Page 7 of Protecting Tiffani

“Everything I can’t tell you.” She moves out of my embrace, and I let her go. But I watch her as she unfolds the notes. Her eyes fill with tears as she reads my messy handwriting. My pulse picks up, and my trembling hands get so bad that someone would think I’ve been out in the cold for hours. I place them in my jacket pockets, praying they calm down for the next part of my surprise. My fingers brush the little white box I’ve been carrying for weeks. I open the box lid and let my fingers trace what lays inside. I’m not a patient guy, and I internally beg her to read faster.

Her pupils go wide as she reaches the bottom of the note and the most important thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. Her right hand leaves the paper to cover her mouth, and her tears fall over her hand, landing on the note that is now trembling as much as my hands are. When her gaze leaves the paper, it finds mine, and I feel like I’m being sucked into a tornado. I’ve heard people describe the moments right before a tornado hits their home as the feeling of electricity in the air around them. All the air is sucked from the room, and their whole foundation shakes. That is the perfect way to explain the atmosphere around us right now.

Without breaking eye contact with Tiffani, I lower myself to one knee, but the lightness of my head makes my balance off, and I find myself falling. Instead of crashing into the hard, dark, wet ground below me, I continue to fall into a black abyss.

My eyes fly open as I lay soaked in my bed, gasping for air. I push my wet hair off my forehead and try to steady my breathing. It’s been months since I had a dream about that night, the last night that everything in my life was perfect. My hands are shaking just as bad as they were in the dream. Laying them on my chest, I turn my head to see what time it is as the room around me is still pitch black. The clock on the bedside table says it is three fifteen in the morning. Realizing that falling back to sleep will not happen, I groan and push myself into a sitting position. Today is my last day on base. At seven tonight, I will no longer be a member of the United States Marine Corps, but instead, I will be an ordinary civilian headed back home.

In my depressed state at Dad’s funeral, I touched her, begged her not to leave me, and she stayed by me for ten minutes. She held my hand like nothing had happened, and the calmness I felt during those ten minutes has stayed with me the entire time I’ve been serving out my last months. When she bolted out of the pew and raced out of the funeral home, I wanted to follow her, to beg her to listen to me, but once again I was the coward I was at eighteen. I let her go instead of fighting for what I really wanted. Pushing my hands under the pillow, I pull out the little white box I have kept for four years.

Opening the lid, my eyes land on the red diamond solitaire ring I worked long, hard, exhausting hours on Boe’s ranch to afford. Adam mailed it to me the second month I was at basic training. The accompanying note said he didn’t know what was inside the box, but he could guess. He also said he found it sitting in the mailbox with a letter, which he included in the package. I reach for my wallet and pull out the small, wrinkled, stained note. Opening it up, I read the words that destroyed me.

Putting everything back where it has been for four years, I tell myself, “You did the right thing. Now get your sappy ass up and get ready to go home,” and just like every time before, I do. I push my emotions and memories of her to the back of my mind so I can do what I have to in order to get through another day without my heart. She’s right, something changed, but it was never something with her. She was no fuck that, sheisperfect. The girl of my dreams. I ran because I had to, but I can’t tell her that. I can’t take it back, no matter how bad I fucking want to.

Chapter five

Tiffani

ForsevenmonthsIhave felt a phantom tingle running across the palm of my left hand. No matter what I’m doing, or if I’m holding something, I swear I feel Levi’s finger laced with mine. The weight of them squeezing mine. It made everything worse. The constant ache in my heart is worse now that I’ve seen and touched him. I hid inside this building the weeks after the funeral, afraid I would run into him, but so far I haven’t. I only hope he went back to wherever he was before his dad passed. Even though I want him with me, I hope he finds peace with someone else.

A pounding on the window I’m sitting behind pulls my attention from my empty left hand I’ve been staring at for god knows how long. “The washer I put my clothes in is flooding the floor,” the lady says before pounding her palm again.

“Okay. Stop hitting the glass, please,” I say, trying to get the annoyance out of my voice. Pushing out of the chair, I open the door leading from the office into the huge room. I see the washer in question has, in fact, started to flood the surrounding floor. “God damn it,” I mumble.

“Excuse me,” the customer scoffs at my swearing.

“Nothing, ma’am. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll get this cleaned up and credit you a wash and dry for the clothes in the washer.” I try to appease her before this situation gets even more out of control. I hate dealing with the customers on a good day, but on days like today, it sucks even more. This day has been hell since the moment I woke up.

“Since it is your job to keep the machines in good working condition, I expect you to also move the clothes over. I don’t have time to deal with your mess-ups.” She turns and walks away.

What the fuck crawled up her ass? I head to the machine to cut it off. I guess that was too much of a task for her to do. Grabbing the closest laundry cart, I empty the overloaded washer and push the cart to a washer on another aisle. There are way too many clothes to put into one washer like she did, so that means that I’m going to have to pay for two washers now and two dryers. Can’t people read the signs posted everywhere that say in bold lettering,do not overfill the machines. Placing the clothes inside, I deposit the amount needed and start the washers. Heading back to the mess, I grab the mop and bucket from the janitor’s closet. It doesn’t take me long to clean up the water and put out a caution-wet floor sign.

