Return (Coming Home #1) (13 page)

The note is in the dean’s messy scrawl, which I’ve manage
d
to learn to read in two days. Whew! My being delayed doesn’t cause problems for my boss and his lunch. Everything’s working out for me today
on so many levels
.

Whatever Claudia’s doing in her dad’s office isn’t my business, though I arch an eyebrow and wonder. Trying not to look, I busy myself with some emails that came in while I was
out. One of them asks for a list of students nominated for a history department prize.
I can’t find it in the computer’s hard drive, so I stand up. Taking a deep breath, I realize I have to search the filing cabinet near the dean’s door.
 

Ah, well. Claudia can’t hurt me, right? Worst case she makes a dig. I can handle digs today.
Bring it on, Claw.
 

As I cross the room I don’t look, but I can’t
turn off my peripheral vision. She’s wearing a long, silky green dress with black heels taller than a small dog. Her arms reach up around a man’s neck, his head bent down. Her neck moves and she’s kissing him. Hard, with tongue, hips grinding into his.

She makes
sounds that are meant to be shared in intimate places. I made those kinds of sounds last night in my trailer. I should know. The memory
makes my cheeks burn, my belly tighten. But at least I don’t make out with men in public like that.

I turn away in shock. In her father’s office. Where people can find her. This is a new low, even for The Claw. As I slowly open the filing cabinet drawer, the sound startles the two. They pull apart.

Two pairs of familiar eyes lock on me
as I bend over the long array of files, trying not to stare
. One
pair
is Claudia’s.

The other is Mark’s.

I am going to puke. I literally clap my hand over my mouth and turn away. I walk as fast as I can without running. Some part of me hears Claudia snort, then laugh. I break into a run, slamming through the Women’s Room door and bolting the lock in the single-seat room.

I can
feel
Mark behind that door.

Or can I? Maybe I imagine it. A creeping cold fills my veins. My heart slaps
against my ribs like it’s dying. It is. It shouldn’t. I should know better, right? I sit on the toilet and let the tears fill my eyes. My throat tightens. My skin turns hot. I start to breathe hard.
I sit down on the toilet and run my palms over and over my slacks. I tug at the hem of my red cotton shirt. As I look down I see my teardrops mottling the deep red cloth.
 

I don’t have any right to
be hiding in the bathroom, crying over Mark and Claudia, but here I am.

I can’t even text Amy for support. My phone is in my purse. At the desk Mark is kissing Claudia in front of.

The cold wall feels strong against my palm. My mouth fills with a salty taste. My tears are flowing down my cheeks and over my lips. What is Mark doing? I know what Claudia’s doing. That evil grin tells me everything.
She knew Mark and I were an item years ago. It must give her great pleasure to see me in pain.

Pain.

Why am I so tortured by watching that kiss? I have no claim on Mark. We’re not dating. He isn’t my boyfriend. The tiny bathroom feels like a cocoon. A safe place to hide. My mind races as I sniff and fresh tear
s
cover my cheeks. I’m crying for what I thought I had. I’m crying for the confusion
Mark puts in me.

I’m crying because I am embarrassed I ever thought I could restart my life here.

And I’m crying because it sucks to kiss a guy and find him kissing someone else the next day.

Red fury fills me. I imagine Claudia’s face and the rage turns to a blinding hot flame. She’s so...ugh. Why does she enjoy watching other people suffer? What kind of person finds pleasure in that? A sadist.
A sociopath. A crazy person who doesn’t deserve to spend time with real human beings with genuine feelings and tender hearts.

Maybe that’s my problem. I’m too tender. Too soft.

Too
human
.

I look at the door, wondering what
to
do next. I can’t hide in here until the end of the day. The dean will be back soon and I have those expense reports to do for the anthropology project. If I don’t do them,
I’ll look bad. I’m already on thin ice with this job. The paycheck is too important. Being this close to the source of my dad’s problems is too critical. I can’t clear his name if I can’t gather information.

Suck it up, Carrie
, I tell myself.

Like I have a thousand times before. I should have it tattooed on my wrist.

