Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Ms. Dockett, where’s my coffee?”

My head jerks up at the sound of Mr. Bosley’s irritated voice floating out from his office.

Shit. I completely forgot to stop at the coffee shop on my way into work today. My mind was on tonight’s dinner with Mom—specifically, how much I’m dreading it.

“It’s coming, Mr. Bosley,” I say as I hop out of my chair and grab my purse. He doesn’t have any meetings for twenty minutes, which should be enough time for me to run there and back.

“My coffee is supposed to be on my desk when I come in,” he growls, still not leaving his office.

“I promise I’ll have it soon!”

I sprint out the front door, hop into my car, and drive recklessly to the coffee shop. The line is long at the drive-thru, so I park and run inside instead. It’s busy this time of morning, and I stand there tapping my foot much too fast while the barista works. Then I’ve got the caramel crunch latte in my hand and I’m speeding back to the office.

I manage to get the cup onto Mr. Bosley’s desk moments before his first appointment is due to walk in. Mr. Bosley scowls at me as I leave. Back at my desk, I’m patting down my ruffled hair and straightening my skirt as a visitor enters.

“He’s expecting you,” I tell the woman, who looks even younger than I am, wearing a skintight dress with hair piled on top of her head in a severe bun.

She doesn’t even glance at me as she walks into Mr. Bosley’s office and closes the door. I sit back in my chair, breathing hard, trying to shake out my trembling hands. Sometimes this job makes me want to cry.

Actually, it does. Often.

I take a few calming breaths. Remember, you have health insurance and a steady paycheck. I can tolerate Mr. Bosley’s shit if it means I can afford food and rent. I just have to squeeze myself down small and do what he wants, and maybe someday I’ll get it all right.

Finally, when I feel composed again, the phone rings.

“Orland Bosley’s office,” I answer, pulling out a pad of paper and gripping my pen tight to still my shaking hand. “How can I help you?”

I only have a few minutes at home to clean up before meeting Mom for dinner at Red Robin. We try to see each other weekly, just to “catch up.” Usually it’s an hour or two of my mother telling me all the things she thinks are wrong with me and how she would fix them if she could just be me for a day. Then I receive a nice, thorough summary of all her work and friend drama, until my liquefied brain is nearly spilling out of my ears.

These weekly dinners are just another reminder that I don’t fit in this world, that I’m unacceptable the way I am.

When Mom and I sit down at a booth at the restaurant, I can already hear the words coming out of her mouth before she says them.

“How’s that diet going?” she asks predictably, surveying the menu.

She’s such a hypocrite, inviting me out for burgers and shakes while insisting I’m on a diet I never once expressed interest in. These days I’ve learned to wear baggy clothes around her so she won’t remark on how tight they are, how they show off too much of my big boobs, how my rounded tummy or my thick thighs are too pronounced.

“It’s not?” I don’t even look at the menu because I plan on ordering the bacon burger with barbecue sauce and fried onions.

“And what about the exercise plan?”

Again, a plan that doesn’t exist. I already jog every single morning and go hiking on the weekends. I’ve invited her along on hikes before, but she has no interest in “tromping through the woods.” I don’t even do it to lose weight—I just like the clarity of mind it gives me, how focusing on the steady beat of my feet and the thrum of my heart centers me in a world that’s so noisy and demanding. Plus, I have killer thighs.

“There is no ‘plan,’” I say evenly. “I’m just living my life, okay?”

My mom only sees me as a college dropout. And maybe she’s onto something, because it’s not like I’ve done much since I realized higher education wasn’t for me. I’m just not a book-learner, as hard as I try. I need to be on my feet, picking things up as I go. When I told her I wasn’t going back to college, Mom said I’d just end up working for someone higher up the food chain, doing their bidding like a dog.

She was absolutely right, of course, and she loves to hold that over my head.

Mom sighs like she’s running out of patience.

“You need to make a change,” she declares, setting the menu down. “You’re just a lackey for that Chad Bosley or whatever his name is. And you’re still single!”

I can’t even hold her gaze as she says this. Yeah, I am single. So what? I don’t need someone else’s validation to know my life is worth living.

I don’t say any of these things to my mom, of course.

“Yep,” I say, hoping the waiter will stop by soon. “That’s all true.”

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” Mom asks, clearly annoyed that I’ve dodged her pointed insults.

I gave up on online dating a long time ago. I did my best to represent myself accurately in my photos, to be open and interesting in my profiles, but guys would still walk into the bar, see me waiting and turn right around. The ones who did show up—who did stick around—usually only wanted one thing: a hookup with a big-titty girl.

“No, I’m just going on like usual, Mom,” I say, turning my gaze on her. “And I’m doing fine.”

She lets out an impatient breath. It always goes this way: she aims barbs at me, and I do my best not to let them under my skin. But sometimes the burn gets so intense that I want to scream, to snap and let her know just how much it aches.

At last, the waiter arrives, and I ask Mom about her work instead. She can go on and on about her coworker gossip, and sure enough, once I open the floodgates, I spend the rest of the meal learning all about how Paula from accounting is sleeping around with the sales guys.

I’m mentally exhausted by the time I get back to my apartment. I drop my purse onto the floor and stumble to the couch, then flick on the television to watch something mindless before bed.

Despite what I said, there are times I wish I could come home to someone, a person who would kiss away all my mother baggage, all my anxiety about Mr. Bosley, and take me off to bed. But that person hasn’t appeared yet, and I doubt they will anytime soon. Not when this world doesn’t fit me. Not while it demands so much, while never truly letting me belong. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to mold myself into a shape that’s acceptable to other people, not to my mother or Mr. Bosley. And I know it means I’ll be alone, maybe forever.

