Lilies were my mom's favorite flowers. I wonder why she didn't name I or my sister after it, because I still remember her talking, making quotes, and discoveries about them all day everyday since I was a child up until the day she finally died.
Even though it's been three months, it still feels like yesterday when I dropped by a flower shop, got her a bouquet of lilies and drove down to the hospital she'd been dying slowly in—Cancer is a fucking bastard, that's just all I can say about that.
I don't know how I thought about lilies that afternoon during my lunch break, because for years, even now, I still don't understand my mother's obsession with them.
I remember her reaction when I handed it to her and also the last thing she ever said, "As the lily is among thorns, so is my love among my daughters." It was as though she waited till I thought highly of a lily as she did—for her to know her mission was accomplished, because she died almost immediately after.
A very wide smile laced her cheeks for a few seconds until it suddenly began to disappear. For a while, I didn't understand why she was so quiet, but I began to watch her eyes leave mine, then the room we were in, before her smile totally vanished, leaving nothing but the body of a once responsible and hardworking woman.
After she died, it felt like a heavy rock was lifted off my chest, but it left its hole behind. I've been empty since then. It still hurts me so much that every time I think back to that day, I feel a sting and a line of tear run down my eye. I've been too dysfunctional to focus on the only thing I'm living for; My job.
Levi, somehow, has been handling this better than I have, yet there's like four years between the both of us. She now seems unaffected by our mother's death, I presume, as she was able to attend a fraternity party last week which was all over her social media page. She got wasted and had the time of her life. I can't remember the last time I made myself a cup of coffee without spilling half its content because my mind was either on my late parents or on the job I'm still not improving at.
I hear a Slam.
Perturbed, my eyes trail one of the four glasses that join to form my cubicle. My office. I was actually scared something hit it. But...
My focus is suddenly drawn to the figure in front of me. I trace down to what may have made that sound.
Tucking a bang of my hair from my face, I finally can see and comprehend. I look up at the familiar figure of my boss and his hands that are now poking down at the newspaper spread out in front of me. He starts to gesture at the front page of the paper, where my eyes can make out the bold words and pictures.
Noah—my boss has always been this way with me. I start to wonder what the issue may be now. Each time he comes into my space, he always comes with something to fuss about.
His pale hands make a loud flutter on the paper again, reminding me of what the initial draw of my attention was.
"You aren't going to say anything?" His husky voice asks me. I can't tell if it's a demand or not. For a while now, Noah's been hard to work for. Or maybe I'm the one who has been less attentive.
I sigh and slowly scan the front page of the paper and read.
'Billionaire Tycoon who owned 290 empty homes across the State has made it 305 after buying fifteen new houses two hours prior to when he called off his own wedding.'
"Taking pride in the competence of their staff, they're saying someone brought this in earlier this morning and it made headline, seventy-two minutes later." He continues, "And the worst is, it has to be a Trail Station Newspaper headline. Our. Biggest. Fucking. Rival." This time, I know what tone this is, it's a reprimanding one. I'm sure in trouble again.
Frankly, I'm getting tired of Noah barging into my office every morning and talking about how the journalists in rivalry companies are doing better than my grieving ass—like I didn't already hear him yesterday. Or the day before.
Usually, as a journalist, these are the things that drive me—amazing stories—but I'm too intrigued by this Lance Haven guy to feel terrible yet another Tuesday morning.
How in fucks name is this guy so fucking wealthy?
It's just hard to process again, because as a matter of fact, I and my overbearing editor, Noah, spoke about him three days ago after another journalist of a rivalry company captured him at party very unbefitting of his status. The thing is, even if Haven drank water from a glass, it still would be a headline news. because this man in question is a fucking billionaire.
Eyes still on the newspaper on my desk, I clear my throat and manage. "I'll try to work on that."
"Work on what, Anderson? Work exactly on what!" He yells harder, sweeping the newspaper off my view to the ground. The pages scatter across the room completely before I stop my eyes from following them.
"You're not telling me you want to use someone else's news to source and then report yours, are you? What happened to originality? Huh? What happened to all that drive in the Andersons? That drive that was in you until a few months ago?" He begins to bicker yet again. "You're an entertainment journalist not an online journalist, I hope you remember that!"
He spins around a circle, laughing halfheartedly at whatever may be funny to him. He takes a step further, rests the tip of his index on my desk and speaks to me. No, he speaks through me. "Your father would be disappointed wherever he is!"
"Noah!" I warn. I look straight into his eyes and see a man who'd stop at nothing to make his money. This man wasn't the guy my father would send, years ago, to pick Levi and I up from school because he—Noah was failing at his career so he had to be given another reason for his substantial earnings. Now he stands over me to speak ill of this same man that gave him the spot he sits on now.
I think back to my father and the mark he left in this company. Noah bringing this up makes me feel a heavy lump in my throat beginning to form. Although my father was sweet most of the time, especially when it came to his daughters, he was also a strong disciplinarian. He always made sure we had our sights set right and not just that, he was strict with our success and with his legacy. Even Noah knows his memory isn't one to be messed with, except he just wants to get something out of me.
"What are you gonna do, Gra-a-ce?" He drags my name and I know he means to anger me. He never calls my first name, except to mock me as he has said many times that there's nothing graceful about me.
I think about punching his face in. Or kicking his balls. But violence has never been my thing. I work on my thoughts immediately and channel them into something that wouldn't get me fired. "Nothing, Sir." I bow my head and finally say.
"Good," he returns. "Very good you know your place around here."
I hum, nodding my head, giving him a hint that I agree to what he's saying, even though I don't. He's the one who doesn't know his place. He's the one that has crossed the line many times before.
"You need sleep?" He suggests with a calm voice as though he cares if I sleep at all in my life. "What exactly is your problem?" He raises his voice again and my colleague in his own cubicle turns to stare.
I begin to stutter, because my words are dangling in my throat and refuse to come out.
"You don't need to say anything. I've heard all the excuses you can give. Unless you want to manufacture new ones." He speaks without sympathy, like my father never worked for this company. Like he wasn't my father's junior worker at some point in his career.
But I remain mute. I even take gulps of my saliva so slowly so he'd not notice to complain I'm too relaxed for journalist. As he always does.
"Buckle up, Anderson. Buckle the fuck up," he says again. He points so close to my head like he's about to poke my temples. "Get your head in the game. I got something big for you." The last part of his sentence sounds like an apology, though I don't know him to be apologetic about anything.
Noah sends me that knowing nod he normally does whenever he's about to put all his trust in one person. He keeps giving me better opportunities that I keep ruining. Why'd he not just find someone better to trust?
"You don't wanna mess this one up," he finishes. Motioning towards the door, he demands. "See me in my office now, you've got work to do."