Window Shopping(45)

Wait. I’ll wait. Just to make sure this is really happening.

Decision made, I continue completing the new hire paperwork spread out on the table in front of me in the human resources office. When the holiday season is over, I won’t always work on weekends, but with a second window to design before Christmas Eve, there are no days off.

HR emailed me this morning with a request to come by their office and upgrade my badge, fill out a W9. As I go through the process of becoming the full-time window dresser, I keep expecting Aiden to show up in the doorway of the office, to make some kind of sense out of what happened between us last night, but he never arrives.

Can I blame him for avoiding me? God, I really messed up.

I guess I am too nice for you, huh?

The form I’m filling out blurs in front of me. What was I thinking letting Aiden break his rules? I couldn’t have been more encouraging, tempting him to ignore his conscience and do the wrong thing. One kiss and I stopped thinking of his conflict, my physical need hopping into the driver’s seat. How selfish can I get?

As if in response to my inward question, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. My pulse spikes at the possibility that it could be Aiden. Not that I can answer it right now. Not under the hawk eye of Mrs. Bunting. Does she watch everyone this closely or is it just me? Stop pretending you don’t know the answer to that.

With a half-smile in the woman’s direction, I tug the phone out of my pocket—

And my heart sinks down to the carpet when I see “York Correctional Facility” on the screen. Nicole is calling me again.

My palms perspire so quickly, the phone almost slides out of my hand onto the floor. I want to ignore the call. Dr. Skinner would tell me that’s okay. Boundaries are healthy. If I don’t want to interrupt the rebuilding of my life with a reminder of the past, I’m allowed to make that choice for myself. But after last night, after Aiden walking out of my bedroom looking so torn and upset with himself—thanks to me—I find myself in need of reinforcement. In need of something familiar. A rock to grab onto as I’m floating quickly downstream, a little overwhelmed by the pace at which my life is happening after four years of stagnancy.

That’s the thing about our friendship. Messing up isn’t merely acceptable, it’s encouraged. It’s hard not to seek out validation when I’m feeling terrible about last night.

My friendship with Nicole wasn’t, isn’t, healthy. I know that now. But it was my constant growing up. And I was her constant. I let Aiden down last night. Am I really going to let Nicole down, too? If she’s calling me again, for the second time in a week, there has to be a reason. Even though there is a sense of foreboding in my stomach, I can’t decline the call when she has nowhere else to turn.

I don’t want to walk out of human resources before I’m finished, but I also don’t want to miss the call, so I answer and keep the phone down on my thigh. “Excuse me?” I ask the human resources director, who arches an eyebrow at me. “Am I all set or do you need me to fill out anything else…?”

Her smile is pinched. “All set, Ms. Schmidt. You can go. Please remember to keep your badge visible at all times.”

“Yes. Will do.”

I rise and leave the office, entering the warehouse-like space that holds merchandise and veer toward the rear exit door—mostly used for employee smoke breaks—waiting until I’m outside to press the phone to my ear.

“Nicole. Hey.”

“Nice of you to answer. And with such enthusiasm, too!” There’s a long pause. “Excuse the hell out of me for being excited to hear my best friend’s voice for the first time in years.”

A kernel of guilt wiggles its way into my throat, despite hour upon hour of counseling from Dr. Skinner that suggested I should feel the opposite. It’s a lot easier to recognize a toxic relationship when there’s some distance. But having their voice, their character up close and personal is different. There’s nostalgia and reminders of the good times attached to that voice. I…should be excited to speak with her, as well. Shouldn’t I? I once referred to Nicole as my sister. We went through puberty together and we vowed to grow old in a condo by the ocean. Countless nights of our youth were spent sneaking out, huddled up behind the local liquor store talking about the adventures we were going to take as soon as we had the money. A few words from Nicole and I can smell cigarette smoke, burnt hot dogs from 7-Eleven and peach schnapps or whatever terrible liquor I pilfered from my parents that wouldn’t be missed.

“Yeah, hey, I’m sorry.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, wincing at how little time it took me to start apologizing. “I just didn’t expect the call.”

Being that we were in prison for the same crime, we were not on each other’s approved caller lists, so no phone calls were allowed. We’ve written letters over the years, but they definitely grew strained and thinned out toward the end of my sentence. There was always a tone of resentment from Nicole’s letters because of my actions the night of the robbery and the fact that my sentence was shorter because of it.

Nicole sniffs. There’s some shouting in the background. A security door slamming. Familiar sounds that make my stomach turn over like a rusted car engine. “That’s fine,” she says. “So where are you?”

I stare down at my feet, fighting to swallow. God, I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want anything to touch the fragile construction of this new beginning. It’s barely in its infancy. I’m proud of the steps I’ve taken, but she’ll find a reason to put it down. “Home,” I croak, then clear my throat. “I went home. I’m at my parents’ house.”