Switch. Megan Hart

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       Beginning tomorrow, you will eat oatmeal for breakfast. Sweeten it however you like.

       Today, you will consume three fewer cups of coffee, replacing them with water.

       Today, you will extend your regular workout by fifteen minutes.

      Today, you will focus a conscious effort on your cigarette smoking. You may smoke one cigarette only once every two hours. You will do nothing else while you smoke it. You will concentrate on my instructions. You will think of the word discipline each and every time you light up.

       Finally, you will record your efforts in your journal and describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly your thoughts on what “discipline” means to you.

      “Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” I murmured, mocking. “Wow.”

      The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful of bills and charity requests, and it had slipped into my hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn’t meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn’t it? Even though the number on the front still said 114, not 414, and even though I knew better, I’d read it anyway.

      I still had no clue what the hell it was, or meant. I turned it over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the card and stared at it, but I couldn’t decipher its meaning.

      Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new diet or self-help plan. I’d heard of a new plan that hooked members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy. It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn’t feel right.

      I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had cut one large sheet of paper into smaller sizes. No signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong person. Some buddy.

      I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked at it again, the single sentence.

       Discipline?

      I still didn’t get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope, restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn’t the only person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn’t want to attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114 and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly weathered but not worn. There wasn’t really any mistaking a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the card itself were smudged.

      “Excuse me.” The woman next to me gave me a smile meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. “I need to get to my box.”

      “Oh. Sorry.” I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it belonged to her.

      She used her key to open a different box, though, and pulled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier had already moved down the row to the end. She straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

      “Nothing ever comes when it’s supposed to.” She didn’t say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

      “I wish my bills wouldn’t come.”

      She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finally settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching pumps.

       Bitch.

      Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, all right. Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection shoes. It’s what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of slipping out.

      Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness. Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

      I waited until she’d gone before I crossed the lobby and pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automatically, wondering if I’d see someone pondering discipline.

      “Ari,” I said, surprised. “Hi.”

      Miriam’s grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filled can and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. “Hey, Paige.”

      “I didn’t know you lived here.”

      He grinned. “I don’t. Just dropped off something for my grandma, you know?”

      I didn’t know, but I nodded. “Tell her I said hello.”

      “Stop by the shop and tell her yourself,” he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

      It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. “I’ll do that. Have a good day.”

      “You, too.”

      I looked back as I crossed the alley to the parking garage, and Ari was still looking. Maybe there was a little heat, after all. And what woman didn’t like to be appreciated? I had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and it lasted me all the way to work.

      I wasn’t even close to being late, but I might as well have been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been worse. He could have been standing over my desk with the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes, though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a day.

      Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he’d already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I could predict my boss’s every move, from the midmorning break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch trip to the bathroom.

      Today wasn’t one of those days.

      “Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of, okay?”

      I turned from the small bar sink, where I’d been filling the coffeepot with water. “Right, Paul. Of course.”

      Amazing how someone with only a community-college education could still deduce simple things.

      “Good.” Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the coffeemaker.

      I hadn’t yet figured out if Paul hovered because he expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either way, it didn’t bother me the way it would have some of the other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for example, СКАЧАТЬ