Anyone But You

Victoria

I pinched the bridge of my nose as tears streamed down my cheeks.

“I can’t stand that man. God, please let him get hit by a fucking garbage truck or a food truck or something,” I whispered. I had my third argument of the day with Mr. Ramsey and had to sequester myself in the supply closet at the end of the hall to avoid bludgeoning him to death with his stapler.

“I’d beat his motherfucking brains in with that stapler. Then I’d open it and staple his fucking lips together, so I don’t have to hear another damn thing come out of his mouth!” I seethed.

“Join me in my office once you’re done fantasizing about murdering me with my own stapler. We have work to do. Stop using company time for your little bitch fits,” Mr. Ramsey complained through the door.

I bit down on my knuckles to prevent myself from screaming in frustration and repeatedly drove one of my heels into the floor like a petulant child. I had no one to blame for my current situation but myself. I could’ve resigned a year ago when I realized Knox Ramsey and I had clashing personalities. I could’ve walked into his office and dropped my letter of resignation on his desk with a polite smile and a fuck you before filing an EEOC complaint, but the money was good—good enough to endure his toxicity. I’d be out of here like a deadbeat parent if I didn’t have to supplement my mother’s nursing home bill with my income.

At the early age of 50, my mother began exhibiting signs of dementia after undergoing a hysterectomy. The signs were subtle at first. She would misplace her keys, purse, and the television remote. As time progressed, my mother often lost her train of thought and experienced difficulty communicating. I realized something was seriously wrong when she began hallucinating, and I rushed her to the hospital. I explained all my mother’s symptoms to the overworked resident, who looked as if she wanted to tell my mother to scootch over so she could get in the bed with her. She bobbed her head as I rattled off my mother’s symptoms, and she remarked that my mother was exhibiting signs of dementia. I laughed in her face. How could a healthy fifty-year-old woman have dementia?

We were referred to a neurologist and blindsided when the results returned. My mother was diagnosed with early-onset dementia due to complications from the anesthesia from her surgery. Two years later, she was completely reliant on assistance with her activities of daily living and could no longer safely live at home. It broke my heart to admit her to a nursing facility, but my siblings proved to be unreliable, and 24-hour in-home care was more costly and less reliable.

“Suck it up, Tori, and do it for Mom,” I chastised myself as I swiped angrily at my tears.

Thank God I don’t wear makeup to work anymore. What would be the point when I had to run to the supply closet or the restroom for my daily mid-afternoon cry?

***

Just to inconvenience Mr. Ramsey, I took fifteen minutes to myself in my office to recuperate. I slumped into my office chair and spun around until I was staring at the downtown skyline that was splashed with red, orange, and pink from the setting sun.

A buzz from my desk distracted me. I opened it and fished out my personal cell phone. It vibrated in my hands several times, and I wasn’t surprised to see my best friends going back and forth about our Miami trip tomorrow.

Brittney: I don’t know about y’all, but I’m already tipsy!

Alyssa: Trust and believe I’m right there with you!

Victoria: Sadly, I am not.

Brittney: You’re still at work, aren’t you?

Victoria: You know it.

Alyssa: You’re better than me. I would’ve burnt off on your boss at 5 o’clock on the dot!

Brittney: Alyssa, you know Tori isn’t gonna leave until Massa—oops, I mean, Mr. Ramsey says she can leave the Big House.

I snickered and shook my head as I responded to their texts.

Victoria: Shut up, Britt. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.

Alyssa: CP Time thirty minutes or thirty minutes?

Victoria: CP Time, of course.

Brittney: Okay, fuck around and miss your flight. You’ll be crying while me and Alyssa are in Miami looking for our hoochie daddies.

Victoria: You don’t have to worry about that. There’s nothing that’ll make me miss this flight.

Alyssa: How much do you want to bet Tori hasn’t packed yet?

Victoria: Don’t waste your money because my bags are packed and by the door.

I lied. I was nowhere near packed. My bedroom floor was littered with bikinis, sarongs, tiny shorts, tank tops, maxi dresses, and sandals. It wouldn’t take me long to pack because there was a method to the madness—pick everything up, toss it all into the suitcase, and figure it out later.

I rolled my eyes when my instant messenger pinged in the background.

It’s That Man Over There. He can wait.

Brittney: You’re a bags-are-packed-at-the-door lie.

Alyssa: Her clothes are all over her bedroom floor.

She’s not lying.

I had met Brittney and Alyssa during my freshman year of college when I joined a journalism club on campus, and we’d been inseparable ever since. They knew me inside and out and felt more like sisters to me than my own.

Which reminds me....

I shot a text to my trifling sisters, reminding them I’d be out of town for a few days.

Victoria: I’ll be out of town for five days starting tomorrow. Can you two please check on Mom while I’m away?

Faith: Where are you going?

Victoria: Miami...I told you this...twice.

Hope: I will if I have time.

Victoria: You only visit her on her birthday and Mother’s Day. Make the time.

Hope: Like I said, I will if I have time.

I almost texted her that she’d make the time to be at the reading of the will so she could get her cut, but I decided to keep my mouth shut to avoid an argument.

Victoria: Sure. On another note, can you two throw in on Mom’s bill next month?

Faith: Why? Do you need money? How are you going to Miami if you don’t have money?

Hope: Why would you ask that, Victoria? You know we don’t have money like you do.

What money? I could only afford to take a vacation because of the quarterly bonus I received from That Man Over There. I lived in New York, and if my apartment wasn’t included in my lucrative employee package, then I’d be fucked, and Mom would be on the streets.

Victoria: Don’t worry about it.

I tossed my phone into my desk, grabbed the leather portfolio binder my boss had gifted me for Administrative Professionals’ Day and a stapler so he knew I wasn’t playing with him, and trekked to his office.

He grinned like an idiot when I entered.

“I see you’ve brought the stapler.”

“You’ve been warned,” I threatened, snapping the stapler in his direction before sitting in a leather accent chair in front of his desk. “You have ten minutes, and then I’m leaving. The next time you see or speak to me will be a week from now.”