FIFTEEN
Janie
I slide into my seat at the polished mahogany table, smoothing my pencil skirt beneath me. The air conditioning hums with the kind of chill that's intentional, settling sharply against my skin.
This is my meeting. My outreach committee. And today, at least, it’s not just Warren and me trapped across the same table. It’s the full roster. Ten faces wait expectantly, with their pens poised.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say, projecting an enthusiasm I don't possess. Nods ripple around the table. All except one.
Warren doesn’t move. He sits opposite me in his perfect navy suit, gaze fixed on the spreadsheet in front of him. Steam curls from the untouched coffee at his elbow. The line of his jaw is brutal in its perfection. One glance and I'm skinned alive.
I press on. “Let’s start with updates on funding for the mobile clinic. We’ve secured an additional forty thousand.” I gesture toward him, deliberately professional, but still deferential. “Warren, would you walk us through thefinance recommendation? I know you were working on this.”
He doesn’t look at me. “The additional funds should be allocated to equipment rather than staffing,” he says evenly, his tone smooth as steel. He lists projections, bullet points, percentages. Every word out of his mouth is precise, detached, and impersonal. The kind of delivery that reassures a boardroom. The kind that slices me open.
“Thank you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Any discussion?”
Questions ripple around the table. I direct traffic, take notes, and summarize. When I call on him again, he responds the same way. He's concise, formal, nothing more, and colder than I've ever seen him.
“Ms. Harrelson, your perspective on vaccination outreach?” he asks at one point, his voice clipped, eyes still on the papers in front of him.
The formality knocks the air from my chest. A week ago, he was whispering my name while he traced lines on my goose-bumped skin. Now I’m “Ms. Harrelson,” just another agenda item.
I clear my throat. “The community response has been strong. I’d recommend extending the proposed clinic hours to accommodate working parents.”
He nods once. It's the same polite nod he gave Caleb two minutes earlier about supply chains, only somehow, toward me, it's an assault. “We’ll note it for consideration.”
Across the table, he slides a stack of reports toward me. I reach out, and our fingers brush. The jolt is immediate, a current that shoots through me before I can stop it. My breath stutters.
I glance up, desperate for some sign he felt it too. But his face is already turned to the next speaker, unreadable. Unmoved.
Anger would mean heat. This is ice.
This is indifference.
I force myself through the rest of the agenda, steady on the outside, unraveling inside. When the meeting adjourns and the room empties, relief sweeps in, followed quickly by dread. Because now there’s nothing to shield me from the echo of his disdain.
As I gather my things for Beckett’s preschool carnival, one truth hardens in my chest: this is worse than fury. This is erasure.
I spotBeckett before he sees me, his construction paper butterfly wings flapping wildly as he charges through the school doors. His face lights up when he notices me standing outside on the sidewalk with the other parents.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look!" He races toward me, waving his project in the air as he makes a beeline toward the car. Purple and blue glitter shakes loose from his wings with every bounce. "I'm a monarchy butterfly!"
A teacher waves at me as he slams into my legs. "I'm a monarchy butterfly, Mommy!"
"Monarch," I correct gently as I bend down to hug him. "You look amazing, baby. I love what you made."
"We're having a Halloween carnival now! We need to go. It's at the field over there," he points around the backside of the school building.
"We are, Becks. Mimi is supposed to meet us, too. I was waiting to see if she would get here to walk with us."
"…with games and cookies and Ms. Lisa says I can be the butterfly in the parade," he continues, unfazed. Words tumble from him in excited bursts, his hazel-green eyes, wide with anticipation.
"Janie! There you are."
My mother appears behind me, her familiar perfume reaching me before her hand touches my shoulder. I stand, letting her pull me into a quick hug. All I want to do is sink into her, but I keep it together.
"I'm so glad you could make it. I think this will be cute, and Beckett is beside himself." I take Beckett's backpack, surprisingly heavy for such a small person.