1. Amelia
1
AMELIA
I 'm not exactly thrilled to still be living with my mother at 21, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and the truth is, I'm still figuring things out.
As I grab the lunch that she's packed for me, my eyes land on the sticky note she's left perched on top like a bright little flag. I'm sure she means for it to be positive and encouraging, but all I can read are the words dripping with condescension.
Maybe you should walk to work this morning. It'll help you burn some calories!
Love, Mom!
It's hard not to roll my eyes; I know that she means well, or at least I hope she does, but sometimes her actions don't come off in the best light. They feel more like reminders of my shortcomings rather than gestures of love.
With a sigh, I crumple up the sticky note, my fingers wrinkling it into a tiny ball before tossing it into the garbage can, a small act of defiance that feels oddly satisfying. I peer into the lunch bag, half-expecting to find the usual assortment of items. I've asked her a dozen times to stop packing a lunch for me, but no matter how many times I plead, she does it anyway. She insists that it's her way of showing me she cares, but I can't shake the feeling that there's an ulterior motive lurking beneath her good intentions. It feels like a subtle way for her to keep track of what I eat, a kind of surveillance disguised as maternal love.
Carrots, brown rice, and some grilled chicken. Oh, and another sticky note. I grab this one and toss it into the garbage with its twin, barely sparing it a glance. Mom's been trying to encourage me for years to lose weight, but at some point, she's got to wake up and realize that it's not as easy for me as it is for her. I could eat nothing but kale shakes for a year and still never reach her petite size 4. It's as if she's forgotten that bodies come in different shapes and sizes, each with its own set of challenges. I can almost hear her voice in my head, reminding me that "patience is key," but it feels more like a reminder of my shortcomings.
When I finally arrive at work, the first thing I see is Jameson flipping through a magazine that I left for him from yesterday's mail. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and I can't help but admire the way his dark hair falls slightly over his forehead. "Good morning," I greet him with a bright smile, trying to shake off the weight of my morning. "Did you see the marketing article I denoted for you?"
His eyes light up at my mention of the article, and I feel a small thrill at capturing his attention. As Jameson's Office Manager and de facto marketing guru, I'm always looking for ways to increase the profitability and sales of his mechanic shop. Although he only pays me to answer the phone, track his finances, and ensure that everyone in the shop gets paid every two weeks, I find myself constantly brainstorming new ideas in my free time. There's something satisfying about being a part of something bigger, a sense of purpose that goes beyond the daily grind. Plus, it's nice to feel like I'm contributing to his dream in some way, even if he doesn't always recognize it.
His dark blue eyes flick up from the glossy paper before him, and I feel my stomach churn at the intensity of his gaze as it locks onto mine. "I'm gonna be honest, honey, I didn't understand a word of what I read in that article. I get advertising, but they lost me with terms like ROI, A/B testing, and PPC online ads. I've got one job, and this," he emphasizes his point by slapping the magazine with his free hand, "ain't it, sweetheart."
The way he uses those terms of endearment used to make my heart flip over when I first started working for Jameson, igniting a flutter of excitement in my chest. But now, they've become part of the everyday rhythm of our interactions, comforting in their familiarity. He's twice my age, a fact that often weighs heavily on my mind, and he's never made a move on me despite the undeniable chemistry that crackles between us. I'm sure he's got more important things on his mind—like running the shop—and he definitely has a type that's blonder and tinier than I am. Yet, in those fleeting moments when the air thickens with unspoken tension, it's hard not to fantasize about what it would be like if a man who stands at an impressive 6'5" and is covered in tattoos would push me up against the door of the office and kiss me good and hard, and maybe a little bit more. It's a daydream that dances just out of reach, teasing me with possibilities that seem so far removed from our reality.
I clear my throat, striving to rid myself of those distracting thoughts before Jameson can sense them swirling in my expression. "That's what I'm here for. Give me a couple hundred dollars a month to play with, and in a few months, I can build up this business into—" But the frown etched on his face tells me he's already crunching the numbers in his head, and it seems he doesn't like the figures adding up. "Or not…"
"Amelia." His voice wraps around my name like a warning, sending a shiver racing down my spine. "I just don't know where we'll cut the costs."