Calling someone to fix the washer is not allowed, so I grunt and pull it out, trying to find where the water is coming from. I start the washer back up and watch for spilling water. I’m looking down at the floor, thinking the water will be coming from the bottom of the washer like the last one I tried to fix. Imagine my surprise when I get a face full of hot and cold water. Wiping the water from my eyes, I see that the cold and hot hoses are loose at the wall junction. It crosses my mind that she might have loosened them, but I don’t have any way of proving it. I use the wrench in the tiny toolbox to tighten them and then turn the washer back on. No water comes out, and I sigh with relief that it was an easy fix. I would hate to have to call Brad, the owner’s son, if it wasn’t something I could fix. He is a grade-A asshole and makes my skin crawl when he’s here.

Heading back to the office, I resume my spot in the chair and pull out the history notes I should have been looking over instead of remembering the feel of a ring I don’t have anymore or a hand I can’t hold again. I enrolled in an online college about a year ago now at the advice of Mr. Hill. I had to take out student loans, but I only took out enough to cover the cost of the classes, textbooks, and the small amount of supplies I need for class. The lovely lady at financial aid told me I could take more out and receive a check to help me while attending school, but I don’t want to get myself into that much debt. I’m already afraid I won’t be able to pay back the amount I took as it is. The words my mother yelled at me sit in the back of my mind, and I don’t want to prove her right.

Making sure I set a timer for the washer, I try to cram all the information needed to pass this week’s test in my brain, but it’s no use. I hate history and don’t understand why I need to know what happened in the past to get a degree in accounting. I don’t stop though. I power through the boring subject for forty minutes until the timer goes off. Going out, I switch the clothes over and start the dryer. My stomach growls, letting me know that it hates that I had to skip another breakfast and lunch.Shut up. There is nothing I can do to help you. You will get food at dinner time,I mentally yell at the stupid organ. The six dollars I just stuck in the dryer and washers means that the amount of money I have to buy food for the week is now fourteen dollars instead of twenty. No, Brad does not allow us to take money out of the register for situations like this.

The first time he found out I did, he threatened to fire and evict me. If I lose this job and the shitty apartment, I’ll be forced to live on the street with no hope. I try to hold a small amount of my paycheck back just in case something like this comes up, but it’s getting harder and harder to do. I’m already paid well below minimum wage. The lovely notice of the rent increasing taped to my door this morning doesn’t help any. How he thinks the apartment is worth six hundred dollars is a mystery to me, but what can I do? I am not running home with my tail tucked between my legs.

The lovely woman comes back just as the dryer stops, saving me from having to fold her underwear. No one comes back in for the rest of the day. When the clock on the wall says it’s six, I start the process of closing for the day. With the lack of food in me, I have no energy. However, I still go through the routine of wiping down all the machines, cleaning the bathrooms, and even wiping the windows because Brad wants them cleaned every night. Just as I begin to mop the floors, the door opens, and the bell above it jingles. I don’t have to look up to see who it is because only one person has the key to it besides me: Brad.

“Why was the door locked?” he spits in my direction.

Confusion courses through me because the hours have been the same since I started working here. “It’s six-forty, sir. I locked them at six,” I say, taking my hand off the mop and pointing to the enormous clock on the wall behind me.

“Huh.” He looks down at the fancy watch on his wrist. “My watch says it’s six twenty-five, and we don’t close until six thirty. Did you set the clock forward to get done faster?”

“No, sir. I would never do that. And I’m not trying to be rude, but when did we start closing at six-thirty?” I stumble over my words. I’m sure to him it sounds like I’m guilty of what he just accused me of.

He huffs and pulls out his phone. “Lucky for you, it looks like you are correct. Something must be wrong with this piece of shit, six-hundred-dollar watch I bought. I left a note on the register yesterday that from now on, we will stay open until six-thirty on the weekend. It’s not my fault you didn’t see it, and the next time you question me, you better pack your shit.” He turns and walks into the office, slamming the door behind him. I continue to mop the floor but at a much slower pace than before. I don’t want to be trapped in the office with him longer than necessary. The last time that happened… A shiver races down my back at the thought, but I just shake it off and lock it back up where it belongs.

Once I’m done mopping, I can’t put off going in there any longer. I slowly open the office door and put the stopper under it to keep it open. Grabbing the cleaning spray, I start wiping down the countertop and the soaps we offer at a ridiculous price. My back is toward Brad. The hair on my neck stands up as I feel him encroach on my personal space.

“Did you get the notice I put on your door this morning?” he asks. He’s standing so close to me that I feel his breath on my neck, and I swear I feel his nose brush my skin. Turning around, I step slightly to the left, trying to get some breathing room.

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“That’s effective immediately, Tiffani.” He points his finger at me.

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