Just a Name Page 6

  Right. So my dad—the great man he is—wanted to tell me everything that was going on in his life, but since it was in direct opposition to what was happening in mine, he didn’t.

  I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings. This is not how I should be reacting. I realize this. I should be jumping for joy and excited for him. Because I am . . . mostly excited for him.

  I take in a deep breath. “It’s . . . great, Dad,” I say, trying to sound upbeat, but really I sound like I’ve got some constipation issues.

  His posture loosens, he sits back against the booth, his shoulders falling.

  “Is it?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, still sounding unsteady. “I’m . . . I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”

  “I get that,” he says with a quick nod. “And like I said, I wanted to tell you.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I say, holding a hand out to stop him from going on.

  His lips pull up into a happier smile. “So what do you think?”

  “Of you and Miranda . . . getting married?” I look down at the table, wondering what I really do think.

  I like Miranda. She’s funny, and kind. And I think she and my dad are great together, even if they haven’t dated that long. I . . . well, part of me wonders how all of this will affect me. Which is selfish, I know. But for years now I’ve been the only woman in my dad’s life, apart from a few dates here and there. I guess I feel a little nervous about it.

  My dad reaches over again, putting a hand on top of my nervously twitching one. “You know you’ll always be my little girl.”

  I look up to find him studying me tentatively. I give him a reassuring smile. He really does know me so well.

  “Of course,” I say, shaking my head. It makes me wonder if he felt how I’m feeling now when I told him I was marrying Nathan. Like he wouldn’t always be the center of my world.

  “So, when?” I ask.

  “When?”

  “Yes, when is the wedding?”

  “Oh,” he stares down at his hands. “Well, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah . . .” He’s got the nervous smile on again.

  “Spit it out, Dad,” I say, now with a nervous smile of my own.

  “Well, you know I’m not getting any younger.”

  “So?” That’s not a topic I like to think about. He’s only in his early fifties, so it’s easy right now to forget someday he’s going to get older. Old enough to leave me.

  “I don’t want to wait too long.”

  “Okay?”

  He reaches up and scratches his jaw. “I was thinking,” he lets out a breath, “I was thinking since we can’t get the deposit back on the venue and the photographer that—”

  “You want to get married on my wedding day—or,” I shake my head, “what was supposed to be my wedding day?”

  “Yes and no. I called and they still have the place available for both Friday and Saturday. So maybe we’d do it on Friday.”

  Right. Friday we were using the facility for the rehearsal.

  I sit there for a second, staring at the chips and salsa, my brain a whirl of thoughts.

  “It was a dumb idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Just forget it.”

  “No.” I hold out a hand to stop him. “It’s a practical idea. I mean, it seems like a logical answer. You want to get married, there happens to be a venue you’ve paid the deposit for.”

  We sit there in silence, well, as silent as we can in this ridiculously loud restaurant. Why do we come here again?

  The whole thing seems unconventional, but also makes sense. My dad wants to marry Miranda right away. He’s already paid the deposit for the venue. I’m not sure what bothers me more—him wanting to marry and start his life with Miranda as soon as he can, or him using the venue that was supposed to be for my wedding.

  Okay, maybe both things bother me equally.

  I can feel my dad’s eyes on me and I know he’s giving me the space to think—like he always does. He knows I just need a few minutes to work things out in my brain. Nathan could never figure that out. He always thought my silence was me shutting him out, but I was only trying to figure things out before I verbalized them.

  “Yeah,” I finally say. “Sure, I’d be okay with that.” And that’s the realization I come to. My dad’s happiness is what’s most important to me and should come first. No matter what.

  “You sure, darlin’?” He leans his elbows on the table, his serious face on. It’s rare to see him looking this earnest. I’m one of the few people privy to his non-smiling face.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I say and his smile creeps back onto his face, at first tentative, but then it grows into a full James Murphy smile. My heart warms a bit at the sight. His happiness really is most important to me.

  “So what’s the plan? What do you need me to help with?” I pull my Carrie Parker planner out of my purse. I couldn’t bring myself to waste it.

  “That’s my girl, always planning,” he says.

  “Well, you don’t have much time,” I say, tapping an imaginary watch on my wrist.

  “I’m not worried about all that right now. We’ll figure it out,” he says, dismissing the words with a wave of his hand.

  “Right,” I say, remembering that unlike me, my dad doesn’t have to know all the things right away. He’s fine to just make a decision and then let things happen how they will. I, on the other hand, made Nathan sit down and plan things the same night he proposed.

  I put the planner back in my bag. Mostly because I don’t want to stare at the ruined front cover with my scribbled-out name. Or my dad to see it and ask me.

  “Plus, Miranda will want to take care of most of it. Besides, now that—thanks to you—we have a venue and a photographer, that makes things a whole lot easier.”

  So they are also using the photographer—the other vendor we couldn’t get the deposit back from. That’s . . . awesome.

  I reach over and grab a chip and dip it into the salsa. I’m not so hungry since I’m still trying to reconcile all of this. But my brain is functioning enough to know I need to start acting normal—or at least try to—so my dad can see I’m okay with it. And I am okay with it. Mostly.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, reaching over and grabbing a chip and dipping it into the salsa. The chip I grabbed is still in my hand, having never made its way to my mouth.

