“Thank you, Naomi. This is an excellent move for your career,” he said, continuing to grin as he stuck his hand out across the desk at me.
I held me own out and he shook it, briskly. His handshake was a little too tight, and I made myself not wince or pull away. I didn’t want him to think of me as completely weak.
For the rest of the week, I avoided Clint’s calls. Finally, on Thursday, I picked up.
“I was beginning to think you had changed your number and moved town,” he said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be teasing, but had an undercurrent of concern.
I winced. I didn’t mean to make him worry.
“I’m sorry, Clint,” I said. “It’s been a rough week at work.”
He paused.
“Mad at me?” he asked, gruffly.
I shook my head and then remembered that I was on the phone. “No, not mad. Just… tired,” I said, straightening the bills on my counter.
He grunted.
“I think I need a weekend to myself,” I said. “There’s a list of stuff I’ve been meaning to get done around here.”
Th
ere was no answer on the line for a minute.
“Would you like to get lunch on Saturday?” he asked.
“I don’t think I have time,” I said.
“All right,” he replied, sounding resigned.
I opened my mouth to take it back, and then shut it again. That wouldn't really help anything.
"Well, good night," Clint said. His voice was cool, and he hung up immediately.
I slipped the cell phone into the pocket of my work trousers. The fabric caught on a hangnail and I pulled my hands out, inspecting my nails and trying not to think about that phone call. It didn’t work. All I saw when I looked at my hands was Clint’s body underneath them, Clint’s hands holding them… Clint.
Blinking fiercely, I went to the bathroom for a set of nail clippers.
That night, I tossed and turned alone in my bed before finally succumbing to the grief and fear that I had been bottling up.
The tears came in a great rush, and I sobbed, at first only once, but the grief came out in a great flood and I clung to my pillow like I had when I was a little girl and let the tears come freely.
When I stopped crying, I was shaky and sad, but I finally slept.
That night, I dreamed of Clint, and of Herman Banks, and of stacks of paperwork hunting me down on Clint's ranch. As ridiculous as it seemed, even in my dream, it was very frightening. That paperwork was a real threat, and I couldn't really figure out what to do about it.
Finally, Clint ran up to me and pulled me away from it, lighting the whole stack on fire with a box of matches he yanked out of his pocket.
Once the forms were on fire, my fear vanished and I woke up.
I checked my phone, and my alarm was due to go off in fifteen minutes. Not worth going back to sleep. I got out of bed and stretched, adjusting my short cotton shorts and tank top.
It was awful telling Clint that I didn't want to see him, and crying myself to sleep, and having a ridiculous nightmare, but it left me feeling better than I had in a week.
I knew what I had to do now. I had to light that damn paperwork on fire.
Not literally. Probably.