Page 70 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Jordan
I’m either ready to tossmy phone into the garbage or drop it by my feet and stomp on it until it doesn’t work anymore. It’s been ringing nonstop since late this morning, and the only reason it isn’t ringing right now is because I put it on the “do not disturb” setting before I lost my mind. That’s only a temporary fix, as my voicemail is full of messages I haven’t had a chance to even listen to let alone respond to.
“Rethinking your decision to not have an office?” Rick takes a long swig of his milkshake as he watches me. He came and found me at the diner about twenty minutes ago, telling me he was worried I hadn’t eaten yet today because I’ve been too busy trying to deal with the sudden influx of calls we’ve gotten about quotes.
He was right.
Though the young waitress who has been working the section where I’m sitting has dropped off lunch and dinner over the course of the day, both meals sit untouched.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I still haven’t figured out what happened,” I mutter. We get maybe one or two calls a day on a good day, but I’ve literally been on the phone for hours. Some of the calls I’ve taken have been people in Arizona and Texas, which makes absolutely no sense. “I made some tweaks to the website, but there’s no way it would make this much of a difference.”
Rick studies me for a moment and then steals one of my cold fries. “You should go home, Torres. You’ll have a clearer mind in the morning.”
“I’m fine. I can work for a few more hours after I take a quick breather.”
“It’s eight o’clock.”
My stomach drops. “It’s what?” I glance out the window, finding the street way darker than the last time I looked out there. I could have sworn it was only four or five.
That means I’ve been sitting at this booth for ten hours. Since ten this morning. Suddenly my back aches, though some of that is probably because I slept on Brooklyn’s couch again.
Brooklyn! I curse, scrambling to grab my phone and sort through the millions of texts I’ve gotten, but the only one from her since earlier this afternoon looks like one she sent accidentally.
Queens: Can
My heart rate slows a little, though I’m still not thrilled with the idea that I basically ignored her all day because of work. I slipped back into workaholism a little too quickly to be comfortable right now, and that’s probably why Rick is staring at me while he polishes off his milkshake.
“Where are your kids?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My oldest is in charge. It’s nice having him take on some of the responsibility, and he likes collecting his babysitter fees each month. Win win. What about you?”
I pick up a fry and chew it slowly, even though my stomach has decided to finally remind me that it exists and has started rumbling. “What about me? I don’t have kids.”
“Which is honestly a shame. Did you do anything about your bridge problem?”
I shake my head, even though that’s not fully accurate. I got so close to telling her how I feel. And by telling her, I mean I got so close to kissing her instead of using my words. Then the whole Mark thing happened, and I fell asleep holding her, and my heart is all twisted up inside because I’m not sure I can go back to thinking of her as a friend but neither can I pursue a romantic relationship with her until Houston gets back.
Speaking of Houston, he texted me a few times today as well. Grateful for the distraction from Rick’s piercing gaze, I pull up his texts, which started earlier this morning, when I was still asleep.
Houston: If Roundy tries setting me up for another photo shoot, do you think I can refuse on account of being too old to be on a Wheaties box?
Houston: That’s a rhetorical question. I totally want to be on a Wheaties box. Do people even eat Wheaties anymore?
The next text came a couple of hours later. At that point, the calls had started flooding my phone.
Houston: Heads up, you might get some more business popping up. An interviewer asked how I balance home life with baseball and I might have mentioned your company and how it takes care of my landscaping for me so I don’t have to worry about that part.
Houston: You’re welcome. And stop stressing yourself out about getting more business.
I groan, even though Houston was trying to help. And it will help, but only once I sort through all the calls and emails that have come in. “It was Houston,” I mutter and hand my phone to Rick so he can see for himself.
“No wonder you’re getting so many calls. Who wouldn’t want to hire the same guys that Houston Briggs uses at his house?”
My stomach is becoming relentless, so I pick up the hamburger that came later in the day—at least, I hope this was the later meal—and take a big bite. It probably would have tasted better when it was warm, but it’s food. “Most of these people either can’t afford us or they’re nowhere near Sun City,” I say with a mouthful of food. “It’s going to take forever to find actual clients in all of this.”
Not to mention one of us has to go to their locations to get an idea of the scope of the jobs and provide quotes. That will take forever. Usually I fit in new prospective clients in between jobs, but I’ve got at least a week’s worth of work in quotes alone, and that’s just the people who are actually in Sun City.
Yes, I want—need—to expand the business, but taking on this many clients would triple the workload we’ve got. I don’t have the bandwidth or the people for that. I really should capitalize on Houston’s shout-out—his fame and influence won’t last forever—but today was a pretty good indication of my inability to balance work with living life.
