3: Adulting Sucks

6:00 am flashes across her cell phone screen, vibrating noisily along the wooden surface standing beside a queen bed.

The adamant alarm blares rabidly until she stirs awake, snatching it from the television-tray-turned-nightstand and silencing it.

Finding no missed calls or texts, she rolls onto her back with a groan as last night replays in her head.

Staring at the white, stucco ceiling burned into her memory from both passionate and tear-filled nights, she places her hand on a blanket covered torso to keep emotional bawls away.

Disheartened eyes shift to the empty bed next to her, an undesirable sadness escaping in a snuffle. Hazel eyes follow the lines of sunlight painting his drool stained, gray pillow through gaps in curtainless, white plastic blinds.

"...I'm such a dumb-ass," she grumbles, rolling her eyes away from his side of the shoebox room and a rattling, window air conditioner to lay flat on a lumpy mattress that came with the mostly furnished slum.

"…How could everyone be so right about something I was so sure of…?"

Throwing a tiny temper tantrum in bed, hating having to get up, hating having to be an adult, hating to have to face another day living in the results of actions she didn't think through while pretending to be successful, she eventually looks at her phone again.

Somehow, fifteen whole minutes eluded her.

Flipping her phone off to the side to land in plush comforts of a tropical, motel-like duvet, she sits up and searches the room with an open door.

Listening quietly into the hall from where she sits, safe within the confines of her bed, she closes her eyes and breathes deep.

Finding solace and sorrow at the lack of another presence in her home, she wonders if he left for good this time.

Shaking her head, a sideways glance leads her into tilting her head.

A smile tempts to cross her lips when she focuses on a teddy bear sitting patiently against the foot-board on his side of the bed.

Narrowing her eyes at the stuffed animal's goofy smile, Harper swallows down the thrill clawing around inside her when she recalls the fact that Clyde has managed to stay on the optimistic side of her big heart because he's always been good at giving her things to make up for his outbursts.

Biting her bottom lip, curious about what's inside the red envelope clutched by curly-haired nubs, she crawls to the apologetic gesture and plucks away at paper treasure.

"I'm fixing it."

Looking at every side of the card and envelope, befuddled by written gibberish, she throws the card at the bear, "The fuck? Guess he's a repairman."

Getting out of bed to stretch in a downward dog pose, muttering angrily, "You've got money for this shit, but I can't get help with -groceries-?" She perseverates on the endless list of things more helpful to her than this damn bear.

Giving up on her morning exercise routine for the umpteenth time, she stomps her way to the bathroom.

Finally making her way into the living room, clean and dressed with her ready-to-work face on, she slowly enters the kitchen after spotting some upgrades to the table.

Pouting guiltily, "Awww," a black, sock covered foot step from hard carpet to broken tiles in need of a good wax.

Circling round wood draped in red plastic, delicate fingers trace over luscious red roses, greenery, and baby's breath standing in a crystal vase.

She gripes, "This doesn't fix anything," kicks the metal folding chair, then crosses the room to rip open the beige refrigerator door.

Intent on grabbing some eggs to quickly scramble, she pauses at the sight of a tray filling the first shelf.

Covered in plastic wrap rests a bamboo charcuterie board decorated with fruit, vegetables, cheese cubes, and a yogurt cup arranged in a heart nearly filling the first shelf.

In addition to the colorful delight, every remaining shelf is freshly stocked with essentials and a couple of her more indulgent, aka expensive, culinary favorites.

Rolling her eyes to contend with the smile battling to stretch her lips against her better judgment, "But it's progress…"

*****

Harper spends the first half of her eight hour shift in a daze, failing to stay afloat in the pool of regrets that have accumulated since they announced eloping at her family's Mother's Day gathering.

Believing that doing the -right- thing of getting married would grant accolades from her family, they instead received hours of lecture while defending their love and plans.

What was the big deal? The one thing she -doesn't let them control in her life makes them say things they can't take back? Refusing to satisfy her family's need of controlling -every- aspect of her life, Harper abandoned everyone she's ever loved.

Without hesitation, she gave it all up for a man who now owns her heart in the most terrifying way.

"You ignorin' me?"

Harper shudders, looking up from a half-typed, reminder email when the brass voice of a middle-aged woman snaps her out of the past.

Shaking her head, "I'm so sorry. I was," Harper clears her throat, fishing for words upon sight of a country fed local, "Distracted…"

Trying not to stare too long at any particular part of the woman while raising an observatory gaze, Harper makes direct eye contact, "How can I help?"

