Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“Yikes. Is he awful?”
“He’s the worst!” she cried, finally leaning back in her chair so I could fully see her again. Her shoulders rounded forward in defeat. “I hate him. I don’t even want to go to school anymore. But Mom said if I stop going now, I’ll never be able to be a chicken nugget maker at McDonalds when I get older.”
Ah, yes. My girl had dreams—big ones. For your average five-year-old, just working at McDonalds, where ice cream was on tap and the French fries were always hot, would have been the peak of success. However, my baby’s eyes were set on the coveted and prestigious position of head chicken nugget maker. Hopefully when the time came, I could talk her into a slightly more lucrative career path, but until then, I just appreciated that she had goals.
“Oh, well, your mom has a point there, babe. School first.”
She let out an exaggerated groan. “It’s not fair. I just want Mrs. Rowell back.”
My chest got tight as she pouted. Yes, I was fully aware that it was ridiculous, but I was nothing if not a sucker. “It’s okay, baby. Mr. Ward might grow on you. Give him a chance.”
Based on the purse of her lips, she was not convinced, but luckily for me, goldfish and Kaitlyn had the same attention span.
“Did I show you Fiona Iona yet?” She lifted a plastic tiger sporting a doll’s tutu around its midsection toward the camera.
I smiled, my chest so full of love it physically ached. “She’s beautiful,” I whispered, my gaze locked on my little girl.
“She’s a ballerina. Mom said she’s going to get me some glue and pink glitter so we can make her shoes.”
“Oh, wow, that sounds…messy.”
“I don’t think the glitter will work though, because she needs to be able to take them off when she goes to work.”
“Ah, yes. Very wise. Obviously, she’s a career tiger.”
“Hang on. Let me show you her sister.”
I didn’t care about Fiona Iona, much less any of her siblings, but if Kaitlyn wanted to talk, you could be damn sure I was listening.
For the next fifteen minutes, I watched as she did a parade of her toys. She told me their names, nicknames, nicknames for their nicknames, and lastly, what she actually called them. I laughed as they became more and more ludicrous. My personal favorite was her gray stuffed horse. His name was Salty. His nickname was Pepper. His nickname for his nickname was Peppy. And what she called him? Well obviously, Woogity Boogity Salty Lillian Bogie West. At least she had given him our last name.
When her mother finally told her it was time for her to go, my heart wrenched. I had known it was coming. It was getting late and she had to get to school, but I hated saying goodbye. I’d see her again, but a week was a long time to wait. If I was lucky, I’d be able to squeeze in a few quick chats over the weekend. Though nothing compared to our Wednesday mornings together.
“I love you, Daddy!” She blew a dozen kisses my way.
I caught each and every one, pretending to press them all over my face. “I love you too, baby girl. Have a good day at school.”
“Byeeeeee!” she sang as her face got really close to the camera again.
And then the screen went dark.
Just like the rest of my day.
Wednesdays. The best and the worst of it. Such was the definition of my life.
I stared at the computer for a few minutes, lost on how to move on with the rest of my day. But like clockwork, my phone started ringing all over again. That was my sign. My distraction for the next eight hours.
Recruiting in the civil sector was time consuming, tedious, and as close to being cupid as a mortal could get—professionally speaking of course. After almost a decade, I was damn good at my job. I’d never been the stereotypical fast-talking recruiter who wooed both companies and candidates by verbally painting a utopia of perfect matches. I took a slightly less orthodox—and a lot more realistic—approach.
Trust me, I liked a paycheck just as much as the next guy, and commissions were fantastic when I managed to place candidates in roles. But the people I worked with weren’t the average twenty-three-year-old kid, fresh out of college, where the hardest part of their lives had been whether to visit Mommy’s beach house or Daddy’s yacht for spring break.
The men and women I worked with were combat veterans who had risked their lives to defend our country. They were usually transitioning into civilian life later in life after what had surely felt like ten careers in uniform. It was a scary transition; one I knew well. Those vets deserved more than to be guided into careers fast and carelessly. It was the companies who were paying recruiters. Qualified bodies in jobs were the goal. But fuck me, nothing drove me crazier than the lazy, half-ass work required to place a retired Sergeant Major in a managerial role he was going to find monotonous and mind numbing within the first three months.