Page 5 of Her Wild Coast Promise

Outside the court building, the crisp fall air bites my cheeks and stings my eyes. I make it to my car before the tears break loose.

Maybe I didn’t love the bureaucratic parts of this job with its miles of red tape, or the confusing office politics, but I loved being able to help people. To be the bearer of good news after a tragedy. Like a ray of hope.

But I’ve failed, again. Panty prank notwithstanding, I likely had one foot out the door already.

The biggest losers, though, are the families I won’t be able to help.

I’ll just have to find another way. I have a pre-law degree, for crying out loud. There has to be other jobs I qualify for. Maybe working in the courts, helping families navigate the legal process. Or maybe this is a sign that I should go to law school.

My cell phone buzzes in my purse. It’s a text from my boyfriend, Doug.

I think I’ve found it

Doug has been shopping for a car for three months. He’s got alerts set up from every site—ebay, Craigslist, and the Helena Times classifieds.

That’s great

It’s got new brakes and a new timing belt

Usually I’m a better cheerleader for this effort, but I just can’t muster that kind of energy right now.

I got fired

My text comes at the same time Doug sends me more of the car’s accolades.

I blink away tears and fit my key into the ignition. It takes three tries to start the engine.

My phone rings.

“You got fired?” Doug asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I suck in a breath and tap my Bluetooth button so I can drive. “Long story.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yep.”

I turn from the parking lot and accelerate down Water Street, the courthouse building looming in my rearview mirror.

“Have dinner with me tonight. You can tell me about it.”

Hot prickles sting my cheeks. “That’s very sweet.”

Really, I just want to go home and bury my sorrows in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Preferably Cookies n Cream. Followed by a hot bath and an orgasm, or two. My vibrator and I have become very efficient lately, and it has nothing to do with the night I spent dancing with Seth Dalton at my brother’s wedding.

“I’ll set it up,” Doug says.

I’m about to protest when he adds, “Gotta run. Pick you up at six.”

He hangs up before I have the chance to talk him out of it.

My apartment isthe bottom floor of an older house a few miles from downtown. The owner is a backup singer in a Grateful Dead cover band who lives upstairs. He’s rarely home, which suits me because he smokes so much weed I get a contact high every time he’s around.

West Helena is an older neighborhood with big trees and plenty of quiet. The biggest perk is its proximity to the county park and trails. After unloading my box of office things, I change into my running clothes, queue my rowdiest playlist, and head out.

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