Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Well, what the Hell—I press the button. Might as well talk for a minute—I need to give Donald Pugh some time to head out before I walk to my car, which is parked in the parking garage a block away.
“Hey Jules.” Her voice is warm as always. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I admit.
She is instantly concerned.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Just that fucking Donald Pugh again.” I try to keep my voice from dipping to a growl and don’t quite succeed. Tasha knows all about the Christmas party and how HR just brushed me off.
“What did he do this time? Did he try to grab your ass again?” she demands indignantly.
“He pinched it.” I clench my phone so hard the black plastic casing bites into my hand. “Look, I don’t really want to talk about it right now. I’m still at work. Did you need something?”
“I was just checking to see what you’re bringing to Book Club tonight. I’m kind of coordinating things this time,” she says, tactfully changing the subject.
“Oh, um…” I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. “I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. I might stop by Publix and get a fruit tray, I guess.”
“Forget the fruit tray—if you’re going by Publix get some fresh Cuban bread and some butter,” Tasha says. “Mmm, I can taste it now.”
I have to smile at the dreamy sound of her voice.
“You and your bread. If there’s anybody who loves carbs more than me, it has to be you,” I tell her.
“That’s right.” Tasha is completely unrepentant about it. “You know how I am with those bottomless pasta bowl deals—I always find the bottom. I know an Olive Garden hates to see me coming!”
I snort laughter. Talking to Tasha always makes me feel better no matter how shitty things are.
“All right—I’ll get you some Cuban bread with butter,” I promise.
“And some guava jam!” she puts in. “Get some of that too.”
“You got it. Now you’d better let me go—I still have to walk all the way to my car in the heat.” If my voice sounds pitiful it’s because I feel pitiful. The Florida heat is no joke. It’s aggressive and unrelenting, not to mention sticky and disgusting and awful and…I really need to move to New England, like I’ve been dreaming of for the past ten years.
“Okay, see you soon. Hey—are you safe?” she asks, clearly concerned about me.
“Safe enough,” I say. “He went down the elevator five minutes ago. I’m just giving him time to clear out before I go down and head to my car.”
Which I should not have to do! I wish I had the money to talk to a lawyer about Donald. Maybe Lucia will be at Book Club tonight—she’s a paralegal. Of course, the lawyer she works for is a divorce attorney, but maybe she could still give me some advice.
“I’d better stay on the phone with you just in case,” Tasha says cautiously. “What if something happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.” But I don’t hang up when the elevator dings again. I get into the empty car and chat with Tasha as I ride down to the bottom.
Though I’d usually rather text, having her voice in my ear makes me feel safe and cared for. She really is a great friend. But then, all the girls in my Book Club are. They’re the real reason I don’t pull up roots and move to New England, where I could experience all four seasons, especially fall, which I would love.
She doesn’t hang up with me until I reach my car and I promise again to get her the Cuban bread with butter and jam to go with it.
“See you soon,” she tells me. “And then you can give me details—if you want to.”
I probably will—I need to vent. But for now, I just want to get out of the heat. Even walking a block in downtown Tampa with the sun glaring down at me and the humidity at almost one hundred percent has made patches of sweat bloom in the middle of my back and under my armpits. I swear sometimes I wish I could be skinny just so I wouldn’t sweat as much!
Tasha and I blow kisses at each other and hang up. I get into my furnace of a car and turn the AC on immediately. The plastic of the steering wheel burns my hands and I have to drive with my fingertips and keep the windows rolled down to blow the burning air out as my poor little Civic chugs along, the AC on high, doing its best to cool down the interior.
I head for Publix, anticipating Book Club and thinking how much I wish I could work someplace else besides S&S—anywhere else.
I have no idea that I’ve just finished my last normal day of work and I’m about to have the last normal evening of my life.