My weekend proved to be fulfilling as I devoted most of it to painting my apartment.
By Sunday evening, I admired my work with a sense of accomplishment. I had chosen a predominantly monochromatic theme, incorporating various shades of peach and cream in all the rooms, punctuated by a burst of color on an accent wall. My living space, consisting of a single bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, a square kitchen, and a dual-purpose living and dining area, had been my home since college days and still suited my needs perfectly.
My mother, however, held a different opinion. According to her, it was 'cozy… for now.'
With a dreamy look in her eyes, she often spoke of a future time when God would send her a son-in-law and grandchildren, anticipating that I would need more spacious accommodations for them. When such discussions arose, I refrained from bursting her bubble by revealing my firm decision to stay away from any form of relationship.
Four years ago, when the pain was raw and felt like a knife in my heart, I vehemently insisted that I was done with men and relationships forever. My mother, gently but firmly, asserted that it was merely the pain talking and that, being young, I would soon re-enter the dating scene. She believed that, as an attractive and sensible woman, potential suitors would soon be eager to pursue me.
I didn't argue, but I was resolute in my decision against it.
As a child, I had witnessed my parents' deep love for each other and dreamed of experiencing a similar love. Even as my father succumbed to terminal cancer, their affection remained evident. Following his passing, my mother, at the age of forty-one, declared that he was the only man for her, and she would never remarry.
I yearned for a love like theirs. For a brief moment, I thought I had found it. Yet, in the blink of an eye, it all crumbled.
Surveying my freshly painted apartment, I remembered when he used to walk barefoot and shirtless through these rooms. An image flashed in my mind: him leaning against the kitchen doorway, biting into an apple while observing me prepare a cup of bitter tea. I shook my head to dispel the vivid memory and frowned. It had taken a long time to erase every trace of him from my space, and this paint job was meant to be the final touch. There wouldn't be any reminders of the soft blues he helped me apply to the walls long ago or the intimate moments our paint-splattered bodies shared on the canvas-covered floors.
My eyes darkened. Why were these flashbacks and memories surfacing now? It wasn't a special season, my birthday was weeks away, and his was in the fall. We met in winter. So, why were these memories flooding back in the middle of March? Why all these thoughts about Zade Herron, the man who not only shattered my soul but also left me ruined for any other?
After cleaning my hands with a rag and soaking the brushes, I headed for the shower, feeling utterly drained. Following a brief dinner of grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and a can of green beans, I retreated to bed.
The upcoming Monday held the promise of getting lost in work once more. Zade was no longer part of my life, confined to some prison cell, never to return. The final memory before drifting into sleep was Zade's deceitful whisper, "You're the only woman for me, Sapphire."
He lied.
With that, I succumbed to sleep.
Mondays always raced by with a whirlwind of tasks. As the day concluded, my fundraising team convened in the aging computer lab for our weekly meeting.
“How's the donation sheet from the PTA progressing, Monica?” I inquired.
“Mrs. Gibbs is to update me tomorrow after hearing from all the parents. Not much change, she mentioned. We still have an offer for a projector and a few thousand dollars in pledges,” she reported.
My spirits sank at the update. “What about the income from the bake sales, Lisa?”
Attempting to brighten her expression, Lisa replied, “The profit isn’t substantial, but it's profit nonetheless.”
“Can I receive a report on income and expenditure from that so far?” I requested.
She nodded. “Certainly. You'll have it before the week's end.”
Turning to another team member, I inquired, “Any progress with the cookie drive, Lance?”
“Slow. It's tough times, and people are holding onto their pennies. Understandable,” he admitted.
Surveying the room, I remarked, “It's going to take more than a few pennies to reach our goals. The ‘Spring Fair’ seems to be our only hope. And despite not wanting to put all our eggs in one basket, we must give it our all. Stacey, how many commitments do we have?”
“We're still securing rides from ‘Wild Rides,’ and they're loaning us the equipment for free. In return, we feed their staff.”
“Great! What about food?”
“Captain’s Bakery will provide a thousand buns and rolls for burgers and hot dogs. Sammy’s is donating the meat we need. We also have promises for condiments and napkins from SuperMart,” Stacey informed with optimism.
Positivity circulated through the room. Grinning at my team, I said, “Sounds good.”
“And parents are all on board to help supervise for the day. I’m organizing a roster for various stations and the assistance we'll need in each area,” Stacey added.
“If only all this volunteering could be converted to cash. It takes cash to care,” I remarked ruefully. “But for what it’s worth, we'll be grateful for whatever we can achieve.”
“We will be. Sapphire, I have an idea I wanted to run by you. It's not something we've discussed before, but what about alumni?” Stacey looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Alumni?” I tilted my head in curiosity.
“Yes. We've been so focused on the present—parents and students. What about those who were here before? Those successful individuals who aren't parents but could make a significant donation as a tax deduction.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “You're onto something, Stacey. We haven't considered them much, especially for a middle school. People are often more loyal to their high schools or colleges, but it's worth a shot.”
