Free Slightly Single by Wendy Markham Page A

spacious office. A moment later, I hear the telltale thump of a small Nerf basketball hitting the wall behind the hoop above his desk. I can picture him sitting there, his polished black wingtip shoes propped on his desk, idly making shots.
    Don’t get me wrong. He’s a busy guy with an important job, and he’s really good at what he does. But when he’s not in a high-powered meeting or working on a pitch or a presentation, Jake likes to kick back and have fun. He eats in the best restaurants in town. He orders stuff from the most expensive catalogues. He’s really into golf and tennis—gentlemen’s sports. I heard him on the phone the other day, ordering fishing equipment from Orvis that cost more than I make in a month. Lately, he’s been looking at property up in Westchester for a country house, and he says it has to have a private pond or stream so that he can fish.
    “Hey, you need a hand with that?” Latisha asks, behind me.
    I turn around, exasperated. “Thanks. And you guys should probably go to lunch without me, because Jake needs to see me after this. He says it’ll only take a second, but…”
    “It’s okay, we’ll wait,” Latisha says, pressing a couple of buttons on the machine. The paper slides right out. Moments later, the machine is humming and my fax is going through without a problem.
    “How’d you do that?” I ask her.
    She shrugs. “I’ve been a secretary a lot longer than you have, Tracey.”
    Secretary. I hate that.
    Okay, it’s what I am. But it’s not what I meant to be, and it’s not what I plan to be for long. Though there’s a part of me that’s convinced that it’s better to be a secretary in Manhattan than an anything back in Brookside, I keep telling myself that it’s only a matter of time before I find something better to do. But for now, I’m stuck here at Blaire Barnett Advertising, working for Jake.
    I smile at Latisha. “Thanks for helping me.”
    “No problem.” She wags a finger at me in her sassy, don’t-give-me-any-crap way. “Now get into Jake’s office and see what that ol’ pain in the butt wants so you can come to lunch with us. We’re going for Mexican. Chips. Guac. Margaritas.”
    I brighten. “Margaritas? At lunch?”
    “Hell, it’s Friday.”
    Yeah, it’s Friday. Will’s leaving in less than forty-eight hours. Sunday at this time, he’ll be on a train somewhere north of Albany.
    “I definitely need a drink,” I tell Latisha. “A strong one.”
    “Tell me about it. In case you haven’t been paying attention, my boys are in a major slump.”
    Her boys would be the New York Yankees. She’s an obsessed fan. Has team memorabilia displayed all over her cube. The highlight of her life, according to Latisha and everyone who knows her, was a few years ago when her boss, Rita Sellers, gave her a couple of box seats for a World Series Game at the last minute. I know Rita, who is second in command in our account group, and there’s no way she did that out of the goodness of her heart. According to Brenda, there was practically a typhoon that night, the seats were out in the open, and Rita came down with some kind of stomach bug. Otherwise, Latisha would never have gotten those tickets.
    As it was, she got to share the box with the mayor and with two of the Backstreet Boys. She got their autographs for her daughter, Keera, who was ten at the time. The Backstreet Boys’ autographs—not the mayor’s.
    “Are you going to the game tonight?” I ask Latisha. “Maybe you can bring the team some luck.”
    “I wish I was going. They’re playing in Seattle.”
    “Oh.” Damn! I just got a paper cut on the edge of Jake’s memo. I stick my finger in my mouth and taste blood. Terrific.
    Oblivious to my latest work-related injury, Latisha is saying, “But me and Anton will be in the bleachers on Sunday afternoon when they’re back home.”
    Anton is Latisha’s boyfriend. I’ve only met himonce and he seemed nice, but from what I’ve heard