L Witt - Nine-tenths of the Law

Come on, Claire, don’t leave me here with my thoughts . Firing her wasn’t going to be pleasant, but neither was pining after someone I couldn’t-and shouldn’t-have.

I glanced at the clock. If I were you, I’d want to just get it over with . I leaned back in my chair and put both hands behind my head as I stared up at the ceiling. It occurred to me then that I’d told her to clock in first. Maybe she was milking the time clock for a few extra pennies before heading in here. I sat up and was just about to head for the door when a faint, timid knock stopped me.

“It’s open,” I said.

The door opened and Claire appeared, eyes down and cheeks a little red. “Sorry I took a few minutes,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“Don’t worry about it.” I sat up and rested my elbows on the desk. She looked at me and swallowed hard, probably noticing my more upright posture. Everyone here knew that I handled all but the most serious or formal discussions while kicked back with my feet on the desk. I’d once heard one of the guys ask another how bad an ass-chewing was. The response of “Zach sat up in his chair” nearly made him blanch.

If Claire had had any doubt about why she was here, she probably knew by now. I gestured toward one of the chairs opposite my desk, and she sat.

As I took a breath, she drew back slightly, probably bracing herself. Her eyebrows knitted together and her lips pulled into a grimace.

“Listen,” I said. “I really hate to do this, but-”

“You’re firing me?” she squeaked. I doubted she was really surprised. She knew it was coming, but now that it was actually happening, it threw her for a loop. Happened to most of the people I fired.

“Claire, we’ve talked about this,” I said. “Dylan and I have both discussed the issue of lateness, and-”

“But, I’ve been trying, I was-” She sniffed, wiping her eyes quickly. “Please let me-”

“Claire,” I said as gently as I could. “We’ve been through this. I’ve changed your shifts, I’ve done everything I can to accommodate your scheduling conflicts, but…” I set the folder on the desk and folded my hands across it. “This just isn’t working.” Christ, why do I always sound like I’m breaking up with someone when I do this? I’m sorry, honey, it’s not you, it’s me . I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes at my own thoughts, which would have been cruel to Claire.

“Maybe I could just work part-time,” she said quickly. “I’ve seen the schedules for the part-timers. Which would be easy for me to work around.”

Ah, bargaining. Isn’t that the second stage of grieving? Or is it the third? That would mean that anger is next, I think. Anger or -

“You guys let Dean and Jill come in late all the time,” she suddenly snarled through her tears.

Yep. Anger. “That’s between us and them,” I said. “We handle issues with them privately, just like we do with you.”

“So you’re firing them, too?” It wasn’t a question. It was sarcastic.

“I can’t discuss anything about them with you any more than I can discuss this with them,” I said quietly. There was no point in getting angry with her. The poor kid was getting fired, which was humiliating and upsetting even if she had brought it on herself. She could vent, she could cry and she could take her last paycheck and leave.

“This is bullshit,” she said, but her voice wavered to little more than a whimper, evaporating any venom she tried to inject into her words. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered, probably more to herself than me.

“Claire, I’m sorry about this,” I said. “But I don’t have a choice at this point.” I pulled a couple of envelopes out of the folder and slid them across the desk. “These are your last two paychecks. Whatever we owe you from your time on the clock today, you can pick up on Friday or I’ll mail it to you.”

She snatched the envelopes off the desk and stood, nearly knocking the chair over in the process. “Mail them to me. I don’t want to come back here.”

I nodded, keeping my voice and expression neutral. “Is your address current?”

Scowling, she looked at the address on the envelope and nodded sharply. “Yeah, it’s right.” She glared at me. “Is there anything else, or can I get the fuck out of here so I can find someone to hire me?”

Without a word, I gestured toward the door and gave a single nod. Anything I said now would probably just come across as patronizing or otherwise rub salt in her wounds, so I said nothing. She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

As soon as she was gone, I let out a breath and leaned back in my chair, throwing my feet onto my desk as was my custom. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for that unsettled feeling to pass. Even when the person I was firing richly deserved it, it always left me unnerved and edgy, much like that lingering adrenaline rush after a fight with a boyfriend.

Much like how I felt after I left Jake’s apartment the other night.

And after my three-way confrontation with Jake and Nathan.

My blood turned cold.

Nathan.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes as a shiver ran up my spine. A full two weeks had passed and my breath still caught every time I thought of him, which I still did in spite of my best efforts not to. Now that he was again on my mind, that uncomfortable edginess only got worse.

I shifted in my seat, tapping my heel on the desk and wishing I could get Nathan, Claire and Jake out of my head. Sitting still was impossible, so I finally gave up and stood, heading for the door to seek refuge in mind-numbing busy work even though I knew damn well it wouldn’t do any good.

An hour or so later, my gut was still a ball of nerves after my conversation with Claire. Firing employees was part of the job, but it was one I’d never relished.

Just trying to keep myself busy, I walked around the theatre, checking on everything else. The concession stand was well-stocked and had no immediate crises. The box office was running smoothly. I caught myself hoping the middle auditorium’s projector would break again, if only to give me something to do, but the damned thing worked perfectly.

Dylan caught up with me as I made my fiftieth pass through the concession stand.

“So how did she take it?” he asked, keeping his voice low so other employees didn’t hear.

I shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”

“Tears?”

“Of course.” I grimaced. “God, I hate doing that.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “But you…”

He continued speaking, but I didn’t hear him, because when I glanced over his shoulder, my heart suddenly pounded loud enough to drown out his voice.

Nathan.

At first, he didn’t see me. He paused inside the front door, holding his ticket between his lips while his hands were busy arranging his credit card and receipt in his wallet. Then he put his wallet in his back pocket and looked at the ticket, glancing at the signs for the auditoriums as if to confirm where he belonged.

Just before he headed toward the auditorium, he looked at me. Looked right at me. An uncertain grin pulled up one corner of his mouth and the sparkle in his eyes turned my knees to water.

Then he disappeared from view.

“Zach?” Dylan waved a hand in front of my face.

I shook my head. “Sorry, sorry.”

He glanced over his shoulder, laughing. “And you always tell me not to stare at the pretty ladies that come through the door, you dog.”

I winked and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wasn’t looking at a pretty lady, Dylan.”

“Uh-huh. You know what I mean.”