Page 14 of Endless Southern Love

six

lemon

There are times in my life when I wish I still had the Magic 8 Ball to guide me. To tell me if a person I can’t name is the love of my life. When you’re a tween and using some toy to determine your future with the hottest kid in town—that’s very telling of how your life is going to turn out.

I’d shake it now if I had one, and believe me, I’m tempted to head to Walmart and buy one, two, or ten. Or at least stand in the aisle and ask the stupid thing my laundry list of questions.

Geez, I need help.

More help than I’m willing to admit.

I’m currently hiding in the utility closet, with the door ajar so I can peek through the thin crack and watch the scene in the hall unfold. Being the adult I am, I ducked into the closet when I saw Wade come out of Ms. Matson’s room instead of putting on a brave face and holding my head up high while I walk past him.

I’m such a coward.

And now I’m stuck in here, with the pungent scent of cleaner mixed with plastic while my not so faithful secretary sends my ass down the river with a hole in my rowboat and no oar to get myself to shore. I can easily say I forgot to contact someone about the fifth-grade garden while Jean was out of the office. I can also say I was busy, between the school board meeting and other important school activities. What those were, I can’t say because my mind is nothing but a revolving prism of mush.

God, he’s hot.

I cringe at the sound of my voice inside my head. There’s this constant, ongoing battle between how I feel. The rational part of me, the side with the broken heart sees a life I could’ve had with the sexy landscaper. I know, deep down, we would’ve been happy, living in Magnolia Grove and raising the family we planned. But then, I see his daughter and those dreams disappear like wisps in the air or move so far out of reach I have no choice but to remember every moment of the devastating phone call when he divulged the depths of his betrayal.

His and Jean’s voices grow quieter, and I strain to hear them. Jean has already blamed me for everything, I’m not sure what else she could say to make the situation any worse.

Our resident landscaper looked pissed and rightly so. He’s busy, which is going to be the reason I never reached to him. One of our janitors could probably use overtime and likely knows how to rototill a damn garden. There wasn’t and still isn’t a need for the school to pay the lawn boy to dig up some earth.

But he might take his shirt off.

I close my eyes at the thought and feel my temperature rise, easily telling myself it’s because I’m stuck in this closet with no air flow versus my body reacting to the vision that plays out in my mind.

The man of my former dreams and my backstabbing assistant head toward the double doors. I watch the previously mentioned man’s ass, all nice and tight, covered by khaki cargo pants leave the building.

Those aren’t sexy, but he is.

Once he’s out of sight, I’ll be able to get out of there and hightail it back to my office without being seen. When a class walks by, likely on their way to the library, I have no choice but to wait. They’d surely question why their fearless leader is hanging out in the utility closet. The door closes and latches. Right off, I grab and handle and let out a mumbling string to obscenities.

“Fuck, shit, damn . . .” all on repeat because the door is locked. I jiggle the handle.

Nothing.

No phone. No way to call for help unless I want to bang on the door.

I rest my forehead against the cool, metal door, and try to calm my racing heart while fighting back and sob. Life should be easy. This is not easy. I close my eyes and start counting seconds.

After five minutes, I give up and accept that I’m either going to die in here or I need to start pounding my fist against the metal while simultaneously screaming at the top of my lungs for help.

The door opens, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. I cover my mouth to keep what’s left of a scream muffled. My eyes widen at Jean, standing there with her hands on her hips. I swear she’s about to hold up her index finger and shake it at me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, playing it off as if she’s the one doing something she shouldn’t be doing.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. How old are you, Lemon? Seriously hiding in the closet.” Jean walks off, shaking her head. I peer out, looking up and down the hall, before following her back to the main office. Every few steps, I open my mouth to say something in my defense, but words fail me. There isn’t an excuse for what I did, other than I’m not brave enough to face him. I’ve spent years ignoring him, avoiding the places he’d hang, watching for his truck to be in parking lots. And all those years, he’s never had to step foot in my business, my place of work, until now. It’s unnerving.

I expect Jean to go to her desk, but she doesn’t, and goes into my office. She rests her hand on my door and waits for me to pass by before shutting it. At this point, I don’t know whether to take the seat across from my desk and let her sit in my chair or take my hired position as her boss.

Opting for the latter, I step behind my ornate desk and plop my ass in my chair. I don’t sit like the professional I’m supposed to be, I slouch, and then cover my face with my hands. The groan I let out is one of exasperation and frustration.

“Imagine how the children would’ve felt had they gone outside to plant their garden tomorrow, only to find the area still full of grass.”

“We could’ve taught them how to use shovels and pull weeds,” I say without removing my hands.

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