Page 71 of Open for Negotiation
She has had every chance in the world to take my help, and now… that all comes to an end.
My every thought on the way to my car is consumed with how I’m going to remove myself from the quicksand of my soon-to-be ex-wife. That’s exactly what she is. Quicksand that I’ve worked so hard to pull myself free from. I’ve clawed my way to the very top and all that’s left are my feet, but with every move I make, I sink a bit farther down.
I slide behind the wheel and pull my cell from my breast pocket to find a waiting message from the person who makes the battle to escape the quicksand worth it.
Scarlett: I woke up thinking about you. I’m not mad about it. ;) Can I see you today? You know… outside of the office?
This is the first time she’s really initiated in this way and fuck me, it’s so hot.
Me: I wake up thinking of you every morning, baby. And as far as seeing me… try keeping me away from you.
Scarlett
It’s late now, probably close to midnight, and I’m still looking at notes I’ve taken for the interview tomorrow. Hell, who am I kidding? These aren’t notes. It’s an entire damn speech.
The last thing I want to happen is for a question to arise that I don’t have the perfect response to. I’m going to be representing Fortress in front of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of eyes. Everything has to be perfect.
I lean back against my sofa and pull the glasses off my face and rub my tired eyes. I took out my contacts, scrubbed my face clean of my makeup, and tried to go to bed a couple of hours ago, but I just needed to check the speech one final time, otherwise, I’d question it all night long.
I rest my head back against the sofa cushions, giving my neck a good stretch, when a ding from my computer sounds off in the darkness.
A Skype message.
Eden: Why are you still awake? And don’t try to say you aren’t. I can see your little green dot.
She sends a GIF of a cartoon character narrowing his eyes in suspicion, and it makes me laugh.
Me: I couldn’t sleep. I’m nervous about the interview tomorrow, so I was reading over my notes again.
Me: Why are YOU still up? It’s not like you to be up after nine, you old lady.
Eden: Can I call?
Me: Of course.
My laptop screen lights up with an incoming video call, and when I accept, her face fills the frame, and she looks exhausted, like she’s been crying.
“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” I ask her, “and don’t say nothing. I can see your sadness from here.”
She tries to fight it for a moment, but it’s useless. It’s always so much harder to contain tears once someone asks you why you’re sad.
“It’s Dad,” she says, wiping her cheeks.
“Oh God, what happened?”
“It’s been a really rough week. He has flashes of himself, but now it’s mostly confusion and chaos. I was trying to give him a shower and he got really upset. He bit me on the shoulder and tried to shove me down.” She can hardly finish the sentence with the sob escaping her throat.
These are the times that I hate living so far away. I wish I could be there to help her, to comfort her during times like this.
“Shit, Eden, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she sniffs and shrugs her shoulders. “This is just the way it goes, you know? Dementia is a fucking bitch of a disease.”
“You know that you don’t have to take all of this on by yourself, right? You can ask for help. You can take help. There is no shame in that.”
Everyone, my family included, has been trying to help her make the tough decision to put her father into a nursing facility where he can receive around-the-clock care, but Eden pushes back at every turn.
“And abandon my father in a strange place where he’ll be scared and even more confused? No thank you. I refuse.”
