Page 2 of Grace
I didn’t realize I wasn’t pulling my weight, that I was such a bad girlfriend. He never said I was. He used to cook with me in the kitchen when he could tell I was tired. We’d laugh and have fun. We could tease each other and do everything together without sex coming up.
And wehavehad sex. Just because it’s once every two weeks or so doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. Just because I’m not loud and I don’t want to try to use toys with him or put on a whole show or things like that doesn’t mean I don’t please him. He comes every time, while I… don’t.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper to myself as the tears dry on my cheeks.
I crawl up, pushing myself to my feet, and saunter into the bathroom. I tuck my fiery red hair behind my ears and glance in the mirror. Freckles dot my face, especially my cheeks and my left temple, and I don’t have any makeup on.
Is this what Bash meant about not putting in effort? About not taking initiative when it comes to sex? About saying no when his hand curls around the back of my neck and he nudges me down to his cock? Maybe we were doomed. Maybe this wasn’t how a relationship should have been.
My shoulders slump, and a sigh falls as I peel the clothes off my body and slide into the shower.
I don’t want to think about Bash or his harsh words. Perhaps he’ll come back…
The cold water falls over my body, and I can’t even care about it, waiting in the stream until it slowly heats.
No more tears as I’ll be splotchy and have a red nose like Rudolf the reindeer if I’m not careful. I can’t have that when I start my new job tomorrow.
I’ll make sure I’m perfect for work. I can’t lose my boyfriend and my new job in back to back days. As it is, I’m sure he’ll move out, and then I’ll have to get a new roommate just to make sure ends meet, and I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of sharing space with a stranger.
But I’ll be okay.
“Tomorrow has to be better,” I mumble.
two
Icheck my reflection in the glass walls of the elevator. My gray pencil skirt is appropriate and cute, along with my emerald-green button-up. Nothing is too tight, nothing looks rumpled. I’ve even managed to tame my puffy eyes from my sob session last night. I made sure that my curled hair falls gracefully over one shoulder, and I have just enough makeup on to avoid looking tired or pale.
The elevator dings, and I take a deep breath. The doors slide open and the chatter and noise of fingers hitting keyboards filter past me as I head to the office where I had my interview on the other side of the floor. Cubicles are set up everywhere, but I’m not someone who will be making calls. I’ll be a manager’s assistant. I’m sure that will mean getting coffee, doing reports, and being quick on my feet.
It’s something I can handle.
Frustrated sighs and words lure my attention, but not a single word reaches me as my supervisor’s sharp gaze finds me and shehangs up her phone. Her light blonde hair is neatly wrapped in a low bun, her dark dress clings to her body, and her make-up is flawless.
“You’re my new assistant, aren’t you?” The smile on her lips don’t reach her eyes, and I nod.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer softly.
“Good. Good. Okay, you’ll find a new-hire training session on your computer,” she says, pointing to the laptop on her left. “Complete that. It should take about three hours. Once you finish, I’ll show you all the reports I expect daily, then the weekly ones. This is a fast-moving environment, so you need to keep up.”
“Of course, Ms. Castain,” I agree.
Her gaze falls, slowly trailing up my small form. “And what’s your name again?”
“Grace Thomas,” I answer.
“Alright, Grace, let’s get you to work. If you need to take notes, feel free, but our policy is that nothing leaves the office. You take notes on our notebooks and they stay in your desk. You’re going to be right next to me, so that way, there’s no issues with communication,” she says and hands me a slip. “This is your sign-in information. Please get started.”
Ms. Castain is a determined, organized woman who doesn’t back down. She’s the kind of woman I wish I could be.
Bash wouldn’t have yelled at her,I think, then shake my head as I force myself to focus on the training.
It takes me three hours to get through, exactly as Ms. Castain predicted, then she sends me an email with the reports. They’re all done in Excel, which is easy enough.
“Are all of these streamlined with templates?” I ask as I skim over the files.
She looks at me as her brows pinch together. “No.”
“Would I be able to make a template so I can be more efficient?” I ask.
