10. Hannah

Hannah

“ C an you repeat that, please?” I swear this phone is affecting my ability to hear clearly. It has enough prehistoric dirt and grease embedded in the receiver that it’s hard to tell if it’s a phone or an ode to uncleanliness.

This is not what I signed up for. Part of me wanted to run for the hills this morning when Mason presented my “job”. The other, more stubborn half couldn’t let him win.

It’s a game to him. I know it. He wants me to quit.

I’m not going to make it easy on him. I’ll make him fire me before I ever give up.

I hope.

I mean, why can’t I clean? There’s so much dust in the office, I haven’t stopped sneezing since I sat down. The counter is piled high with what looks like every piece of paper Los Angeles has to offer and the lobby looks like a tomb for old, torn car magazines.

My skin itches to clean, but I also don’t want to get fired on my first day. Mason said not to touch anything, so apart from the phone and my one brave trek to the bathroom that ended in me chickening out — it was bad— I’ve sat right where he told me to, all day.

No one has come to check on me. Make sure I’m still alive and haven’t been devoured by a dust bunny yet. Not even Mason. I haven’t seen a soul all day and I think I’m starting to go stir crazy. Like the people on the phone aren’t real people and just a simulation to drive me to quit.

I wouldn’t put it past him.

I don’t even know why he hates me. Every time he looks at me, it’s like he’s thinking about how I personally wronged him. Like my breathing air is sucking the life from his lungs.

Like I’m a cockroach that needs to be exterminated.

Well, screw him. I have been nothing but polite, given the circumstances. He’s the one who cut all ties. He couldn’t even give me the decency of a polite fuck you before he vanished.

Okay, Hannah . . . Let’s not rehash those old scars.

Believe me, if he wasn’t the single person who might be able to help me find Missy, I would have never bothered to come here, but . . . unfortunately, Mason Carpenter knows a little more than he lets on.

My first day ends five minutes after five when Mason stalks into the lobby without even looking at me and orders me to go home. Then, he promptly shuts his office door in my face.

He’s got a bad habit of that.

If I didn’t need his help so desperately, I wouldn’t have come back the next day, but I do, so I make sure to arrive ten minutes early, just like the day before.

Plus, nothing beat the satisfaction of seeing the disgruntled look on Mason’s face when he realized he hadn’t, in fact, won this little game we’re playing.

My second day’s a bit slower. A whole lot lonelier. Only so many people call an auto shop. One elderly man called three times to ask if his car was done before lunch, but I think he was just lonely.

Honestly, I didn’t mind.

Michael: When are you coming home?

I chuckle at my phone, rolling my eyes. Listen. I know it’s bad to text at work, but there are only so many ceiling tiles in the lobby and I’ve counted them enough times to know there are exactly twenty-two.

Sliding my phone behind a stack of papers that make it impossible to do anything else, I shoot him a quick text back.

Hannah: Mom that bad?

Michael: She hasn’t left me alone. I don’t think I’ve had a moment off in the last week.

Hannah: I hate to be that guy, but I told you so.

Hannah: Mom makes a dictator seem tolerable.

Michael: Ha Ha. Very funny.

Michael: But really, when are you coming home?

My stomach drops. Is it wrong of me to enjoy the solitude LA has offered me? The break from my overbearing mother and her team constantly worried about what I say or wear?

I ate ice cream last night. Fucking ice cream for the first time in years because no one was around to stop me. Should I have? I don’t know. It came from a less than desirable corner store on the way to my house, so God only knows what someone could have done with it, but dammit, I ate the whole container because no one was around to chastise me with their cruel words disguised as polite reminders for me to watch my weight.

I’ve been the same size since high school. I’ve eaten the fish and the bland chicken put on my plate for years, because God forbid Hannah eat something that has a little more flavor than soggy cardboard. I’ve worn the same, subtle makeup since Mom moved us to this Godforsaken state and I’ve never even thought about wearing anything too revealing.

I’ve been the poster child for political finishing school and have nothing to show for it but a face that many mistake as the woman involved in a sex trafficking ring and a mother in office who’s jammed economics and polls down my throat for four years.

If I was smart, I’d just move. To Greenland, or somewhere the sun doesn’t try to cook you alive for walking down the sidewalk. Somewhere no one would know my name or my face and all the atrocities its mirror is rumored to have partaken in.

Michael: I miss you.

Sighing as the guilt washes over me, I type out an apology. Erase it. Type out an I know . Erase that, too.

What do I say? I don’t miss you as much as you miss me? That’s a great thing to say to your childhood best friend.

Hannah: I’ll be home soon.

Michael: Good. Save me from your mother.

Hannah: Again, I hate to be that guy, but I told you so.

Michael: Her schedule is stricter than a queen’s.

