do.
She really liked the name. She never dreamed he hated her using it. But then she should have picked up on that the first time she’d met him. Was she insensitive? Did she not care what he thought? She’d been groomed to be independent, assertive and to speak her mind. Her father had told her many times that’s what she had to do to make it in a man’s world.
Suddenly she didn’t like that person. She didn’t like her at all.
I would prefer it if you and I had no contact. If you’re at Eli and Caroline’s, I won’t go over and I’d appreciate the same courtesy. But knowing you, Grace, I’m sure you’ll do whatever you please.
Those words hurt a little more than the rest. In the years she’d known Jeremiah she’d never seen him so angry. Evidently, he’d wanted to tell her off for some time. And she’d been wondering why he’d never asked her out. It didn’t take a member of Mensa to figure that one out. Jeremiah didn’t like her in any shape, form or fashion. That truth was hard to take.
People from all walks of life began to gather at the bus stop: two nurses in scrubs, a black lady helping an older man, a Mexican woman with four children and three teenagers with iPod earbuds stuck in their ears.
The bus pulled up with a roar of wheels, the doors swung open and three people got off, then the others stepped onto the bus. The doors closed and the bus rolled into traffic leaving diesel fumes behind.
On the glass building across the street she saw a woman sitting on a bench. Her pulled-back hair gave her a pinched look. She seemed unhappy, alone. For a brief moment, Grace felt sorry for her.
Then she realized she was staring at herself.
Was that her?
She put a hand up to her hair. Yes, it was her. She kept staring at the woman as if she were a stranger. That uptight, stern woman wasn’t who she was inside. Or was it? That was how Jeremiah saw her, she kept thinking.
Jeremiah. Even after he’d told her how much he hated the name Jeremiah, she was still using it to herself. Was she that selfish or self-centered? A tear slipped from her eye and she quickly brushed it away. She wouldn’t cry in public.
Grabbing her shoes, she started the trek back to the Whitten Building not even pausing to put them back on. She met a law clerk and a secretary in the lobby. She said hello and kept walking toward the elevators. She could feel their eyes probing her back, but she didn’t care.
Within an hour it would be all over the Whitten Building that Grace Whitten was in the lobby without her shoes. By the end of the day the tidbit would find its way to her father. She didn’t care about that, either.
She took the elevator to the parking garage and in minutes she pulled into traffic on Congress Avenue. Above the rooftops the state capitol building gleamed in the distance. She headed toward West Austin and the gated apartment complex where she lived. She needed time alone. Time to come to grips with everything she was feeling.
Entering her apartment, she took a moment to stare at her immaculate white home. It had a sterile feel to it, just like her office. She never noticed that before.
In the bedroom, she threw her shoes on the bed and slipped out of her suit jacket. She folded it neatly, and then paused. She had to break the chains that kept her bound to this uptight, repressed person. The jacket fell to the floor; her skirt and blouse followed.
Opening a drawer, she found a cotton T-shirt and slipped it over her head. She took the pins out of her hair and shook it free. She walked toward the kitchen stoically, resolutely refusing to look back at the mess she’d made.
Chocolate—that’s what she needed. And lots of it.
She found vanilla ice cream in the freezer. She grabbed it and reached for chocolate syrup and a spoon, carrying everything to the living room. Sitting cross-legged on the white sofa, she cradled the half gallon of ice cream in her lap, squirting chocolate syrup all over it. Gulping
She really liked the name. She never dreamed he hated her using it. But then she should have picked up on that the first time she’d met him. Was she insensitive? Did she not care what he thought? She’d been groomed to be independent, assertive and to speak her mind. Her father had told her many times that’s what she had to do to make it in a man’s world.
Suddenly she didn’t like that person. She didn’t like her at all.
I would prefer it if you and I had no contact. If you’re at Eli and Caroline’s, I won’t go over and I’d appreciate the same courtesy. But knowing you, Grace, I’m sure you’ll do whatever you please.
Those words hurt a little more than the rest. In the years she’d known Jeremiah she’d never seen him so angry. Evidently, he’d wanted to tell her off for some time. And she’d been wondering why he’d never asked her out. It didn’t take a member of Mensa to figure that one out. Jeremiah didn’t like her in any shape, form or fashion. That truth was hard to take.
People from all walks of life began to gather at the bus stop: two nurses in scrubs, a black lady helping an older man, a Mexican woman with four children and three teenagers with iPod earbuds stuck in their ears.
The bus pulled up with a roar of wheels, the doors swung open and three people got off, then the others stepped onto the bus. The doors closed and the bus rolled into traffic leaving diesel fumes behind.
On the glass building across the street she saw a woman sitting on a bench. Her pulled-back hair gave her a pinched look. She seemed unhappy, alone. For a brief moment, Grace felt sorry for her.
Then she realized she was staring at herself.
Was that her?
She put a hand up to her hair. Yes, it was her. She kept staring at the woman as if she were a stranger. That uptight, stern woman wasn’t who she was inside. Or was it? That was how Jeremiah saw her, she kept thinking.
Jeremiah. Even after he’d told her how much he hated the name Jeremiah, she was still using it to herself. Was she that selfish or self-centered? A tear slipped from her eye and she quickly brushed it away. She wouldn’t cry in public.
Grabbing her shoes, she started the trek back to the Whitten Building not even pausing to put them back on. She met a law clerk and a secretary in the lobby. She said hello and kept walking toward the elevators. She could feel their eyes probing her back, but she didn’t care.
Within an hour it would be all over the Whitten Building that Grace Whitten was in the lobby without her shoes. By the end of the day the tidbit would find its way to her father. She didn’t care about that, either.
She took the elevator to the parking garage and in minutes she pulled into traffic on Congress Avenue. Above the rooftops the state capitol building gleamed in the distance. She headed toward West Austin and the gated apartment complex where she lived. She needed time alone. Time to come to grips with everything she was feeling.
Entering her apartment, she took a moment to stare at her immaculate white home. It had a sterile feel to it, just like her office. She never noticed that before.
In the bedroom, she threw her shoes on the bed and slipped out of her suit jacket. She folded it neatly, and then paused. She had to break the chains that kept her bound to this uptight, repressed person. The jacket fell to the floor; her skirt and blouse followed.
Opening a drawer, she found a cotton T-shirt and slipped it over her head. She took the pins out of her hair and shook it free. She walked toward the kitchen stoically, resolutely refusing to look back at the mess she’d made.
Chocolate—that’s what she needed. And lots of it.
She found vanilla ice cream in the freezer. She grabbed it and reached for chocolate syrup and a spoon, carrying everything to the living room. Sitting cross-legged on the white sofa, she cradled the half gallon of ice cream in her lap, squirting chocolate syrup all over it. Gulping
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