  Then I realize something that has me pulling the chip away again and my eyes bugging out of my head.

  “We’re going to be related to Thomas,” I say, sounding panicked.

  My dad chuckles. “Yep, we will be.”

  “Oh, gosh. I don’t even know what to think about that.”

  “Well, you always wanted a sibling.”

  “Not him,” I say, adding a bit of a whine for emphasis. I love Thomas, I really do. But at an arm’s length. This union between our parents will have him all up in my space. We’ll be at a wrist length in no time. I just know him.

  “How about we not think about that right now,” he says, trying to placate me.

  I allow it, only because it feels better to push that aside for now.

  I glance up to see my dad’s face contort and then change into a very toothy grin.

  “Dad!” I close my eyes, pulling my head back as I scrunch my face. “Not in public.”

  “Sorry, darlin’. Couldn’t be helped,” he says, his smile now very self-satisfactory.

  Chapter 7

  Because Quinn failed me, I reached out to Bree over the weekend to see if she had any ideas to help me with my work situation. Her idea was to invite me to a yoga class. She said it would “clear my mind” and “help me balance my chakras” or something.

  I was feeling a bit desperate, so yesterday I went to a class with her. I don’t think any chakras were balanced. Instead, I found myself twisted into so many pretzel shapes and contortions that I wondered if my body would ever go bac
k to normal again. I somehow made it through the class, but it didn’t do much for my work predicament.

  I can’t chalk it up as a complete fail, though, since I’m currently using the breathing techniques to help me get through my Monday morning meeting with my team.

  “So tell me again, why do we have to do it this way?” Sara-without-an-h asks . . . again.

  Deep breath in through your nose, slowly out through your mouth.

  “Because,” I say after my deep breath, “this is how they want it to be done.” I point up at the ceiling where, directly above us one floor up, the executive offices are.

  “God?” Sara asks.

  Do not roll your eyes. Do. Not. Deep breath. Deep breath. Remember the breathing.

  “The executive team,” I say. The people in charge, the big kahunas, my superiors.

  “But they can’t expect us to always stay on script,” Avery says in her monotone voice, her dark, perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed.

  “Actually, they can and they do,” I say, trying not to clip every freaking word with frustration.

  Thirty minutes of this. Thirty minutes, and it’s as if my words are just bouncing off their heads. Like tiny rubber balls. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I was told by the team lead for quality assurance that there’s been some quality control issues with my team and I need to talk to them about sticking with the script. Thank goodness Marie is at an offsite business meeting for most of this week. I don’t need her finding this out.

  “The thing is,” Brad says, “the customers don’t have a script.” His ginger bangs are hanging over his eyes again. Doesn’t that annoy him?

  “Right,” I say.

  “So it’s kind of hard for us to stay on the script if they aren’t,” he says, and the others start nodding their heads in agreement.

  Inhale, exhale. I am one with the universe. Or whatever.

  After a very long breath, I muster up any strength I have left and say, “Yes, I understand that. But as you can see,” I point to the script that’s in front of me, the script that’s in front of everyone in this room, “there are ways to bring them back to the script.”

  “Maybe we should do some role-playing,” Jim offers. Jim with the glasses and the greasy hair and the disorderly clothing. And the Axe body spray. It’s extra-strong today and not helping my headache.

  “Great idea,” I say and smile at Jim, my cheek muscles aching. Look at me being all complimentary and awesome-boss-like. I will not point out that I offered this idea up earlier and was shot down. Namaste.

  We do this for another half hour. And unbelievably, I feel like there might be a breakthrough happening. Like my team and I are actually working together, and they’re understanding what I need them to do. And the excitement I’m having at this sliver of possibility makes me feel like I might be able to do this. I can run a team and keep my feelings in check. Maybe yoga helped after all.

  Twenty minutes later, though, I’m lying on the floor of my office with my legs up against the wall in some pose I learned in yoga, trying to calm myself.

  After I left my team, I went back to my office and listened in on three calls. Brad did fine, he stayed on script and had a pleasant tone to his voice (this has been a problem in the past). Jim sounded very robot-like, but he got the job done. We will, however, need to address the robot tones . . . again. Sarah-with-an-h, though . . . her caller got a little flirty. This is not out of the norm around here; we’ve all been flirted with over the phone. But as we’ve been trained, we’re supposed to keep the client on task. Sarah did not keep the client on task. In her defense, he was a little hard to get back on track. Not in her defense, she kept giggling like an idiotic fourteen-year-old.

  My first instinct was to march into their office and tell Sarah all the things she did wrong. In a yelling tone. But then I thought about the promotion and the breathing I had learned and decided I needed to check myself before I wrecked myself, as Ice-T so poignantly rapped. Hence my current position. And yes, I’m wearing a skirt. I was able to pull it over my thighs . . . mostly.