I chuckle. Ever since Mom hired Michael early this year to be her assistant, she’s been running him ragged.

Hannah: Hell hath no fury like a woman in an Armani pantsuit.

I’m still laughing at my text when the door to the garage opens and I nearly launch my phone into the abyss in fright.

Mason will totally fire me if he sees me texting.

Only, the face at the door is not the scowling one of my employer.

The man chuckles, a dimple giving way on his cheek. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly, shutting the door behind him like he’s not supposed to be here. “I won’t rat you out.”

He’s young. Probably around my age. He’s cute, though he’s about a head shorter than Mason and his prickly hair reminds me of Michael and how much I really do miss him. That’s what we used to call a buzzcut when we were younger and Michael’s mom kept shaving his head.

Glad we’re out of that phase.

“Sorry,” I blush, sliding my phone back under the top of the counter. I tidy the stack of papers in front of me, realize my mistake and quickly fuck them up again because I remember Mason likes his trash organized his way. “Just checking to make sure there were no emergencies back home.”

He waves it off and holds out his hand, wincing when he sees his fingers are stained with dirt and grease from working in the shop.

I roll my eyes, taking it anyway and shaking his hand. I mean, has he seen the office I’m “working” in?

“Ian,” he greets, dropping my hand and using the same one to lift his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

Gross . . . but expected.

“Hannah.”

“Carpenter told me we’d be getting a new employee. Wanted to come say hi. Probably pretty lonely up here.”

“Yeah, I thought I would be— nevermind.”

“He giving you a hard time?”

“Doesn’t he give everyone a hard time?”

The glint of amusement in Ian’s eyes tells me that no, he doesn’t. And Mason said there would be no special treatment.

“He probably just wants you to prove yourself.”

“How do I prove myself answering calls? Go out and dance in front of the shop to get more customers?”

“Depends on what kind of dance,” he chuckles. “Just do what he tells you. He’ll make it worth your while. Maybe even let you out to work in the garage.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. Mason will let me in the garage when hell freezes over.

“I’ll make sure to answer the phone really, really well, so maybe he’ll let me out to play with the big kids.”

Ian grins. “All I’m saying is just take the initiative.”

I eye him, and that cheerfulness dissipates. “You’re a mole, aren’t you?”

He pauses for a moment, studying me. Time passes slowly for that split second, but before I can analyze it, that smile returns.

Weird.

“No, he didn’t send me in here to try and get you fired. I’m just saying the place could use some cleaning. Customers can’t even sit down up here.”

Immediately, I shake my head. “He said not to touch anything.”

Ian waves a hand. “He was just pissed off because it was morning and we were up late the night before.”

Doing what, I wonder?

“Mason’s a good guy. You’ve just got to win him over.”

I’m not winning shit over. He’s the one who acts like I’m Typhoid Mary, walking around and handing out death warrants.

Sadly, I think those days have passed. I did win him over, one time. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to the sun. Electric. Dangerous. Now, it’s gone.

“Thanks for the advice,” I grumble, memories of the past flashing through my mind like some kind of messed up zoetrope. Mom, Missy, Mason, and I. A little glass bottle. A closet.

A sinister smile.

“Anytime, rookie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Rookie sounds like an insult.

“Nah, that’s your nickname, now. Everyone here has one.”

“Okay, what’s yours?”

“Pit. The other kid is Puke.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not.”

“What’s Mason?”

“Boss. Bossman. Big Daddy if you really want to get under his skin.”

Somehow, I feel like calling Mason Daddy is not a good idea for me.

“I better get back out there,” Ian announces, heading toward the door when Mason comes into view through the bane of my existence— a window that shows the garage. I can feel him watching me all day, waiting for me to crack.

This time is no different. His eyes bore into mine through the glass and the thick layer of dust does nothing to stop the weight of that stare. Like a hurricane. He pauses for a moment, then his gaze sweeps over to Ian and his jaw ticks.

Then he looks away.

“Yeah, you better go,” I roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to get whipped for speaking to the lowly office maid.”

My mother has been giving me an allowance since I was seven years old.

When I was a child, it was a dollar for every household chore I completed. Two for vacuuming, because she hated it. I hated it, too, but I came to secretly enjoy sweeping up the debris and hearing the decrepit Hoover crackle as it cleaned our old carpets.

After . . . Dad . . . things changed. The allowance was no longer about household chores, but instead, about days that I was the perfect little soldier, fighting in her political warfare as she clawed her way to the top and eventually, governor.

Ten dollars turned into a hundred. A hundred turned into a thousand. Mom became governor and I became her perfect little doll that she could dress up and parade around as if to say, look, I was a single mother for years and my child is near perfection .