I might as well pee if I’m in the bathroom. Then I wash my hands and wipe
my face with cool water. I lean against the cold tile wall. It is soothing. A balm. A reminder that the world is solid and unmoving. It just is. All these feelings don’t affect things.

Only people.

With tender hearts.

You don’t kiss someone like Mark kissed me last night and then touch that...woman. That bitch. You just don’t. What’s wrong with Mark? Why?

Why why why why why....

That’s what
makes the tears come back. The humiliation of walking out there and facing him. Her. Them. I have to harden myself. I have no claim over him. Mark’s a grown man with a good job with the police department and he can date anyone he wants.

He seems to want Claudia. That kiss had more tongue in it than a butcher’s window display.

I can’t think about this now. At home with a pint of
i
ce cream? Sure.
O
ver coffee with Amy? Yes. But now? Now I have to put on my emotional suit of armor and go into battle.

Without a sword or a horse.

The teardrops form a ragged line on my boobs. I turn on the hand dryer and pull my shirt out. The heated air dries the tears quickly.
I take a deep breath. I inhale so much air my stomach feels like it’s going to explode. My lungs fill like balloons. The feeling
of pressure calms me down. Centers me. Gives me resolve for what comes next.

I look in the mirror and see me. Just Carrie. Long
blond
hair and bloodshot eyes and a face that is open and sincere.

Not good enough. Try again.

I harden my eyes and practice not smiling.

I fail. I look like a puppy dog begging you to like me. Really like me. Play ball with me and take me home from the shelter.

Mark does this to me. He makes me want to let my guard down. I want to trust him. I still love him.

A stabbing pain makes my chest tighten. Great. Let’s add a heart attack to my list of Things That Suck About Today.

Tap tap tap.

“Excuse me? Anyone in there?” says a shaky voice. Sounds like an elderly woman.

I shake my hea
d
slightly and run my fingers through my hair. “Just a minute!” I call
out, then re-evaluate myself.

I look fine.

Better than fine.

And I’m going out there calm, cool, professional and most definitely no longer interested in Mark.

He just opted himself out of my life, kiss or no kiss.

I open the door and a frail old lady smiles at me kindly. “You’re new? I’m Effie,” she says, holding out a tiny, birdlike hand. I take it, gentle, and she grips it like she’s
a sailor. Her handshake is stronger than Brian’s, and that’s saying a lot.

“Hi,” I gasp. “Carrie. I’m in the dean’s office.”
Her voice sounds like the voice I overheard just moments ago. I was right. This is Effie Cummings.
 

She squints. “Oh, so you’re the new girl! I’m so glad they didn’t hire that daughter of his.”

I like Effie already.

Her hair is bright white and in tight curls all over
her head. She has that old lady hump and wears a white silk shirt and a red shell cardigan over it. Mom jeans and black flats finish the look. Her glasses are surprisingly stylish, square lenses with gold along the top only. When she smiles you can tell she wears dentures, and her eyes light up, a bright golden color that makes me think of whisky.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I answer
in a low voice.

She winks. “That means we agree about her.” She squeezes my hand and eyes me carefully, like I remind her of—

“Oh!” she says in a sudden rush of words, “you’re little Carrie! Joe’s daughter.”

Oh, God.

“
I haven’t seen you since you were a wee bitty thing,” she continues. “Maybe five or six. I worked with your father back then, in purchasing, but they moved me to the medical
school campus shortly after. Brought me back here to the academic advising department two years ago.”
 

I give her a polite smile. I have no idea what to say.

“And I am so sorry to hear about your father, Carrie,” she adds in a quiet voice. “Joe didn’t deserve what happened to him. He was a good man. I never believed he was guilty.”

Tears. My nose starts to tingle and I feel the tears fill my
eyes. Effie looks at me with such compassion and reaches for my elbow. We share a knowing look.
I
t’s the kind of look you never, ever exchange with strangers because there’s too much raw feeling in it. And yet Effie is real.

No bullshit here.

“Thank you,” I choke out. “Now I
really
don’t know what to say.”

She smiles and points to the bathroom. “Forgive an old woman with a bladder the size
of Claudia’s conscience,” she whispers, “but I need to go. You watch out for that girl, Carrie. She’s up to no good in her father’s office.
L
et’s have a cup of coffee sometime this week and I’ll show you the ropes.”

