Page 8 of The Reluctant Hero

“I have a place to stay. Next up is a job. I’ve got this, Mom.”

My voice is determined, but inside I’m already wilting.

“That’s nice, but not what I’m talking about.”

Suddenly, Mom’s voice is right in my ear. She took me off speakerphone for this which confuses me. She’s never been afraid to share anything with Dad, no matter how embarrassing.

“You need to be smart about all of this. No more losing your temper.”

I gape in disbelief. “Would you like fries with that?”

The likelihood of me maintaining serene emotions is about as good as it was during puberty. She might as well ask me to find her a unicorn. I come by it honestly frombothof them.

“Watch yourself. He’s going to come back, and he’s going to do anything he can to worm his way back in.Do notgive in, Amanda Jane. Not ever. He might think you’re a Blake, but you have always been a Jefferson underneath it.”

“Damn right,” Dad adds.

“We’re Jeffersons,” Mom starts the old pep talk/war cry they started when I got into baton twirling as a kid. It became a motto after that.

“And we don’t stop fighting,” I say at the same time as my dad.

“That’s right. Now go job hunting while I yell at your father.”

“What?” Dad might as well have waved a red cape at a bull.

“How could you,Edward? Our baby-”

Her voice cuts out, and I spare a second to pray for my dad’s safety.

Step one for the day is done. Now on to step two.

Me: I want a divorce.

My hands shake wildly as I send the text. I see that it’s sent. Then it’s read.

Nothing.

Not a phone call begging me to reconsider and talk it out. Not a text to ask what I’m talking about.

Just silence and pain.

I finish crying my eyes out, and then I get off my butt and go job hunting.

***

I get a job working as a waitress at a diner three blocks from my apartment. I lose track of time as everything starts blending into an endless monotony of work, sleep, and eat. The young kids hanging out in the stairwell harass me at first but back down when I offer to throw them down the steps. I have to break up a never-ending fight between Mrs. Danvers, an old woman on an oxygen machine with a cane, and Manny, a kid who lives on the third floor and always begs me for sodas. The woman is lethal with her cane, and my threats don’t faze her. Manny spends a lot of time in my apartment, hiding.

That ‘peace’ doesn’t get disturbed until I open my mailbox one innocent day, heading to work.

I’m thinking of my aching feet when I open the door and see the single envelope inside. It’s addressed to me but doesn’t have a return address or postage on it. A feeling of dread washes over me, reminding me of the texts on Justin’s phone. Someone comes through the front entrance, and I snap out of it.

The woman with blue hair who lives down the hall from me comes in with a determined walk that says, "Get the hell out of my way." It’s normal for her, so I dismiss it.

I stuff the envelope in my purse and head out, determined to look at it later.

Later comes that evening over a bottle of water and some ramen. The dinner of champs everywhere.

I look it over again to make sure I didn’t miss anything, that same dread feeling blossoming in my chest. It’s still myname printed out on a computer-generated label with nothing else. The manilla envelope is light, holding maybe one or two pages. It seems like overkill.

---