Any misstep resulted in a punishment, no matter how insignificant. And let me tell you. Mother’s punishments are more like nightmares.

Missy never fell into line. Maybe she was a “bad kid” or maybe she was just better at living her own life than me. Either way, after we moved to California, Mom’s punishments were no longer about teaching us discipline, but more about silence. The louder you are, the more it hurts.

That sort of thing.

Now that I’m making money of my own again, I won’t have to use Mom’s allowance she still transfers into my account every week.

Mason pays me, though our agreement said otherwise, but I’m not complaining. When he hands me the envelope, right along with Puke and Ian, he doesn’t say a word and I don’t bother to argue because I need his help. He’s quite literally my last option if I want to help my sister.

By the middle of the second week working for Mason, I decide to take Ian up on his offer. I bring cleaning supplies from home and smuggle them inside. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I knew I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to.

Maybe this would show Mason I’m genuinely trying to help. Maybe he’ll finally grant me an olive branch and give me something to go by. Maybe it’ll just piss him off, but dammit, I’m bored and with all this time sitting around, the racing thoughts have never once stopped.

The same mantra repeats over and over like a broken record. Missy. Mom. Michael. Africa. Missy.

I can’t take it anymore.

I’m going to clean and if Mason Carpenter doesn’t like it, then I guess I’ll deal with the consequences later.

Call it “taking initiative”.

I start off by organizing the desk. I match car keys and invoices for pickup on one end and bills for drop-offs and services on the other. I move everything and scrub away the years of dirty, sticky fingerprints and even deep clean the chair.

Let me tell you . . . that chair has seen some shit.

I take apart the phone enough to scrub the gunk out of the earpiece so you can actually hear people call and then I work on the lobby area.

I mean, yesterday, an elderly woman stood and waited in the lobby for Mason to pull her car out. I felt so guilty I offered her my chair which she took one look at and declined. I honestly can’t blame her.

People can’t sit because the chairs are either filled with magazines or car parts. So, I scrub those, too, stacking the parts on a shelf in the corner and organizing the magazines in the rack in the corner with care. I don’t know why, I just feel like they mean something to Mason. Why else would he still have them?

The last area is one I have yet to venture into.

The bathroom.

I’ve been holding it all week and by the time I get home, I’m surprised I haven’t peed myself. I’m going to catch a kidney infection and hot or not, Mason is not worth that.

Stepping inside looks like a warzone. Smells like one, too. I’m not sure if the men have ever even hit the bowl or if the floor is just their preferred battleground. I scrub everything, including the walls and then I have my first pee at the office before I decide it’s time to get out when my head gets dizzy from the chemical warfare I’ve taken against myself.

The final step of the day?

Mopping.

That’s what I’m doing when Mason decides to step into the office.

Looking like he’s ready to either wring my neck or drag me down to the pits of hell.

Uh-oh.

“Goddamnit, Hannah,” he grits, searching through the papers on the desk and no doubt, throwing them everywhere and fucking shit up. “Where is the paperwork for Mr. Stevens?”

I drop the mop where I’m standing and hurry to grab a paper that’s literally right in front of him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growls, those hurricane eyes boring into mine. The tone of his voice sends a shot of panic through me, freezing cold like adrenaline, but deadly warm from the shame creeping in. That little girl that used to run and hide peeks her head around the corner. “What did you do?”

“I—I cleaned,” I stammer, cheeks so hot you could fry an egg.

“And I told you not to touch anything,” he snaps, face equally as flushed. Only he’s not embarrassed. He’s enraged. “Why can’t you just do what you’re fucking told?”

He stares at me a beat and my mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. He’s right. He told me not to touch anything. This is my punishment for doing just that.

I should have never listened to Ian. Initiative doesn’t get you anywhere. Not with Mason.

Shaking his head, Mason storms back out to the garage, leaving me staring after him, my feet rooted in place.

Mason’s always been harsh, but he’s never yelled at me. Not even . . . before.

No.

The angry, bitter adult version of the little girl inside me bites back. I did something that needed to be done. Nothing was ruined. Everything is almost in the same spot. Just cleaned.

I shake my head. I need to get out of here.

I step out on the back dock, away from Mason and his anger. Away from where he can see me. Away from the chemicals and the magazines and that damned phone.

Fuck that phone.

Everything from the last week comes bubbling to the surface and my eyes burn.

Please, no.

But it’s no use. Tears well, blurring my vision and everything I’ve been trying to push down meets in my chest. I can’t handle it anymore.

So, while I’m alone before I get fired, I take my moment. I let a couple tears fall and wrap my arms tightly around my knees.

God, it’s pointless.

But hey, at least Mason won’t be able to find anything in his precious pile of trash.

I guess it really is the little things in life.