If we hadn't had this conversation half a dozen times already, I would have tried to convince him that this investment would ultimately bring more money into the business. The adage ‘you have to spend money to make money' holds a grain of truth, especially in this scenario. But instead, I simply let out a sigh, my shoulders drooping slightly, and nod my head in reluctant agreement.
I decide to shift the conversation, unwilling to dwell on a topic that's bound to upset us both. "So, what'd you do last night? Did you hit the bars?" I ask, hoping to draw him out of his brooding thoughts. On more than one occasion, he's stumbled into work with a raging hangover, his mood dark and heavy like storm clouds. He'll work in a broody silence, but you can always tell he's suffering from the night before. "I know you're a party animal, Jameson," I say, trying to coax him back into his usual playful mood, the banter that makes the long days at the shop more bearable.
"Not last night," he grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "but maybe tonight. You should come sometime. I think you'd enjoy it." Jameson follows me to the office, his presence warm and magnetic, as I ponder this unexpected invitation. The thought of spending the evening alongside him, away from the grease and oil of the shop, sends a flutter through my stomach.
Even though he's twice my age, I know that he can party harder than most of the twenty-one-year-olds I know. I can imagine him effortlessly downing shots and laughing at the chaos around him, and I'm sure he'd drink me under the table without breaking a sweat. "I don't think that'd be wise. You're my boss and all," I reply, trying to keep my tone light, but the weight of the implications hangs heavy in the air. Besides that, if I get a little alcohol in me, I don't know what'll happen next—my mind races with possibilities, both thrilling and terrifying.
He takes a seat in one of the waiting area chairs, leaning back with a relaxed confidence that makes my heart skip a beat. "Who cares? Aren't you HR? Who are you going to report it to?" Jameson's never been one for rules, and I can't help but admire his defiance. Exhibit A: calling me pet names at work, which always leaves me blushing and flustered.
"The bar scene also isn't, well, my scene," I add, the words tumbling out of my mouth hesitantly as I look down at myself, hoping that he'll take the hint. I fidget with the hem of my shirt, acutely aware of my curves and how they don't quite fit the stereotype of the wild, carefree girl who flirts with strangers. "I'm not exactly the kind of girl who goes out to bars and gets looked at or talked to by the other guys. Not sure that's the environment for me." My voice trails off, and I can't help but wonder if he sees me the way I wish he would or if I'm just another face in the crowd to him.
This time, I deliberately avoid making eye contact with Jameson. He's always been a nice guy, the kind who checks in on me and offers encouragement, but right now, I don't need him trying to father me with empty platitudes about how I'm beautiful no matter what size I am. I can't handle that kind of attention, especially not from him.
But he doesn't do that—not exactly. "What are you talking about, baby girl?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in that charming way of his. "You're gorgeous. Take it from a guy who knows a stunning woman when he sees her." His words hang in the air, and I can feel my cheeks heat up.
I feel my mouth dry up instantly as if the very air has been sucked out of the room. He's got to just be saying that to make me feel better, right? And, if I'm being honest with myself, it's working! A flutter of hope stirs within me. "Oh, um, Jameson," I stumble over my words, not quite sure how to respond to such unexpected praise.
He jumps to his feet, effortlessly exuding confidence, and sends me a wink along with that disarming smile that seems to light up the entire space. "I'll talk to you later, hot stuff," he says, his tone playful yet sincere. Then, just like that, he turns around and leaves the room as though nothing ever happened.
My heart is doing these pitter-patter-y things, racing in an erratic rhythm. I'm certain I've just dreamed up this entire scenario, my imagination running wild with the possibilities. But if I haven't, then what just happened? Did he really just call me gorgeous? The warmth spreads through me, mixing excitement with disbelief, leaving me both breathless and bewildered.