Read Online Emma vs. The Tech Guy by Lia Fairchild - Free Book Online Page B

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    When Jayne came in to the office, she skipped our usual morning check-in and ducked her head on the way to her office. I was already over what happened at the gym, but decided to take advantage of the extra work time Jayne’s absence allowed me. Besides, it would do her good to reflect on her behavior. Men shouldn’t turn us into cavewomen. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.
    For about the hundredth time, I pulled up the new cover design layout and marveled at how my ideas and Mason’s designing genius came together for what I thought was the perfect representation of New You magazine. Sitting back in my chair, I savored the moment and listened to the soft rain brush against my office window. It was a light spring rain that I almost wished was a storm. It had caught me off guard since I hadn’t checked the weather report that morning.
    I’d grown to love stormy weather, although because I’d lived in southern California my whole life, I didn’t get to enjoy it often. I thanked Doug Hensley for my fascination with storms. In return for my virginity, he turned my fear of thunder and lightning into amazement and wonder. One dreary autumn night, he took my shaky hand in his as he guided me out under the purple black sky. We walked toward the storm, talking and watching the beautiful electric streaks dance across the sky. Three months later he was suspended from school for selling pot brownies, put on probation, and sent to live with his uncle. I never heard from him again. Needless to say, I don’t often wonder what might have been.
    My gaze drifted to the adjoining wall where my first “Newlywed News” column hung in a frame. Sometimes I missed the simpler days of just writing, but I was thankful for the few stories I still wrote myself. Thoughts of my mother came to mind, and I took hold of the only connection I had to her. She had loved to write, as well—mostly poetry and short stories. I pictured the image that lived in my wallet. It showed a beautiful young woman sitting on a blanket on the grass. She wore pajamas, and her legs were crossed. One hand held back the hair that swept in the wind. Sunlight made her sandy-colored hair appear even lighter as she gazed toward the trees in our backyard, looking for inspiration. You can barely see the corner of a notepad in her lap.
    That’s how I remembered my mother. I’ve stared at that picture so many times, it felt like I was there. In a way, I was. She was about ten weeks pregnant and, according to my Pop, she would recite her poetry to me spontaneously whenever the mood hit her. That carefree, love-child aura was in such contrast to my own calculated and controlling ways, it saddened me that I wasn’t more like her. Maybe calculating was too harsh a word, but I didn’t do anything without thorough analysis first. I wondered if that would still be the case if she were here today.
    Sorting out my feelings in regards to my parents had been challenging, to say the least. Putting on a brave face worked most of the time, but I hated myself for missing my mother more than my father. Howard said that was probably normal for any girl. Maybe it was because Mom left me so quickly, at such a young age. But Dad could have handled it better. He could have had more time with me if he’d wanted. But instead of trying to become the ultimate father to compensate me for losing my mother, he’d turned his back on the pain of reality. I was lucky that as Dad started to fade out of my life, Pop gradually took over. He was as good a father as anyone. He tried hard to make our life seem normal. But it’s not like a girl ever stops needing her mother.
    It wasn’t unusual for me to go from elated to deflated in a matter of seconds. I guess memorable moments, like realizing a professional dream, lead to memories, which lead to my lack thereof, and the fact that my options for sharing news with loved ones were quite limited.
    A reminder dinged and popped up on my screen, so I