I never drink.
There have been less than a handful of times when life has handed me a bad day and I turned to a bottle to drown it away. Today is one of those days.
My office light flicks on and I wince, squinting my eyes as I spin around in my leather office chair, the amber liquid in my paper cup slushing about, landing on the test results on my desk.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks as he stares at me from the doorway. He strides cautiously toward my desk, his expression one of uncertainty.
I chuckle as I gaze giddily at the paper cup. “I’m drinking.”
I’m not looking up at him, but I can feel him deflate. All the hope he carries inside of him melts from his body, evaporating. “Fuck,” he hisses, and punches the visitor’s chair to his right. My glance flicks to him as he shakes his hand out, sitting in the very chair he just assaulted. He points at the bottle of Hennessy on my desk. “Pour me one.”
I use the desk as leverage to push myself out of my chair and stumble over to the watercooler and grab another cup, swaying on my way back. Plopping back in my seat, I pour his drink and slide it across the desk. I raise my cup with an unceremonious grip and grumble, “Here’s to life shitting all over everything.”
Marcus reaches for the cup and clenches his eyes closed before nodding once and choking down his drink. When he’s done, he crushes the cup in his small hand and tosses it in the wastebin. “How long do we have?”
The question reaches out to me, wrapping its cold and unforgiving fingers around my throat, choking me with emotion. I have to swallow hard more than once and blink a few times to keep myself from crying. “Six months. A year if we’re lucky.”
“How’d she take it?”
“Like she always does.” Tentatively, I sip my lukewarm drink, then add, “Like a trooper.”
He nods a few times, just as I have for the past hour, and I can tell he’s trying to keep it together, too. “We need to get Paul to come back. Maybe he’s a match. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe—”
“You think I haven’t tried to reach him by now?” I suddenly snap. “I’ve emailed, called . . . nothing. He won’t respond. I even had Richard try, figuring he wasn’t responding because it was me.” My heart squeezes a little.
“Then there’s only one other way to get Paul’s attention, forcing him to return.”
“Oh yeah,” I snicker disdainfully. “What’s that?”
“Money.”
My facial features, once weighted with despair, perk up. The idea is brilliant, and I’m pissed at myself for not thinking of it sooner. “Can he sue me for that?”
“Do you really care? Any judge with half a heart would side with you anyway.”
That’s true. Looking at my watch, I note it’s ten until five. Richard always answers his phone before five. Standing, I step around the desk unsteadily, the effects of my evening alcohol consumption catching up with me, and drop to my knees in front of Marcus so that we’re at eye level.
“Oh, shit. Don’t hug me,” he grumbles.
Yanking him to me, I whisper, “Oh, shut it, and bring it in.” I squeeze him tight, lifting him from the ground. Marcus is barely three feet tall, suffering from achondroplasia, a form of dwarfism that affects bone growth. What he lacks in height he certainly makes up for in personality. I’ve never met a more colorful person in all my life.
Leaning back and sitting on my heels, I wipe fresh tears from my face. “Do you think it will work? Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Of course, he will,” Marcus insists, grabbing a tissue from the box on my desk and handing it to me. “He needs money to fund his traveling.”
“Don’t tell Neena, okay? I couldn’t bear for her to know he was here and didn’t want to meet her. It would crush her.”
“I know he doesn’t have the best track record, Clara, but he’s not all bad.” I nod once, not because I agree; quite the contrary. I strongly disagree. Paul James is one of the most selfish men I have ever known. But Marcus and I, although we agree on many things, always seem to butt heads on this one subject. “Once upon a time you thought I was an asshole. Look at us now.”
“I still think you’re an asshole,” I jest. “Just a loveable one.” He snorts and I chuckle through my tears.
“If we can get him home, he’ll help,” he reiterates.
“I hope you’re right,” I admonish as I stand and brush my skirt off. “But please, not a word to Neena,” I reiterate.
“Not a word,” he promises. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up though, Clara. He may not be a match.”
I pull in a deep breath, swallowing around the lump in my throat. I know he’s right. There’s a very strong possibility Paul will not be a match for Neena and all of this would be in vain. But we have to try. We have to. A horn sounds off from outside.
“That’s my cab. I’m heading home. I’ll call Richard on the way.”
“Kiss Neena for me.” He waves. “I’ll close up.”