When the Fairytale Ends by Dwan Abrams Page B

Don’t you think you should learn how to cook?”
    She shook her head. “No. Jonathan looks through cookbooks almost every day. He’s always coming up with meals to cook for us, and when he doesn’t cook, we go out to eat or order pizza.”
    Shania shook her head while she lifted the pot top and used the tongs to lower the lobster into the steamer.
    As a child, she used to sit in the kitchen and watch while her mom prepared meals for the family. Since Cheyenne hadn’t had that same opportunity, Shania didn’t want to pressure her, so she continued preparing dinner alone.
    The men came in about an hour later, and even though Cheyenne hadn’t lifted a finger to help with the meal, she at least had the decency to set the table. They sat at the table; Greg said grace; then they dug into the food. