frappes. Give me a cup of breakfast blend with a couple cubes of sugar and I'm a happy camper." Jerome is walking me to the elevator and I could kiss him for being such a gentleman. Although, I wouldn't actually since I'm not the type of girl to be bold. Ever.

"Exactly how I feel. Although, I will admit to having a little French press at home. That's about as fancy as I get." Inside the elevator, I shift the cups I'm still carrying to take back the ones Jerome is holding."

"I can ride with you up?" There's a flirtatious lilt to his voice. At least, I think there is.

"Are you allowed to leave the desk?" I feel like it's an odd thing to ask, like I'm questioning if he knows how to do his own job. "I mean, will you get in trouble?"

"I might." He shrugs a little, his expression mischievous. Then I know he's flirting with me, but I don't know quite how to respond. It's been a long time since I've been hit on—unless I counted Clayton's unwanted advances. And truth be told, I've been here for months and this is the first time Jerome and I have spoken more than two words to one another. I see him once or twice a day, sometimes more if I'm running errands. He's always kind and polite. I even think he's handsome, but the reality is- he's just another stranger in the city.

And there's also the fact that I find it insanely hard to give anyone a chance nowadays.

Love's good for nothing but heartbreak.

"Let's not risk it," I say, letting him down gently. "I'll see you in a sec though. One more trip to go."

"How much coffee do these people need?" He's joking, but I can see the way the skin has tightened around his eyes. He knows that I've dismissed him, at least for now. I can't stand causing people pain. I've got enough of my own to worry about.

"Too much." I groan then grin as the doors slide shut. As soon as I am out of view, I allow my body to slump against the back of the elevator and my smile to melt away. The coolness of the metal wall sinking into my skin through my thin pink blouse feels good.

Exiting the elevator on the fourteenth floor, I am greeted by a booming voice. My insanely tall boss is standing like a great mountain under the archway that leads to the largest conference room. "You've got to be the slowest delivery person in the world, Miss Shields. Good thing you're a famous actress, or I'd have to fire you."

It's hard not to roll my eyes in exasperation. Clayton has called me Miss Shields from the initial phone interview. Brooke Shields—because I look like a gorgeous model who lounges around on furniture in television commercials. I straighten my shoulders and find it in me to smile once more.

"It is a good thing, Mr. Mills. How in the world would you find anyone else to fetch coffee for you? And to fetch it so fetchingly?" It is the kind of cute, simpering response I've learned to give to my boss to appease him. It's easier this way. At least, that's what I tell myself to avoid having any sort of confrontation with him. He gets some verbal fun. I keep his hands off my body. It was a compromise.

God, I was pathetic and I hated myself for it.

"We'd be helpless for months until someone suitable could be found." He feigns distress and then breaks into a wide smile that does nothing to soften his features or make him even a fraction more appealing in my eyes.

"Let me hand these out and then I've got to run over once more. We need a little cart so I can do these coffee runs in one go." I laugh jokingly, thinking how stupid I'd feel rolling a silver serving buggy across the intersection. Clayton doesn't move to let me enter the room. He's nearly leering at me. I know my blouse is thin, but it's not see-through. I'm not wearing a too short skirt. I'm not inviting boys to be boys. It makes me feel disgusting and less human.

"That's not a bad idea, Brooke. I'll get Marty on it." He steps away then, giving me just enough room to slide between his great girth and the door frame. I don't like the way it feels when my chest presses against his stomach.

"Wonderful, Mr. Mills. That would be really helpful." Well, shit. I think, handing out the cups that are quite a bit cooler than they'd been when I left the café. Shouldn't have said that. Now I'll look like a waitress instead of an executive assistant. "Who had the Praline latte?" I glance around at the black leather chairs and realize half the people who were here after my first coffee run have left.

"I've asked you to call me Clayton several times, Brooke," he chides, placing a hand on my shoulder. I want to push it off, twirl around, give him the middle finger, and tell him what I think of him. But I don't. Of course I don't. Instead I turn slowly and nod. His hand remains on my shoulder, and I can feel every one of his thick fingers pressing against my shoulder.

"I know, Mr. Clayton, but it really wouldn't be appropriate." I step away from him, a small movement that is just enough to dislodge his grip. He doesn't like that; I can see it in the way his fingers flex and his eyes narrow ever so.

"You do like things appropriate." The way he says it sends a million spiders crawling up and down my body. It's just skeevy.

"Okay, one more order to fill." I begin to back away from the conference table.

"No need. The meeting's nearly over. Only a few key people here now. Right, boys?" He looks from me to the other male faces still in the room. They each give a nod. Suddenly, I am uncomfortable.

I don't like being here.

I don't like being the only female in the room.

"Did Sylvia go to lunch already?" Nervously, my eyes flit to the large bronze clock hung above the line of windows that look out over the city.

"She and Camille went to lunch a few minutes ago. They'll be back soon and then you can take yours, if that's why you're asking." He knows that's not why I'm asking. I can see it in his eyes.

"Alright. Unless you need me to take notes, I'll go down the hall and get the merger paperwork filed from the Huntington-Saunders meeting." I'm already turning around, getting ready to tuck tail and run. I'm not fast enough.

"No, no. No more notes. We've finished the business side. This is more... social hour now and you're welcome to stay, Brooke. We all admire your go-getter attitude, among other things." Clayton is ogling again, undressing me with his eyes. I want to vomit up the breakfast I hadn't eaten, unload yellow foamy stomach bile all across his perfectly-tailored Armani. Instead I shake my head- all words suddenly lodged in my throat against a great, quiet dam- and I turn abruptly. The soles of my flats squeak across the marble flooring and I high-tailed it to my small office with the shit view. Any view is better than the one I've just left though. 

Behind me, I hear Clayton and his cronies laughing.

He's never taken it this far- subjecting me to his perversions in front of other people. When am I going to say enough is enough?

The rest of the day, I stay huddled behind stacks of paperwork. Filing and filing, and trying not to cry. Clayton comes in once. I hear him approaching, his heavy footfalls and the distinct odor of his cologne wafting nauseatingly down the hall. It doesn't make me feel ashamed at all to quietly fall to the floor and hide under the desk until he gives up on me appearing and leaves.

Jerome is still working when I escape the building. We exchange smiles, but we don't speak. Because, once again, I've shut down what could have been a good thing before it's even started. I am good at that.

On the bus, I do cry. I don't care who sees me. I shed tears until I am the only one left on the bus. The driver politely ignores my quiet whimpers. That's a small kindness.

The sun is just setting when I step off the bus and do my customary glancing-around to see if Charlie has uncharacteristically appeared. I want him to this evening. I need a friendly face. The tracks my tears have made are nearly dry on my cheeks. But them drying does not erase the experiences of the day, the ugliness that is welling up inside of me and stirring up memories of things I've long ignored.

Like Tommy.

The boy who ruined love for me.

And Daddy.

The man who ruined me for love.

Both abandoning me at different stages of my life and leaving me to be scared of emotional attachment. Both leading me to being too weak to defend myself and quit a job where I feel unsafe.

Today was supposed to be a good day. It was supposed to be different. That's the mantra I had repeated in my head as I'd walked into the massive building this morning and tackled my adult responsibilities.

But it hadn't been different. It had been the same shit as always. If I told my mom what had happened and how I was feeling, she'd just say that folks will be like that. "It's the way of the world, Brookie. You'll get disappointed by people and life. You just have to keep moving forward and be strong."

I hate it when people excuse ugliness by saying that's how things are. That it just is and one has to accept it.

Because it doesn't have to be that way.

It doesn't.

...surely, it doesn't have to be this way, I think miserably.

Sliding my key into the knob of my front door takes effort because my hands are shaking. I am glad to be home, but what I really want, more than anything, is to be home. Home is where the heart is; it's where my mother is. Of course, Tommy's there too. With his wife—who was once my best friend.

After I reclose the door and toss my keys into the little bowl on the hall table, I yank my jacket off and let it fall to the floor in a crumple. It'll need ironing if I leave it there all night, but I'm not in the mood to care.

Even though I'm hungry, I don't make my way to the kitchen. There's nothing to cook anyways. I'd offered Charlie a well-rounded meal of chicken and cauliflower— and planned to go shopping after work, but I'd forgotten. So much for also grabbing his favorite ice cream. It was a good thing he'd not been waiting at the bus for me, expecting food.

I'm so done with adulating. So done with people. At least for toady. All I want to do is sink onto my couch with a pint of butter pecan and binge watch movies about women stronger than me. Of course, I have as much butter pecan in the freeze as I do Charlie's rocky road. Which means I have zilch.

"This day sucks so bad," I grumble, heading to my room to change. I'm barely in my unattractive plaid night pants and holey college tee when I hear a knock at the door.

"Brooke?" It's Charlie's voice. And suddenly, everything seems a little bit brighter. Except for the fact that I'm a house void of groceries.

Despite that, I sort of bounce to the front door, so excited that for the first time since I've known him, Charlie has taken me up on my offer. Sliding the bolt back and swinging the door open, I cannot repress the grin that spreads my mouth. "Charlie, I'm so surprised."

"Sorry to come by so late." He eyes my pajamas.

"It's not late. Only six-thirty or so. Are you hungry?" I step to the side of the threshold and wave him inside. He comes reluctantly, as if being indoors is so foreign that his very cells rebel.

"No, not really. I was just thinking... you know a girl really ought to be able to build a fire on her own. It's a good skill." He rubs a hand across his rough, unshaven jaw.

"I agree. But if you're going to teach me how to make a fire, then you're going to have to let me cook for you. Otherwise, I'll just have to find someone else to help me pile up the logs and rub two sticks together or whatever you have to do to make it light." Maybe there's something I can throw together. Yank out some canned goods. Something.

"Can't get nobody better. I'm an expert fire maker, you know." His laugh is contagious, as if his joke will never get old, no matter how often he uses it.

Genuinely happy that Charlie has come, I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge, determined to make a go of being one of those chefs who have to cook from a mystery basket on TV. . The barren inside of the fridge mocks me; there's only a box of baking soda, a half-used bottle of BBQ sauce, and takeout that is nearly a month old. Shit.

"I can't tell you how much I needed a dinner buddy tonight, Charlie," I raise my voice slightly so he can hear me in the living room. "Would you be really upset if we ordered pizza? I know I promised a really good meal, but I never made it to the grocery store."

At the word pizza, Charlie appears in the kitchen, looking like a little boy at Christmas. "With anchovies?"

Mentally cringing, I nod. "With anything you want."

Instantly, as he lists the various toppings he'd like on a pizza, I regret the offer.

Half an hour later, Charlie and I sit in front of a roaring, albeit way too hot for August, fire munching on anchovy, pineapple, mushroom, and garlic pizza. And I am finally pushing down the pain of the day to a place inside myself that is easily ignored.