But I’d rather be alone than force myself to become someone I’m not.

Every morning before heading to work, I go on a two-mile jog to try to stuff down all my burgeoning uneasiness about the day ahead. What will Mr. Bosley have to say today to tear me down? Where will I fall short of his expectations again?

That’s what the run is for. I can forget, just for half an hour, that I’m a pig headed off to slaughter.

There’s a nice neighborhood up the street from my apartment where I like to run along the sidewalks toward the park. Rich people live on well-manicured streets in big, three-story houses with sprawling green lawns. Some even have automatic gates blocking their driveways, or big hedges to keep the riffraff out. Whenever I jog past the gated house with the big stone lions posted outside like sentries, I give them a friendly nod. I try to spot the koi fish in the pond someone put in their front yard. At a few homes, harried families load their kids into big SUVs, trying to get to work on time. I feel comfortable jogging here in my shorts and tight sports bra because nobody takes a second look at me. They’re too preoccupied with their own lives.

It’s hot out, even this early, so I feel bad when I spot a crew truck in front of a house, the workers already digging in the dirt. The side of the truck reads LUPINE LANDSCAPING, and there’s a wolf’s head in the logo. Four guys are hard at work in the front yard, making huge holes in perfectly good grass to put in who knows what there instead. Maybe another pond.

I slow down as I pass, because two of them already have their shirts off and it’s only eight in the morning. And boy, they are not difficult to look at. All four are tanned from working out in the sun all day, and the two shirtless ones—a tall guy and a guy with a baseball cap—are built like tractors. Then I see why when one of them goes to the truck to lift a bag of cement like it weighs nothing. The man’s biceps flex as he hefts it over his shoulder, and then when he bends down to drop it... my eyes are drawn to his ass where it strains his jeans.

I think it might very well be the nicest ass I’ve ever seen.

A gentle wind blows past me, pulling some of my hair free from my ponytail. As I reach up to retie it, the four men freeze. Their eyes shift toward me, their heads turning as if all of them are tied to a single puppet string.

Fuck. The last thing I need is four hotties jeering at me. That’s why I stay in this neighborhood—there’s less chance of strangers seeing me and deciding I need to hear their opinions about my body.

I turn and jog away as fast as I can, because after meeting with Mom last night, I don’t know if I can handle any more rejection. But as I book it in my squeaky sneakers, I hear a sound from behind me.

“ Awoo! ”

I glance over my shoulder to find all four of them calling out the same way. “ Awoo! Awoo! ”

What the fuck? My brain shorts out for a second. They’re howling ? Who does that?

Oh, I get it. They’re teasing me. Mocking me.

My face burning, I run away as fast as I can, their howls echoing in the air behind me.

I still haven’t recovered from my run-in with the landscaping crew when I make it back home. My legs are trembling, and whether it’s from how hard I pushed them or from my anxiety, I don’t know.

I hop in the shower, change quickly and head off to work, still thinking about their huge, shirtless bodies, complete with curly, dark hair. They weren’t bus stop advertisement models. They were men .

My chest constricts. I’ve never had someone howl at me before, but leave it to the opposite sex to get creative about being shitty. Tomorrow, I’m going to find a different route. Who knows how long they’ll be there, working on that yard project? I’ll just avoid it until I’m sure they’re finished.

When I get to the office, Mr. Bosley is exceptionally irritated, though I did remember to pick up his coffee on my way into work. Around lunchtime, he comes out of his office, his cheeks red with fury.

“Did you take a call yesterday from Archie West?” he demands.

I blink. “No. No one by that name called.”

“He says he did, but no one answered. Where were you?”

I was at my desk all day, even during lunch. I usually pack some leftovers or order in so I don’t have to leave the phone, because Mr. Bosley despises it when I miss a call, even on my lunch break.

“I was here,” I answer meekly. Archie West must be lying, but there’s no way I can tell my boss that. “I promise, I was here for the entire day, and I checked voicemail as soon as I came in.”

Mr. Bosley sniffs the air like he’ll be able to smell my dishonesty, and I doubt myself. Did I walk away from the desk yesterday? I suppose I did use the restroom, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, but I didn’t see any missed calls.

“Now I have to call back and apologize,” he snaps, surveying me from top to bottom. “Your makeup is smudged. Go clean up and come back when you can look a little more professional .”

With that he returns to the office, and my face heats with shame. I must have been flustered this morning when I was getting ready for work. I run to the bathroom as fast as I can to fix it up, but when I get back to my desk, there’s a missed call: ARCHIE WEST.

“God damn it,” I whisper, ready to smash the phone into oblivion. Maybe I can still salvage this.

I quickly call back, and Archie’s assistant answers.

“I’m so sorry I missed Mr. West’s call,” I tell her frantically. “Can I connect him to Mr. Bosley right now?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “Yes. I’ll pretend the line got disconnected.”

I sigh with deep relief. “Thank you.” I announce to Mr. Bosley that Mr. West is on the line, and the assistant patches me through.

That afternoon, as badly as I have to use the restroom, I don’t leave my desk. I know it’s not healthy, but I can’t risk losing this job.

By the time it’s closing time, I snag my purse and sprint to the bathroom as fast as I can, clenching every muscle so I don’t pee myself.

I’ll have to start drinking less water, I guess.