LEAH
The musty, sweet aroma of hazelnut roast coffee and salty fries mingled in the air while I weaved around people just standing around, following Isabelle through baggage claim and out to the ground transportation parking deck. Incessant chatter surrounded us, impossibly loud for arriving on a weekday morning.
"I hate this airport," Isabelle grouched over her shoulder, just barely loud enough for me to hear.
"I second that," I muttered.
Other travelers crowded the wide corridors of the airport, talking loudly, or pushing each other around as they moved from arrivals and departures. There were always too many people in the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, regardless of the day or time.
At last, we passed through the external doors and stepped into the chilly afternoon air. Checking both ways, we crossed to the parking deck and started towards where my Benz was parked. We piled our bags into the trunk before settling into our respective seats.
I had just turned the car on when my phone rang. It was an unknown number so I dismissed it. I was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. Whoever it was, could wait.
"Alright," Isabelle huffed as I steered us out of the deck and towards the interstate. "Are you going to tell me what happened at that restaurant? You've hardly said a word since."
Swallowing, I shifted in my seat and trained my eyes on the asphalt. "I've been, you know, processing some things."
"Processing what? Did his family forgive you or not?"
"His mother was nice. She said she didn't hold any of it against me," I finally said. "The dad . . . not so much."
"Well, you tried at least." Isabelle shrugged. "Did you get to talk to the brother? He seemed pretty upset you were there. And he's hot. Like, damn. I never would have guessed Jarrod got the short end of the stick. Who's allowed to look hot at a funeral anyway?"
I shot her a look. "Yes, I talked to James. He's not even that hot by the way—not compared to how big of an asshole he is."
She arched a brow at me.
"He's seriously in denial about Jarrod," I continued while focusing on getting us out of the parking garage.
"What do you mean? I saw how hostile he was but he can't think that his brother was the victim in all this."
"Somehow, yeah. James said I'm a 'conniving bitch' who just tells lies and speculations. He doesn't think that Jarrod killed Anne. I know they couldn't pin it on him in court but he literally confessed to me!"
Isabelle nodded glumly. "Yeah, the judicial system sucks ass. Anne was a crazy psychopath but her family deserved closure."
"And justice," I muttered.
"Well," she sighed, "at least it's over with. You never have to see those people again."
—(—)—
It was only an hour later, when I was finally home and alone in the bath, that I received another call from the same number. They hadn't left a voicemail the first time so I assumed it was probably spam. I dismissed it to voicemail again and sunk deeper into the hot water.
My phone beeped with a text. Sighing, I sat up, dried my hands, and checked the text. It was from the unknown number.
UNKNOWN: This is James. Call me ASAP.
My stomach dropped. James? As in, James Muller, the brother of my deceased ex who hated my guts?
I couldn't imagine what he could possibly have to say to me, but I had to admit, I wanted to know. For some sick reason, I felt a fleeting burst of anticipation at his text. I called the number back and listened to ring it once before picking up.
"Hello," James spoke lowly.
"I just read your text," I said awkwardly. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong. I have been in discussion with the Muller Foundation board since this afternoon regarding your visit to the memorial service."
I rolled my eyes. So, what? They were going to banish me? They shouldn't have sent the invitation!
"We want to offer you a position at the Foundation," he said.
I froze. Unfortunately, in doing so, my phone slipped out of my hand and dropped right into the bath water, disappearing into the pink bubbles.
"Shit!" I shrieked. After fishing through the water, my fingers finally found purchase on the device and plucked it out. "Fucking, fuck, shit!"
I rubbed it over with my towel and discovered that the screen was still alive. In fact, the call was still active.
I quickly brought my phone to my ear. "James? Can you hear me?"
There was a moment of silence before a loud sigh filled the line. "Yes, I can hear you perfectly well, Miss Harris. What do you think about our proposition?"
"Well—I'm honestly shocked. I'm not sure what to think."
"What is it you do now? You're a banker, aren't you?"