Stacey grinned triumphantly. “I thought you'd agree, so I compiled a list of names and contacts for every graduate in the last ten to twenty years. We even have a few heavy hitters on this list. I'm confident that just one check can cover any shortfall we have.”
She dramatically presented a few sheets of paper.
I laughed. “Trust you to be ahead of the game.”
Pride shone in Stacey's eyes. “I know you can't contact them all, so I've assigned each of us a contact list. I've even drafted a template email that we could use.” She pulled another stack of papers from her bag. “Here's an information sheet summarizing the event and its objectives that we can send.”
She distributed the sheets to the team.
A silence enveloped us as each person examined Stacey's document. Impressed, I raised my head and commended, "That sounds like a solid plan. Thanks, Stacey."
“I’ll dedicate some time to crafting the draft email tonight,” she chimed in.
Sitting back, content, Stacey replied, “Awesome!”
The meeting wrapped up shortly after, and I headed back home. Upon entering my apartment complex twenty minutes later, I placed the freezer meal I had prepared earlier into the oven and took a quick shower. While it baked, I worked on drafting the email for the fundraiser. The evening news played in the background, a monotonous stream of negative and disheartening stories. My attention wavered, considering switching to a music channel, when a particular segment caught my ears. My eyes widened, and I turned towards the television screen, captivated by a pair of piercing blue eyes that I could never forget.
My heart quickened, and my hands grew clammy.
“Zade Herron, the Tech software genius and one half of Stein-Bart Innovative Software, was today released after serving four years for embezzlement. More in this report.”
With my mouth agape, they displayed four-year-old clips of Zade entering and leaving the court during his trial. Memories I had kept at bay all weekend now crashed into me, and I felt like a shipwrecked sailor tossed on a stormy sea.
The last time I had seen Zade in person was just before the missed dinner date on my birthday. The next time I saw him was on the screen of my television. I couldn't help it—I stared at his image hungrily, devouring every detail. Noting that his eyes were still the same brilliant blue, and his black hair remained thick and alluring, but tiny lines around his eyes had appeared. His mouth, once ready to break into a smile at the slightest provocation, was now pressed into a thin, hard line. Entranced, I watched the cameras follow him from the penitentiary gates to a waiting car. The report then shifted to another news item.
I rushed to turn off the television. Goosebumps formed on the back of my arms. I stared at a blank wall, my world feeling as if it had turned upside down.
Zade was out of prison!
Damn!
Zade was out of prison!
I blinked. Why did it matter? What did it have to do with me? He was nothing to me. Nothing. I forced my thoughts to the photo I kept in my bureau—the one of him and that other woman. That was my reminder to have nothing to do with Zade, or any man, for that matter. It was my reminder that men were cheats and liars who couldn't be trusted. Ever. I allowed the anger to come. It was the perfect shield, diffusing any other emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. It had kept me focused all these years, and I wouldn't let it go now.
Zade was out of prison. Good for him.
I went to the kitchen and retrieved my meal. Placing it in front of me, I forked it into my mouth. The once-delicious macaroni and cheese, which I had anticipated, now tasted like cardboard, settling in my stomach like a solid brick. I washed the taste away with a glass of wine. The wine tasted foul.
I drank another glass and began to feel better.
Work. Work was always the answer.
It was nearly nine o'clock. I worked intensely on the email. Tomorrow, I would review it before printing it for submission. Before going to bed, I checked my emails. Stacey had sent the full list, which I had only briefly glanced at.
Curiosity piqued, I scanned the thirty-odd names. Then, for the second time that night, I felt as though I had been dealt a blow. There, just above Randy Hellfire, was the email and contact number for Zade Herron. I stifled a scream. What were the odds that he would end up on my list?
What kind of twisted game was the universe playing?
I moved my eyes up to Randy Hellfire. I had somewhat kept in touch with him over the years, speaking occasionally. I sensed he was interested in more than a casual friendship, but I had never felt that way about him. He was always meant to be in the friend zone. In fact, I met Randy first, but it was Zade who stole my heart. Randy, being the gentleman he was, had gracefully stepped aside.
But I always knew he wanted more.
Both Randy and Zade were on the list. I swallowed hard at the prospect of interacting with Zade in any way, but I pushed the nervousness aside and remembered the anger.
I had to stay angry.
Ignoring the slight tremble in my finger, I typed Zade’s email address in my draft email. Taking a deep breath, I then copy-pasted all the other names on the list into the sender’s box.
As the cursor hovered over the ‘send’ button, I half-considered deleting Zade’s address, but then I stopped myself. He was nothing to me. If the children could benefit from him, why not? Anyway, he would probably be in no position to fund anything but himself, so there was almost no reason to believe he would respond.
Before I could give it any more thought, I clicked ‘send’.
I pursed my lips. Of course, he won’t respond. That would be the best thing for him to do – not respond.