Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

AUDREY

C hristmas and New Year’s came and went like a thirty-minute episode of a binge worthy reality TV rerun. Here one second, gone the next and then life moved on to the next instalment. My two weeks of forced leave while the real estate office shut down disappeared just as quickly.

Returning to work this morning, knowing I only have a handful more weeks before my maternity leave starts, was rough. Harder than all those mornings I crawled out of bed while Maisie was a baby, still waking multiple times a night. She spent the day with Callum while I pushed through the hardest days of my career. I lived for it, but now, it hardly feels worth it.

The computer strains my eyes, my raspberry leaf tea warms my insides, but does nothing to help me wake up. My inbox loads and loads and loads as I sip at my tea and eat the pineapple Michael cut up for me to ‘celebrate’ the babies reaching thirty-two weeks. All these fruit comparisons are starting to make zero sense, but I love how invested Michael has become, tracking the size of the babies and showing me, in his own crazy way, how much he cares.

Hundreds of emails continue pouring into my inbox. I should have checked it before returning. I knew that. I thought about it, but the idea was too painful. I wanted to enjoy my break, for once.

I scroll to the very bottom of my inbox. Wrapping my fingers around my mug, I take a long sip of the bitter, herbal tea. It burns at my throat, but I roll my neck and focus on my emails. The sooner I start to clear the seemingly endless list, the sooner I can move on to some other mindless task.

The morning drags, and I’m not even halfway through clearing my emails when my boss struts his way across the office. He stops behind me, a hand on the back of my chair preventing me from twisting to face him. His disgusting, snuffly breath is hot over my shoulder as he peers past me to read what’s on the screen.

“Most of us logged on during the break to clear through our emails, you know.” His stern voice grates against my ears and he leans in. “So we could start working on the more productive stuff straight away.”

My ears are hot, and my pulse pounds against my temples. I bring my hands to my face to press my palms into my forehead.

“Well, I didn’t,” I snap. “I shouldn’t have to. I was on leave.”

He scoffs. “We all were Audrey. I sure hope this attitude won’t continue when you take your little break in a month’s time. When can we expect you back?”

I roll my shoulders to sit up as straight as I can. He drops his hand at the movement, and I turn the chair to face him. I’m startled by how close he is, but I keep my face neutral and he, thankfully, leans back out of my space. A piece of his greasy, slick backed hair falls out of place.

“I plan on taking my full twelve months off. I’ve already worked with payroll regarding both the employer and government maternity leave payments, and I’ve given them my expected return to work date.” My chest is lighter as I say the words, but the thumping in my temples intensifies.

“A year? We can’t have you gone for that long.”

“Brett, with all due respect, that’s not my problem. At your request, I’ve been working with the other agents to ensure a smooth transition. If you need to hire someone to temporarily fill the position, you can arrange to do so.”

He takes a step back and shoves his hands into the pockets of his too short suit pants. His shirt buttons pull at his beer belly.

“Audrey this is …” He trails off, bobbing his head as he searches for whatever words he wants.

I reach for my phone, opening a voice memo. “Brett, I’m letting you know I’m now recording this conversation for my records,” I let him know as I turn on the microphone.

The little lines appear across the screen as he splutters. “Very well.” He turns on his heel, walking away. A small piece of me crumbles, thankful I didn’t have to put up more of a fight, but a swirl of disappointment mingles with the otherwise settled feeling. It would have been good to get one of his misogynistic outbursts on record.

I close off the voice record app, but as the screen locks away I notice a missed message.

With Brett gone, I open up my phone again to read it.

Cassidy: I have two separate customers who asked about your painting and want one of their own. One owns the little clothing store down the street and the other is some boujee woman who wanted an almost exact replica for her ‘sitting room’. I said I’d forward you their details. I think you should do it!

I read the message over four times, letting the words sink in and making sure I’m not reading something that wasn’t actually there. People want my artwork. Strangers!

Following the message are two shared contacts. My thumb twitches over the first one, willing me to call her right now to organise all the details. But when would I have time? I have five weeks left before my maternity leave is due to start, and then I’ll be busy trying to relax while I get all the last bits and pieces ready for the babies’ arrival. Resigning myself not to be hasty, I return my phone to my bag and turn back to the computer.

My baron desk dries my soul. I can still see the pin marks in the backboard where my photos used to be. They were of Maisie, mostly. The yearly calendar she made complete with her handprints took pride of place next to my monitor. Until Brett decided we needed a ‘cleaner’ workplace and made me, and the other parents, take them all down.