Each nerve in my mind felt like it was fraying. I couldn't believe this conversation was happening.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"Do you enjoy it? We could arrange a position for you on the finance committee."
I didn't rush to spill out the automatic response of, "Yes, I love my job." Something held me back. Did I enjoy it? I had at one point. I used to love my job.
The last year hadn't been quite the same, though. If I let myself truly reflect and ponder, I knew I was lost.
My passion for finance and my love for Seasons Bank, practically my home for five years, paled in comparison to the free-floating chaos of my mind. I had never been so untethered in my entire life, so without purpose.
Every day was the same. I felt robotic, almost—coming and going always at the same time, with no desire for more or improvement.
How was I supposed to care about someone's bank account when I didn't even care about my own? I always enjoyed material things, but they no longer held the same appeal for me.
So instead of feeding James my generic line, I said, "Actually, I've been thinking about pursuing other paths. I'm good at finance but banking has lost some of its appeal."
"Okay. The only non-finance position I can offer now is as a personal assistant. We are willing to match your current salary."
I might have laughed if I wasn't still in shock. Me, a personal assistant? I had an assistant at my job now. I was used to managing people, not being managed.
Then again, they were willing to pay me what I made now to do something much less difficult and stressful. I wouldn't have to deal with other people's money.
It would be nice not to have to deal with so much pressure, even if only temporarily. And if James was speaking truthfully, I'd probably be the most well-paid PA to ever exist.
"Would I have to move?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, sounding bored. "The Foundation headquarters is based out of my home in Chattanooga until we have the need and resources for a larger location. You'd need to live nearby."
A chill raced down my spine. His home, being the place where I was held hostage for days on end? The quaint cabin that featured in some of my darkest nightmares and memories?
"Oh," I murmured, swallowing roughly. "So I would have to work out of your house."
He cleared his throat. "I should add that I've since moved from the cabin you were at. I'm in the process of selling that place now. But yes, you would work out of the office in my new house."
"I don't know . . ." I rubbed my face. "I appreciate the offer. I think the cause will help many domestic violence victims and support overworked medical practitioners—"
"What do I need to do to convince you?" he asked. "The board is adamant. They want your involvement to demonstrate how victims can recover and lead healthy lives."
So they can boost their reputation, I thought with an eye roll.
Who was to say I'd recovered from anything? Even after months of therapy, I was only now realizing the true extent to which Jarrod had damaged me.
This was a completely absurd, ridiculous offer. I'd be around James and the other Mullers, people who hated my guts.
Why would anyone willingly bring that upon themselves?
Nevertheless, my mouth moved of its own volition.
"When would I start?"
"As soon as possible," he said crisply.
"Okay." I sighed. "I accept."
—(—)—
"Honey, I love you, but this is a bad idea."
Placing my cell on the counter, I put the call on speaker and dumped a second serving of coffee into my mug. "It's a crazy idea," I agreed, "but not necessarily bad. I need to shake things up a bit, Mom. Change will be a good thing for me."
"Then take a yoga class or go away for the weekend," she pleaded. "People don't quit their jobs and move to other states to shake things up." Her distressed sigh muffled the line. "I just don't want you to do this and then regret it."
"I know. I understand your concern."
"You might not get your house back if you do this," she carried on. "And what about Isabelle and Ryan? You're so used to seeing them all the time. Now you're going to be far away."
"An hour and a half is hardly far away," I protested, cradling the hot mug to my chest. "I'm renting the house out so that if this turns out to be a huge mistake, then I will be able to just come back. I think some change will be good for me. I didn't know this was what I needed but I'm willing to try it."
I carried my mug back to my bedroom, dodging the haphazard cardboard boxes cluttering the floor while balancing my phone on my shoulder.
"Trust me, okay? And I'm only pretending to not be mad that Iz called you behind my back."
As soon as James and I hung up last night, I called Isabelle. She was the only one who knew about the memorial and everything that had happened. She'd yelled at me for about five minutes once I told her I was moving to Tennessee to accept a job for the Foundation. It had taken a lot of making future promises to visit and regular phone calls to appease her.