Receiving the irritated fury behind blue eyes, Harper's grateful for the abstract, veneer countertop that is currently separating her from the sweat-drenched woman toting yellow and pink curlers in sandy blonde locks.

"I'm here to check-in. Last name," she grumbles, "Johnson," and readjusts the leather strap of her brown, satchel purse.

Shifting the weight of her big-boned body from hip to hip, Harper reads through the digital schedule that keeps the doctor on track.

"Mrs. Joh–," the student worker is cut short when the woman suddenly slams her palms down on the counter.

Emphasizing disgruntlement, "MIZZZ Betty Johnson," she stands up straight and crosses cushy arms over a floral moo moo, "MISTER Johnson left me and HIS kids for some ditzy tart your age with a body that never had any."

Harper's eyes widen and shrink within a blink in time to conceal her surprise from the patient.

Hazel eyes quickly scan the older screen in order to avoid any unnecessary confrontation with the intimidating presence casting a shadow over her.

"Sorry, Ms. Betty Johnson," Harper swallows hard, "But it looks like you're not scheduled to come in until tomorrow at 10:30 am…you're a day early," Harper tucks sidebangs behind her ear, delivering the bad news as sweetly as possible.

Trying her best not to panic, Harper hopes she's not the cause for this miscommunication; there's already been one other instance where her lack of focus has caused problems and she can't afford to get fired.

Floored, Betty slams her purse down on the counter, "You're tellin' me I spent over an hour dealin' with public transportation to get here, and it's the -wrong- day?" Temper visibly rising as her face flushes, Betty's southern accent thickens.

Raising her eyebrows, Betty's stunned eyes glance from the girl dressed in black scrubs to the back of the computer monitor until Harper turns the screen to display a highlighted slot.

"The devil is a liar," Betty puts her finger in the air before flipping open the satchel's flap and pulling out a rainbow clutch.

Time stops as Harper watches her rifle through receipts, ATM cards, and crinkled paper before an appointment reminder card gets thrown on the counter.

Shit.

Harper's heart races while languidly reaching for the paper card as though touching it could end her life. Trembling fingers slide it closer to 20/20 vision, sweat forming from thin air down her back.

Sure enough, in Harper's handwriting with her favorite blue gel pen, is the wrong day of the week with the correct numerical dates.

Swallowing dryly, Harper struggles to push it away while keeping her finger above the numbers.

Clearing her throat, hiding any sign of guilt, "I see here it says 8/3. Today is 8/2. I am so sorry but–!"

"Listen here. I know you may be some Yankee, college kid from outta state that don't think this shit matters 'cause you're going someplace bigger and better," she sucks her teeth.

"But don't let this world blow so much smoke up yer ass 'bout gettin' some fancy degree," she circles her pudgy hand around the room.

"That you think you can just sit there," Betty points at Harper, "And act like today ain't WENSDAY like it says on there," impatiently tapping the counter, "When it's Wednesday. -You-," she leans in closer, Harper pulling away from the broken, dirty nail singling her out, "Wrote that two weeks ago and gettin' here without my kids, or a car, ain't easy."

Harper shrinks into her office chair, glancing around the quaint, earthtone waiting room to see two random patients uncomfortably glued to their phone screen— just like at home, no one is coming to her rescue.

Betty puts her hands on her hips, spraying the girl with harsher syllables, "So -someone's- gonna see me even if YOU gotta throw on gloves and get to swabbin' yourself."

Knocking on the acoustic, wooden surface, "Or I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure you don't have a job by the end of the week 'cause there's people in this town that'd be grateful to work here 'stead of you."

Losing her patience, keeping her composure the best she can, Harper sits up in her chair and folds her hands on the counter, "I'm so sorry but I–!"

"No buts!" Betty waves her hands in the girl's face and pushes the gray phone on the desk closer to Harper.

"I'm done talkin' to you. You're a lil' cog that's fuckin' up the machine and I wanna talk to a big cog."

"I'm sorry but–!"

Betty gets louder, pounding the side of her fist on the counter, "Is there even a brain in that pretty head of yers?"

She throws her arms up in the air, accidentally knocking loose one of her own curlers by the frustrated gesture, "I did a lot to get here. I'm dealin' with a failed marriage and a cheatin' husband, and you ain't been seein' my pretty face so much 'cause I like bein' here!"

Flipping over the pen cup and brochure holders on display around the desk, "You'd better get off that tight lil' ass o' yers n' get someone out here that can help me fix -your- fuck up."

"FINE!"