Head Over Feels

I’m surely going to hell.

She’s way too nice to get mixed up with the Bachelor of the Year three years running. I can’t even act right when I’m near her anymore. I went from zero to sixty for her, and she’s looking at me like I’m a dead end.

“Hope you like hot and sour soup.” I already know she loves that soup because she always orders it when we eat at an Asian restaurant. I’ve also eaten enough meals with her to know the two foods she hates—mushrooms and anchovies. Every week when the group meets, she chats with the server about what to try that doesn’t include those two ingredients. “I told them to hold the mushrooms.”

She shivers while scrunching her nose, being utterly adorable. “I hate those little fungi.” Taking the bag from me, she says, “How’d you know?”

“I don’t like them either,” I lie. I love mushrooms.

“Do you have time to come back? I can show you my fancy cubicle.” She waggles her hips.

“Absolutely.”

We only travel about ten feet before I’m in a cubicle not much bigger than my desk. Two chairs are squeezed into the space, so I angle to sit.

Perking up, she asks, “You got the contract yesterday, right?”

“I did. Thanks for sending the retainer. I have my assistant gathering records so we can start laying the groundwork for the divorce.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me every time.”

“I’m just grateful.”

“I’m glad you came to me.”

When a door grates against its hinges, she stands up and looks around, then sits back down. “If my boss stops by, pretend we’re working together,” she whispers. “There aren’t many people I dislike, but Lowell is at the top of the list. The city placed him here two years ago because they want a business degree judging how we operate. We have a very tight budget. I get that, but sometimes someone needs more than food assistance and a pat on the back.” She leans forward in her chair, sliding across the cracked plastic mat.

My idea of what she did for a living felt distant from my life, never touching my shores, but seeing her office and hearing her stories puts it in perspective.

She’s even more amazing than I knew, and I already thought highly of her.

She continues, “Our job can entail taking five extra minutes with someone to help prepare them for a job interview or find other financial resources. Lending a nonjudgmental ear can change a person’s life. He doesn’t get that. He only understands dollars and cents.” Waving to clear the air, she takes a deep breath and raises her chin. “And he refuses to pay for some of my extra hours. If anyone can relate to long and demanding days, though, it’s you.”

“I hate it sometimes, but it comes with the territory. I’m also compensated for the work. You’re not.”

“No one goes into social work to get rich.” I receive a pointed look, but then her expression eases. “I wanted to help people. I’m helping people . . . ten hours a day. I hate complaining. Sorry for the rant.”

“Rant away. You’re too damn good-hearted, you know that?”

The compliment leaves her grinning, too. “Someone’s got to counteract the cynicism in the world.” She winks at me.

“Touché. The world needs more Bells and fewer Wellingtons.”

Pulling the container from the bag, she laughs. “Lies. Your mom is very charitable.”

“Ha! She’s not even a Wellington anymore, but I’m not sure she ever felt one with the name anyway.”

I’m caught in a laugh when our gazes connect. Through shared smiles, our laughter fades, but our eyes stay fixed on each other. It’s quick, but in that one look, something more than our sense of humor tied us together.

She says, “It’s not only your mom who’s wonderful. You give people hope, a chance to make a new life.”

“I’ve never heard a divorce lawyer made out to sound like a saint.”

“It’s all about perspective.”

“Well, from my perspective, you’re the saint who’s actually giving people hope and a new start in life.”

She smiles again but doesn’t look at me as she pulls off the lid of the container. As if she doesn’t want to discuss herself, she sighs. “Hot and sour is just what I needed today.”

“Comfort food.”

When she finds the spoon, she offers it to me. “Do you want to share?”

I hold my hand up. “No, you go ahead. I ate earlier.”

Tealey starts eating as I look around at her personal belongings. It’s cute like her with the knickknacks. There are only a few, but enough to show her personality. Picking her coffee mug up, I read, “There. They’re. Their? . . . Ohhh.” I chuckle.

“Grammar jokes. Lame to most, but funny to me.” She pulls open a drawer. “I have snacks if you want a candy bar or gum.”

Various packages of gum slide around, but the Mars bars and Milky Ways are stacked in a clear bin. A clipped bag of chips and a few pieces of root beer candy are shoved in a white bin along with pencils, Sharpies, and what looks to be feminine products. “What else do you have in that drawer?”