And with that the door shuts and she’s gone.

It’s like I just met my fairy godmother.

With a bladder problem.

I steel myself for what comes next and walk slowly back to my office.
If I go in there, I’ll be the center of attention. Mark will have some sort of reaction. Claudia will gloat. I’ll melt into a puddle. I grab a sheaf of papers from the copier and act like I was just getting some copies. No biggie.
I
t’s not like I ran away after catching my—

My what?

My
nothing
. Mark is nothing to me.

Less than nothing, now.

Mark’s in the dean’s office, whispering furiously
with Claudia as I walk in. Claudia looks through a crack in the door and shoots me a dirty glare, then slams the door shut just as Eric walks into my office.

I feel like I am a thousand threads unraveling at once.

“Hey,”
Eric
says, a troubled look on his face. His aftershave wafts past me as a breeze blows through the office window and it grounds me. The scent reminds me of Mark. Of men. Of
power and masculinity and suddenly I remember.

Eric’s a man, too.

“Hi!” I say a little too brightly, happy for a diversion. “What are you doing here?”

He frowns and says in that lovely accent of his, “Is that ‘what are you
d
oing here?’” His tone is happy. “Or, ‘what the hell are you doing here?” This time, his tone is nasty.

I can’t help but laugh. “The first.”

“Whew.” He gives me a half
grin and comes closer, his hand on my forearm. “Look, Carrie, I’m sorry about earlier. I was in a bad mood.” He frowns and wash
es
his palm over his chin, the gesture making his aftershave stronger as it tickles my nose. I can smell coffee on his breath and his skin is warm against mine.

I’m knocked out of my humiliation and into a far better state, even if it’s still uncomfortable.

“Someone
I’ve been dating,” he says slowly, “turns out to be with someone else, and it’s got me completely flummoxed.”

The way he says “flummoxed” makes my stomach leap and my belly burn.

“You too?” I say with a huff. Wait. I’m not dating Mark. I shouldn’t have said that. Oh, no. I have to—

“Is it Mark?” he asks sharply.

I
n that exact moment Claudia opens the office door and out she pours, all high heels and green silk, oozing pure malevolence. Gorgeous nastiness, but still...

Eric’s face changes. Morphs. Flips through a hundred expressions and in those split seconds I realize Claudia’s the person he’s been dating. He looks at me and doesn’t even look at them, his eyebrow quirking up.

And then,
slowly, his hand goes around my waist, the touch making me burn.

“Hey, you two,” he says in a fake cheery voice. “
Fancy meeting you here.”
 

Claudia’s face is a comical mix of fury, shock, confusion and pout. Her eyes flit from me to Eric over and over, finally landing on Mark’s face.

“What,” she says to Eric in an unreadable voice, “are you doing?”

He squeezes me and I freeze. “I had coffee
with Carrie. We’re just catching up. Old friends,” he adds, his hand moving just enough up from my waist to make it very clear what he’s suggesting we really are
something more
.

Blood pumps through my body like it’s running the Boston Marathon. Mark looks murderous. His eyes are dark and dangerous as he stares Eric down.
Even his hair seems to darken, deep grooves of muscle in his face tightening
as his jaw clenches. I’ve never seen him like this. My skin begins to tingle, like the dry heat of a fire as it spreads.
 

I’m singed by his heat.

“Old friends,” Mark growls. It’s not a question.

“Right.” Eric’s clipped answer puts the tension up two notches in the room.

Claudia is clearly disturbed by the fact that she is not the center of attention. She slips her arm around Mark’s waist
and kisses his cheek. “We are not old friends. We’re new friends. Good friends. Friends with benefits.”

My stomach lurches. I paste a smile on my face and hope I don’t barf.

Eric’s mouth twists with sarcasm. “Now that we’re all friends, if you’
l
l excuse me, I was just about to ask Carrie
what
her plans
are
for Friday.”

“You were?” I squeak, pulling away from him. My
cotton
shirt feels sticky
against my skin. I’m sweating and my lips aren’t forming my words correctly. I need to be alone. Contained. Controlled.