The Definition of Fate

Chapter 3

I loved you head over handles
like my first bicycle accident--
before the mouthful of gravel and blood,
I swore we were flying

- Sierra DeMulder

I slam my forehead onto the legal pad on my desk as if that will somehow revive my rotting brain cells. Why am I at work on a Sunday afternoon? Thanks a lot, Tina. You fat lard. I giggle at the Napoleon Dynamite inspired insult and try to resist the fit of hysterics that's coming on.

This morning I skipped church with my family to spend the last nine hours staring at my computer and trying to type this piece on small businesses. Dave should have given me a lot more information, but his notes consisted of the names of a few small businesses and a list of acronyms which I've been decoding. So far, I have 500 words written and still don't understand what this article's supposed to be about.

I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind. Plus, the vending machine has been my only source of sustenance since the bowl of oatmeal I inhaled this morning. Man cannot live on Twizzlers and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups alone, and the Skittles won't budge despite the stapler I hit against the side of the machine. I'm growing desperate.

When my phone buzzes on my desk, I groan. "Hello?"

"Rachel? Are you okay?" Aaron sounds concerned and I briefly wonder if he should be.

"Uh, yeah. No. Maybe. What time is it?" I answer, rubbing my temple with one hands.

"Almost dinner time," Aaron answers, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You know how your mom feels when we're late."

"Oh crap. Sunday dinner." I smack my head with my palm. "Is it six already?"

Every Sunday night, my parents, Tommy, Aaron and I have dinner together. It's a tradition, and my mom is all about keeping our traditions sacred. Plus, there are usually leftovers and her famous chocolate chip cookies involved, so I refuse to miss it.

"It's 5:45," Aaron answers. "Are you still at work?"

"Maybe." I pause for a beat. "Okay, yeah, I'm still here, but I'm almost done."

"Well, I'm coming to pick you up and we're going to dinner. Tina can wait," Aaron says.

Aaron's convinced that between Tina and Emmalee I'm some sort of martyr. Somedays I think he's right, but it doesn't really matter. I have to work and I have to have a roommate, so as Mom always tells me, I just have to suck it up.

"Fine. I'll get my stuff."

"Okay, see you soon, babe."

When I hang up on my call with Aaron, I sag back in my chair, hands knotted in my short, unruly curls. This article is due tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. which means I'm going to be up all night finishing it. I really hope Mom made a double batch of cookies. I groan, throwing the file of papers I've printed on the topic into my bag, and scuttle out the door to meet Aaron.

When he pulls up, his expression is somber as he stares at me from the rolled down window. "You look rough."

"Thanks a lot, sweetheart," I growl as I hop into the passenger's seat with my bulging purse at my feet.

"You know what I mean," he says, chucking me under the chin. "You're always gorgeous, but you're kind of a hot mess today."

"At least I'm still hot."

When I make a face at him, he reaches across the seat barrier to brush a curl behind my ear and kiss me. That always makes me smile, and I feel my tension dispel. Easy. That's what we are. Aaron knows how far to push me and when to let me go.