Page 10 of Waiting for Acceptance
Uh-oh. Lu has drama? This must be major.
I’m not usually the one doing the majority talking when we pour it out, just the usual family issues, low-key work shit that really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things but still bums me out, but tonight I’ll have a heavy pour—in more ways than one.
CHAPTER 5
LAUREN
“I can’t tell you guys how happy I am that we didn’t wait two more days to pour it out.” I pour myself a generous cup full of Shane’s bomb-ass margaritas and take a long sip.
“I feel that. I’m still not over my catastrophic date from Monday night,” Leah agrees.
Taylor takes over the conversation next, always the queen of bringing the biggest news to the chat. She goes on talking about her trashy ex-situationship and absolutely horrendous former roommate, who are now sleeping together, apparently. Tana was a case for the health department and Zander should be flagged in a social media group somewhere—as in red flags because that’s all that boy is.
“I still can’t believe you ever slept with that thing,” I mumble into my margarita, catching an eye roll from Tay.
“So there’s that. Lauren, you go. Pour it out, baby.” Leah gives me the nod to let my shit out and boy do I not hold back this time.
“UGH, okay. So we have this new guy in the office that came from New York, right? And since he apparently mademillionsselling some of the most upscale homes and penthouses there,he thinks he’s like, thegod of real estateor something and wants to tell everyone how to do their jobs. Like, excuse meMr. Real Estate,I’m pretty fucking great at my job already. Sit down.” I down the rest of my drink and slam it on the table while my best friends look at me like all the skin just fell off my face.
“Who is he?” Ruby finally asks, breaking the skin-tingling silence.
“Fitz.That’s it. He just goes byFitz.Like he’s Elvis or Prince or something. I mean, come on how pretentious is that?” Taylor, the freaking five-foot-nothing Rottweiler of the group agrees with me with an eye roll I feel in my soul.
“I should just call him Lucifer. Suits his personality better but lets him keep the wholeone-namebrand going for him.”
“Whose name is Lucifer?” Tank asks, swiping his keys from the island while holding their youngest son Poe in his baby carrier with their oldest son Hendrix not far behind. I don’t feel the need to give Tank the full informational packet on how I’m beingmegadramatic about this and that his name isn’t actually Satan, so I just give him a guy answer. Short and to the point.
“New guy at my work.” His brows bounce up to his hairline and he tilts his head judgmentally.
“Poor guy. His parents really set him up for failure.”
After he tells Ruby goodbye we are left to finish our girls’ night full of belly laughs, good food, and strong drinks.
My workout playlist is playing at a volume that scratches just the right part of my brain as I push through the last few minutes of my run. New day; new possibilities. I haven’t felt quite like myself since I went to New York a few months ago and I’ddo anything to go back and never pick up the phone when my mother called me. I’m used to the subtle jabs at how the way I live my life isn’t good enough for them, but this was the blow that took me out at the knees, and I’m not sure any of my regular remedies will pull me back together this time. I slow myself to a jog and stop at Brüman’s before walking the last block back to my place. This way I don’t have to backtrack for my coffee before heading into the office.
“Morning Lauren!” Clara greets me as soon as I walk through the door and pull my headphones down around my neck. I keep my shoulder-length black hair down during my runs because feeling wind in it is extremely calming for me. I quickly run my fingers through it to settle any flyaways before smiling back at her and rubbing my hands together. It’s early December and while most people would probably choose to run in a gym instead of out in the cold, nothing beats the fresh air for me.
“Good morning, Clara.”
“Your usual?” She pulls out a large cup and eyes me curiously.
“You know me well.” Unzipping the pocket of my jacket, I pull out the cash I had blindly grabbed from my wallet this morning and notice all I have on me is a twenty-dollar bill. I typically grab a ten so I can hand it to Clara and demand she keep the rest as change. Twenty dollars for coffee just seems a little outrageous though.
Coffee’s on me this morning, Trouble.
I shake my head at the memory that violently flashes through my mind.
Lips like heaven.
The elevator.
Hands on meeverywhere.
“Brown sugar shaken espresso, three pumps of white mocha, andof course, vanilla cold foam,” Clara sings out my order witha smile and I realize I’m absentmindedly rubbing the spot on my neck that I remember being sore the day I woke up in a strangers hotel room. I quickly recover and smile at Clara.
“You really could just call my name instead of saying the whole drink, Clara. It’s kind of a mouth full and I trust you with my order, you should know that by now.” We share a laugh as she cashes me out and I drop a five-dollar bill into her tip jar before winking at her, placing my headphones back on, and heading home.
When I finally walk through my front door I’m immediately relaxed by the familiar scent of coconut and fresh linen. I’ve spent a lot of time making my home my own little safe haven— somewhere I feel happiest, a place that truly reflects who I am. It’s undoubtedly my favorite place to spend my time. I set my coffee down and rush into my bedroom, stripping out of my running clothes and turning the shower on until the bathroom looks more like a sauna. I brush my hair and throw my shower cap on before stepping in and letting the steaming hot water ease the tension in my shoulders. I speed through my shower, giving me plenty of time to do my makeup and it’s not until I open my emails, while finishing off my coffee on the way down to my car, that I remember I have three unopened emails from Satan himself. I can’t believe I actually forgot to open them last night. I was well past the point of being able to safely read anything from him though. Especially when the reply button has no ability whatsoever to tell me I’m tipsy and about to say something that would more than likely get me fired—through acompanyemail no less—so they remain unread.
