Torrid

What if every girl could live across the street from that perfect boy. The boy that stood by her during her awkward phase; that knew all her secrets. The boy you made faces at through the window when you’ve had a bad day or received good news. The relationship where you start off as “just friends” but then it ends, as any true romance should, with the couple sharing an intense kiss in the middle of the football field while the pouring rain silences the cheers from the crowd.

To be the girl next door, do you have to be simple to be happy?

What if instead of simplicity, the girl next door could be complicated and emotional and unstable. What if she could have a combustable passion inside of her yearning to be left free.

What if that girl were me?

New town. New job. New adventure. New me.

“Hurry your ass up!”

Natalie’s impatience is not well hidden as she bangs on the frame and bellows waiting for me to get my things in order.

Natalie (or Nat for short) and I met in broadcast class our sophomore year and since have been tied to the hip. She is outgoing and well dressed and never seems to be phased by anything - well, that is until today.

Today is the first day of our internships and I want so badly to make a big impression. Being late, however, is likely not putting my proverbial ‘best foot forward’. But showing up with a giant coffee stain on my then white shirt seemed like a recipe for a disastrous first day. Better late than a slob, right?

“I’m coming, let’s go!”

Putting the lid on my coffee cup, I grab my keys and hustle past as she continues blocks the doorway.

Quickly she steps aside, likely afraid I’ll knock coffee on her pristine first day of work outfit. I don’t know how she does it, but like any romantic trope, she can roll out of bed, throw on a dash of mascara and a linen top, and easily transfer for day-to-night with class. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her struggle with the woe’s of a coffee stain or an awkward smudge of deodorant.

We reach the train right before the doors close and secure our standing position.

Stilettos were not my wisest choice when coupled with my balance and the unsteadiness of the train. Despite my white knuckles as I grip with all my might, I feel pretty stable after a couple of stops as I gain familiarity with the train’s jostling.

“I told you that you should of woken earlier,” she said as she moves my still-damp hair over to the side revealing the wet stain on my breast where the water from my freshly showered hair was accumulating.

I bat her away and pat the stain with my hand in some vein attempts of drying it -- like that could ever work.

She’s great and I don’t know what I would do without her, but being reminded that I am a mess is not her most redeeming quality. It has been a “if it could go wrong, it has gone wrong” kind of day.

“I know. I know. Want to meet for lunch today?” I ask attempting to change the subject.

“Will likely eat with the crew,” she says as the train pulls into our stop and she shoves me out the door.

“OK - got to go. Drinks later!” She yells as she trots over to the group of men donning cables and carrying large boxes likely housing camera equipment.

I start to wave goodbye, and just like that - she was gone.

I breathe in a deep slow breath. I step forward as I quickly exhale as if my breath would give me the strength to push through the doors.

I was working alongside the marketing manager at Raptor Industries, Greg Jefferies. He wasn’t known for his patience, but he was wicked smart and college friends with my advisor. I was lucky to get this opportunity.

The morning goes smooth enough. Most of it is spent with the HR department doing new hire paperwork. I get an office, which I’m a little too excited about. It’s nothing fancy, but it has a door and enough room for a desk, bookshelf and a chair. The media room can get pretty loud, and so being able to have a quiet space to call our external partners will likely come in handy.

I wait thinking Mr. Jefferies will do a “new hire” lunch, but that’s not really his thing. He's the kind of guy that makes his interns call him by his last name. Foolish of me to think he's the guy who wants to know his staff on a slightly personal level. So I sit quietly alone trying to wrap up the day one paperwork.

Around 2pm, he walks into my office. He’s a stout well-dressed man and always looks like he’s running late to something.

He hands me $10 and asks me to grab him a Diet Coke across the street. It’s a Pepsi-only office, which apparently just won’t do.

Welcoming a short walk, I grab my coat and walk out.

The city air is crisp and refreshing as the warm sun radiates my face.

It’s a one-way road and traffic is stuck at a red and so I scurry across the street. Another of my “not well thought out” ideas in heels. As I reach the curb, my foot slips and I start to fall toward the ground.

Just as I am certain my face is about to meet concrete, I feel something grab my arm holding me up.

I stumble to regain my balance and pat down my skirt. It’s then I see his hand holding me. His large caramel hand wrapped around my pale arm and his other holding out to provide extra support.

His chocolate eyes laugh at me while he tries to comfort my shaken nerves. And something about him makes me feel small - dainty even. As if he were to touch me a second longer, I would shatter with the slightest breath.

“Thank you.” I murmur. “I’m fine - you can let me go.”

I brush him aside and murmur additional thank yous while I rush inside absolutely mortified.

I don’t look back. Not sure if it is out of pride or shame or fear. I buy Mr. Jefferies' coke and scurry back to the office - avoiding all eye contact along the way.

But those hands. Those large soft caramel hands. I still feel them on my arm. It’s like they never let go. And I cannot shake the feeling that I wish they could hold me forever.

“Finally. Let’s go - we’re late,” Mr. Jefferies' says as he grabs his coke and change and hurries toward the conference room.

“Grab a seat in the back and take notes,” he instructs. “Today we’ll start the planning for the benefit dinner. James doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

About 20 or so people start to fill the room and take their seat around the large table.

I grab the seat in the corner of the room as instructed and lean down pull out a paper and pen from my bag.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a pair of dark brown loafers stand before me as a manilla folder is held in front of me. Large caramel hands grip the folder and my heart stops.

My eyes scan from his hands to his chocolate eyes.

“Hi Chere,” he murmers with a smirk.

My face flushes. I reach for where those same large hands griped my arm just moments before. The room grows quiet. And I don’t hear a single thing the rest of the meeting.