  How can I stay on my well-thought-out life plan when everyone is doing everything to ruin it? Perhaps I did it all wrong. Perhaps you’re just supposed to sail through life, seeing where the wind takes you. But that’s how my mom lived, and I saw what it did to her. No. This is a blip, that’s all. A big, freaking, annoying blip. Well, you know what? I’m mentally giving you the middle finger, you stupid blip.

  Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

  ~*~

  “Holly,” a voice from behind me says, startling me from my thoughts. I’m at the Lava Java because I’m … well, I’m avoiding. I couldn’t take another minute in my stifling office. And also all the deep breathing made me light headed and I needed some air. So, I grabbed my wallet and walked over here. My wallet wasn’t necessary since I’m still on Nathan’s tab. Which I’ll fix next time, I swear.

  “Logan,” I say as I turn around. I can’t hide my irritation. I had hoped this time maybe he wouldn’t be here, or maybe he’d be back to his old ways of ignoring me. But no such luck. I mean, he does “like me just fine,” after all. We’re pretty much besties.

  “How are you?” Logan asks, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m . . .” I let out a big breath. My standard answer is usually a quick “good” to this question. But I’m not good. Not right now. But this is Logan and there’s like a hundred-million percent chance he won’t care anyway, so what the heck. “Not great, actually,” I say.

  “Really?” A look of real concern crosses his face, which both surprises and confuses me.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Nathan?” he asks, pulling his eyebrows in even farther.

  “What?” I shake my head. “No, I . . .” I stall because it dawns on me that my current problems, or at least the ones that have been on my mind the most, have nothing to do with Nathan or the canceled wedding. It all has to do with work. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve thought of him and the breakup less and less, lately. Huh. That’s interesting.

  A male voice from behind the service counter calls my name. I take the few steps needed to get to the counter and pick up my coffee, all the while pondering how little I’ve been thinking about Nathan and our broken engagement. I don’t even feel that ping of sadness run through me like I used to.

  “So then why?” Logan asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  I give him a one-shoulder shrug, holding on to my fresh coffee with both hands. “It’s just work stuff.”

  He rocks back on the heels of his flip-flops, his hands still in his pockets. “Do you . . . uh . . . want to talk about it?”

  “With you?” The words pop out of my mouth so quickly I have no time to think them through or at least filter my tone so I don’t sound so surprised.

  “Yeah.” The corner of his mouth lifts slightly—the beginnings of a smile. I’ve never gotten a full smile from Logan. I’ve seen it from a distance before. It’s a pretty dazzling smile, if I’m being honest. I mean, if there wasn’t such a jerk behind it, it would be dazzling.

  “No . . . that’s . . . okay,” I say, moving my head back and forth as I fumble through my words.

  The other corner of his mouth lifts up now. “I’m a good listener.”

  Was that what he was doing all that time before when he stared at me like I was a complete buffoon? Listening? I don’t think I believe him.

  “Come on,” he says, with a head nod in the direction of his normal booth. “Step into my office.”

  I snort-laugh at this because it catches me so off guard. Did Logan Stand-Off-Ish Palmer make a joke?

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he puts a hand on my lower back and guides me toward the booth. The touch of his hand has me feeling all kinds of uncomfortable. The last time I was here, he touched my arm, and now he’s touching my back. It’s confusing, and odd, and so freaking weird.

  We take seats across from each other and I set my coffee in front of me. I feel
strange and jittery. I’m in a situation I’ve never been before—and never imagined I’d ever be in—and, well, I’m not quite sure what do to with myself.

  “So what’s going on?” Logan asks, intertwining his fingers and placing his hands on the table—poised and ready to listen.

  I swallow and then mimic his hands, intertwining my fingers and settling them on the table. “Well,” I start and then stop myself.

  He stares at me, waiting on my words. Should I get out of this? I could stand up and walk away. I let out a breath. And then for some reason, I tell him. I just start talking. I tell him about the promotion, the whole vacation thing, and my team.

  When I’m finished, I sit back in my seat. It feels good to dump all this out. No new clarity on my part, more of a refreshing feeling. I don’t do this very often. Quinn is pretty much the one and only recipient of my thought-dumps. I can tell her anything and she won’t judge me. And if she does, she’ll just tell me: “I’m judging you so hard right now.” But letting it all out to Logan feels different from telling Quinn. He’s listening to me in a way that makes it seem like he’s present. Like he’s not trying to interject anything or only listening to respond.

  “I see,” he finally says after staring at me for a few beats.

  I eye him dubiously. “Do you?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts slightly again. “Do you want my opinion?”

  I take in a quick breath. He’s asking me and not just offering it? That’s not normal. At least not in my experience.

  “Um . . . sure,” I say feeling quite curious that Logan has an opinion and it has to do with me.

  “You need to take a vacation.”

  “Wow, profound,” I say sarcastically and a bit disappointed. I had—for a brief second—wondered if Logan might have the answer. Like maybe he had all this profound information and he just never offered it until asked. What a bummer.

  His lips pull up again, the echo of a smile. “Sometimes it’s the hard answer,” he says, his eyes moving down to the table between us. “Although, I never thought taking a vacation would be the hard answer.”