The yearning to just quit haunts me.

I still have hundreds of emails left to sort through, the number keeps growing as the day goes on, instead of shrinking as I work my way through the list. But I have no desire to hustle through getting them all done. I don’t care. I have, as they say, zero fucks left to give.

Fuck it.

I lock the screen and wheel my chair back from the desk so I have room to stand. Walking past Brett’s office on my way to the Human Resources department, I give him a little wave. My fingers dance in the air, as light as the smirk on my face. Brett’s eyebrows squeeze together, thick lines forming in what was already a small gap. His eyes squint as he watches me.

On the other side of the mid-sized office, three women chat at their desks. Each of their desks has a small plant, and their backboards are filled with family photos, quotes, and children’s drawings. The empty desk in their quad is covered with snacks. And there’s a pleasant vibe in the air that stirs something green inside me. Maybe the next five weeks wouldn’t have been so bad if I was over here. But I chose the wrong career path, apparently.

The women look up at me and the youngest calls me over with a friendly wave. Her blonde hair is pulled back in the sleekest ponytail. Perfect eyebrows and bright pink glasses frame her narrow face. I pull at the edges of the cardigan I wear to fight the chill from the air-conditioning but fight the urge to wrap my arms around my middle.

“Not much longer now?” She asks as she gestures for me to sit in the spare chair in their cluster of four work desks. The other two turn towards their computers, fake nails clicking against their keyboards.

“I wanted to talk about that actually.” My fingers and legs twitch in discomfort. I twist in the spinning office chair to release some of the urge to move . “I made that plan before I knew I was having twins. With two of them in there, everything is getting harder. I’d like to pull my leave forward.”

Her hand flies up to clutch her chest. “Of course. We can arrange that. When were you thinking?”

My breath hitches, I hadn’t expected it to be so easy. No doubt Brett will kick up a massive stink, but if Human Resources supports me, there’s nothing he will be able to do.

“As soon as possible. I’m finding it really hard to concentrate today, and I don’t think I’ll be productive if I have to keep working much longer.”

“Start tomorrow!” She spins in her chair and begins to type an email addressed to Brett. “I’m sure it won’t be an issue, considering Bitter Brett was having other agents ghost you anyway.”

I hold in my laugh at the nickname, a weight lifting off my shoulders. “So, that’s it?”

She holds up a finger, then returns to typing her email. I don’t lean close enough to read what it says, but it’s brief. Brett will hate it.

When she hits send, a weight lifts off my shoulders, and I slump in the chair with relief.

“Thank you.” The word chokes its way out as I hold back the tears that want to form.

“Go pack up your desk, set an out of office, then head home. I’ll handle Brett.”

We walk together to my sorrowful corner of the office, parting ways when we reach Brett’s office. She raps her knuckles on the door briefly as she waltzes in.

“Audrey.” Brett’s indignant tone floats past me. I ignore him, with a skip in my step as I approach my desk.

I don’t even sit down, I just set up the out of office email and turn the computer off. The few belongings I kept in my drawer spill into my bag. Brett’s grumbling is muted as my saviour from Human Resources closes the door. I admire her through the window. She stands tall against Brett’s dismissive posture, holding her ground. For me. I’ll have to thank her some day.

As though she senses me spying on her, she glances over to wave goodbye. I hold up my hand, dancing my fingers again. Brett’s face goes red, but I let it wash over me as I sling my bag over my shoulder and leave.

I turn the car on but sit with it idling as I organise the details for both of the new commissioned artworks. I send a message to Michael, letting him know because I want to share my news with him immediately , and I can’t wipe the smile off my face when he messages me back.

Michael: Proud of you. Love you.

I order a hamper to send to Cassidy as thanks, and my smile grows as I decide ‘fuck it’ and order one for myself. The wine will have to wait, but chocolates, bath bombs, a face mask, a cute pair of fluffy bed socks … I deserve all that.

And I’m beaming, fully content with my decision to go on maternity leave early when I visit the art supply store to pick up the canvases and some extra paints.

But none of those grins compare to the one on Michael’s face when I pull into the driveway. His arms are wrapped around a massive bunch of flowers, the non-alcoholic wine I’ve been enjoying, and paintbrushes. His deep amber eyes glow golden, just like his loose wavy hair, and I can see every one of his teeth.

“You made the right choice,” he whispers in my ear, and the tiny speck of uncertainty that had started creeping into my vision floats away on the breeze.