We hadn't lived farther than twenty minutes from each other since before college, and I knew I was going to miss spending time with her on the regular. I thought she'd been fine when we hung up, but she'd blabbered off to my mother.
"She's just worried about you, Leah," my mom said. "Besides, I'm not going to pretend I'm not mad. You didn't even mention the memorial service. Were you not planning to tell me about the move either?"
"Of course I was going to tell you," I groaned. "I just have been busy packing. I didn't think the service was that big of a deal. I was just going to get some closure."
"Your father and I could be helping if we had known."
"Dad isn't going to come over here and help me move," I said.
My father always insisted he'd rather pay someone to pack or unpack for him than do it himself. I was not going to let him pay for something like that when Ryan and I could handle it just fine.
"Ryan is coming over tonight to help me with the big furniture," I assured her. "It'll be fine."
"If you need help, you better call."
"I will. I'm sorry I left you out of the loop. It was unintentional, I promise. It's just all unraveling so quickly."
"I'm sure. This is going to be a big adjustment for you. I love you, Leah. Please let me know how everything goes. You know I worry about you."
"I know. Thanks, Mom. Love you too."
I sat on the floor sipping my coffee for a while, looking around my room. This little one-bedroom cottage had been my home for the entirety of my adulthood so far. From the moment I signed the mortgage papers, I knew this place would forever be special to me. I had renovated the kitchen and bedroom and purchased new furniture that wasn't from Goodwill or someone I knew. It was the first place I ever lived alone and it was all mine.
After my bath last night, I spent hours scrounging the internet for somewhere in Chattanooga to live. The apartment I'd hastily secured a lease for this morning was half the size of this home and rent cost nearly double my mortgage here. It was the only available place that would let me keep Foxy and didn't look like I would get mugged walking to my car. Fortunately, it was just a temporary lease until I could find an actual house to invest in.
After a few hours of sorting and packing my belongings, I called in a large pepperoni pizza for delivery at my favorite pizza place in town. I figured I could splurge on my last night in town and I'd promised to compensate Ryan for his help. Speak of the devil, he knocked on the door not even ten seconds after I hung up. I pranced out to the door and let him in with a sugary smile.
"Hiya, McHottie! Come on in."
"Hi, Loca," he greeted as he followed me inside. His eyes grew at the sight of all my things scattered around. "So what's all this about? Why do you need help moving all your junk?"
"Well . . ." I turned around and peered up at him, pressing together and pushing them towards him like in prayer. "I got a new job offer. In Chattanooga."
"Um, what the fuck."
Chuckling, I wrapped my arms around his waist and smooshed my face to his obnoxiously hard pecs. "I know, I know. Isabelle wants to murder me."
"Why Chattanooga? What's wrong with Seasons?" he demanded, gently prying my grip off.
"Nothing is wrong with Seasons. I just need to do something else, you know? It's with this nonprofit thing." I didn't know why I didn't want to divulge all the gory details to him. Maybe because he'd adamantly resist the idea and I'd be guilt-tripped into not going. "Anyway, Chattanooga isn't that far away. I'll be able to come visit on weekends and still hang out."
"And be our D.D.?"
I shoved him with a laugh. "Is that why you're so upset, you punk?"
"Duh." He grinned. "Show me what we need to move."
"Okay! The pizza should be here in a few minutes, by the way."
"What kind of pizza? Richard is making me eat paleo with him."
"And you think the cavemen didn't eat pizza?" I gasped in mock horror.
"Very funny," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Well, I give you permission to cheat. It's my last night in town and I won't say a word. Richard never has to know. Besides, it's from Machiavelli's."
Smirking, he drummed his fingertips together conspiratorially, saying, "Hmmm. Okay, deal."
"I can't believe that decision was so hard for you. Now, help me disassemble this heavy ass bed frame, dork."
"Your wish is my command, Pizza Queen."