Leave Him Loved_Harloe Rae

We’re all chasing away reality, one gulp at a time. This has been our frequent stomping grounds over the years. It’s a safe haven of sorts. A heavy sigh deflates my posture. I’m going to miss this.
Clea jostles her drink in front of us. “Okay, enough shop talk. I’m getting thirsty, and my arm hurts.”
We clink our glasses before we swallow our required sips. I notice Presley doesn’t take a swig, but she fakes it. Now that I’m paying more attention, she looks a little green around the gills. I part my lips to question her methods of madness when Vannah’s melodic tone breaks the silence.
“Where are you moving to again, Auds?”
I trace a finger around the rim of my mug, trying not to picture a swirling drain. “As of now, I haven’t finalized a lease.”
Her gaze holds a sympathetic shine. Or maybe that’s from the booze entering her bloodstream. “Waiting on the job?”
“I figured that’s best practice.” I almost cringe at the hollow pang in my voice.
“Don’t fret, love.” Presley settles her hand over my fidgeting ones. “Everything works out the way it’s meant to. Give yourself enough grace to plan for the worst while knowing there are always options.”
“Oh, wise one, I can always count on you for solid advice.”
Her smile wobbles, but it sticks regardless. “I’ll keep the faith for both of us, if necessary.”
“Pass a spoonful of that optimism my way,” Vannah grumbles.
I squint at her. “Who gave your kitty a salty lick?”
She sputters on her sip of beer. “Are you calling me a salty kitty?”
“If the hissy fits.” I glance at my nails, picking at the chipped polish.
“Very funny,” she deadpans.
“Or is it punny?”
Vannah crosses her arms and flops back against the booth. “Not sure it matters.”
“Out with it then,” I prod.
After another exaggerated huff and roll of her eyes, she finally blabs. “I had a bad date. Horrific, really. I’d rather not discuss it further.”
I exchange a wince with Clea and Presley. Vannah has a tendency to find guys with the dirtiest track records. Kudos to her romantic heart for giving them a chance at redemption, regardless of their sordid reputation.
“The next one will be better,” Clea assures.
“Absolutely,” Presley adds.
Vannah grumbles beneath her breath, but she can’t stop a grin from spreading. “Maybe. I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed. Tasting some fresh meat after years of the slim pickings in this wading pool will be much appreciated.”
I smile at my friends as they get lost reminiscing about hot frat boys and house parties. Upbeat chatter buzzes in the background. People hum with glee as they gather, their bouts of laughter blending into the mix. Everyone is getting lost in celebration, or should be. A catchy song blares from the speakers, encouraging patrons to get off their seats and dance. I’ve never been shy about shaking what my mama gave me, but this isn’t the time for bumping and grinding.
Resistance be damned, these familiar comforts swaddle me tighter than a warm embrace. I decide to let the uncertainty float away—for tonight, at least. Sullying our evening with my mounting concern isn’t fair to anyone. I probably have nothing to worry about. And I’ll keep telling myself that until proven otherwise.

A tumbleweed rolls across the narrow road, somersaulting toward an overgrown ditch. The sight would be comical if it weren’t a conveniently placed prop in my dose of harsh reality. I find myself gaping at the spindly object as if it’s a mythical creature. It turns out those things actually exist. Shame on me for assuming otherwise. I figured Western movies used them as ironic ornaments to set the stage. Although, to be fair, each passing mile suggests that’s precisely where my target destination is located.
The view from my windshield shows a very appropriate backdrop for such a film. My sweaty palms slip along the steering wheel as the weight of what lies ahead sinks in. I pull over on the dusty highway to stare for a moment. Sprawling acres of lush greenery and fields of wheat welcome my scrutiny. The breeze whipping through my open window offers a slight reprieve from the rising heat. I inhale deeply, granting myself a lungful of fresh-cut hay and sweet pollen. In the distance, a herd of cows chomp on grass. Roaming free while basking in the sunshine doesn’t sound half-bad. I can almost picture Wayne and Trigger loping across the plains, guns blazing as the criminals try to escape with their bags of loot.
Oh, man. The humidity must be getting to me, but that’s not all. A glance in each direction is a stark reminder of what the next year holds for me. This is so far out of my norm that I’m becoming a jumble of tension. I rest a hand on my forehead and suck in a calming breath. Driving across remote farmland in Iowa is the complete opposite of what I’d originally signed up for. I should be settling into a cramped apartment in downtown Minneapolis. How did this happen?
Repeating that question until I’m hoarse won’t change the outcome. My snort is half-hearted at best. The entire fiasco is ridiculous. Spoiler alert, the cushy job at Bellmoore Academy—a private school in the city—didn’t pan out. The deal was fishy to begin with. Their continued lack of communication should’ve clued me in. I chose to be forgiving and allow blind faith to guide me.
When available positions are first posted in the spring, established teachers snatch them up before new graduates have their resumes finalized. I can’t blame the districts for choosing those with more experience, but I dared to be optimistic. That confidence paid off. Landing one of those coveted spots had me peering at the horizon behind rose-tinted lenses. My career path was set in motion, and I was zooming full speed ahead.
Most levelheaded professionals would’ve jumped ship when Bellmoore didn’t send a contract or any formal terms for employment. I’ll admit to being wrapped up in the whimsical