Damaged Goods Read Online Free PDF

sucked, but I thanked God every
    day for such an easy, amicable parenting arrangement with my ex-husband.
    “Hi, Mom!” Alexis, my seven-year-old, trotted into the kitchen, arms out.
    “Hey, you.” I hugged her. “Got everything for the week?”
    She nodded. “By the door.”
    “Okay, good. Where"s your brother?”
    “I"m right here,” Mikey, my twelve year-old said, shuffling in the way his sister
    had come. He offered a brief hug. Ah, the joys of a preteen. Glad to see you, Mom,
    but don’t get all mushy.
    “You both ready to go?” I asked. They nodded, so we all migrated from the
    kitchen to the front door. Hugs, good-byes, and my custody week began.
    For the rest of the evening, the kids kept me occupied. It was “guess what
    happened at school this week” and helping with homework, figuring out
    extracurricular activity schedules, and packing lunches until it was time for them to
    go to bed. Once they were asleep, I settled onto the couch for a glass of wine and an
    hour or so of downtime before I went to bed myself, and what a surprise, my mind
    went right back to last night.
    The pendulum swung back and forth between feeling guilty and wishing I
    could do it again. Having the kids in the house intensified the guilt, like I should

    Damaged Goods

    17

    have felt even worse because I wasn"t just a single woman. I was a mother. I was
    supposed to be respectable or something.
    Back and forth. Back and forth. I was reading too much into it, wallowing too
    deeply in something that wasn"t a big deal. I was pretending it was no big deal
    when it was. I hated myself for doing it, and I wanted to do it again.
    Eventually, I finished my wine and went to bed, pretending I stood a chance at
    sleeping without thinking about Sabian.
    After I"d seen the kids off to the bus stop the next morning, I put myself
    together and headed off to work. One more step back into the world of being a
    responsible, respectable adult. I"d only escaped this life for a few hours on Saturday
    night, but it was surreal going back into it, whether as a parent or employee.
    Come on, Jocelyn, get it together.
    In the parking lot at the foot of my company"s building, I took a deep breath.
    That night was supposed to relieve some stress, and it had. No sense canceling out
    the effect by stressing that it had even happened.
    One more deep breath, and I was out of the car and on my way in to get to
    work. As soon as I walked in the door, Laura, my assistant, handed me a thick stack
    of phone messages and a thicker stack of files and forms for me to peruse, sign,
    correct, reject, scream at, shred, or forward. Fortunately, I had the kind of job that
    offered little downtime, which meant not a lot of time to think. Or dwell. Or wallow.
    Sabian was still on my mind but relegated to the back of it for now, because I had
    too much to do.
    My desk was deceptively clear. Only my computer monitor, coffee cup, and
    office phone were allowed on the desk for any length of time. Paperwork was filed,
    my mouse and keyboard were underneath, and even pens lived in a drawer unless
    they were in use.
    To clients and newcomers, I was organized and not swamped at all. Anyone
    who"d worked with me for any length of time knew it was an illusion, a sign not of
    my efficiency but of my neurotic aversion to clutter. With two kids at home, I could
    only keep the chaos under so much control, but here, in my office? Immaculate. It
    just gave the appearance that I wasn"t nearly as busy as I was.
    In spite of my brain taking occasional forays back to Saturday night, I hit my
    stride within a few minutes of coming through the door. Calls to return, e-mails to
    answer, meetings to attend, more meetings to schedule.
    At one point, a glance at my appointment book sent my body temperature up a
    few degrees.
    2:00—Meeting with Clark McEnroe.
    Clark was one of those clients who had probably appeared in the impure
    thoughts of the majority of the women in this building. He and his