Page 7 of Reclaim

My throat closes up, my tongue refusing to work.

Like always, he saves the day. “Tell me what you need?”

“Can you come up for a visit?”

“I’ll be there. “

3

Emerson

“Ouch,” I hiss as I take the hot, metal fork full of boiled packet noodles out of my mouth.

“You eat that shit almost every day and still haven’t figured out how long to wait for it to cool down,” my best friend Taylah teases from her desk opposite mine. Taylah and I also started working here together. Becoming quick friends, we live in one another’s pockets. If we’re not together, we’re texting or calling, constantly updating one another about every minute detail. It’s probably not healthy, but it works for us.

“It’s not that I haven’t figured out to wait, it’s just that I’m so hungry when I finally get it in front of me.” My stomach rumbles loudly reaffirming my argument.

“I have no idea how you eat that. Even plain boiled pasta tastes better than that stuff. And,” she adds with emphasis, “if you weren’t glued to your computer you would remember to eat.”

“Like being on the computer is an option, do you not remember where we work?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.” She leaves her desk and walks around mine to pry. “See? First, his release is in five weeks so you have plenty of time. Second, you’re going beyond the call of duty here. It doesn’t have to be this detailed.”

“I just want to make sure there’s no stone left unturned. You know how hard employment is with a record. It’s the biggest setback.”

“I get it, but it’s not worth you eating that nasty shit.”

I smile at her disdain for my eating choices and purposefully overfill my mouth with noodles.

“You’re sick, you know that. Sick and disgusting.”

“Hello ladies.” Joe’s arrival has us both side eyeing one another. Joe and I don’t get along, but an awkward encounter at a Christmas party few years ago solidified Joe and Taylah as mortal enemies.

“Hello asshat, how are you this week?”

He ignores her and zeroes in on my computer screen. “What are you doing?”

“At my work desk on a friday? Geez Joe, what do you think I’m doing?”

It’s been a week since we drove back to the city in an awkward, judgement-fueled silence, and every day since he’s been trying to start conversations that I’m not interested in.

“Working over lunch?” he asks, ignoring my snarkiness. I return my focus to the computer screen in front of me and continue to scroll through the list of Google recommendations.

“Yeah, I’ve got a few extra things I need to take care of. Do you mind?”

His head lowers near mine as he nosily peers over my shoulder. “I wonder who this is for?” Sarcasm laces his voice, and Taylah looks between us mouthing“what the fuck?”

“Was there a point to your visit, Joe?”

“You’re crossing lines with this guy.” There’s a hint of concern, but his usual arrogant self overshadows any good deed, and has me dropping the cutlery in agitation. Irritated, I turn, my body stiff and on the defensive. “Crossing lines? Since when is looking for employment for my client crossing lines?”

“He can do it with his parole officer,” he argues.

“It’s not unheard of that I work with a parole officer for the best possible outcome.”

“Maybe, but I saw the way he looked at you.”

“And somehow the way he looked at me means I’m crossing lines?”

---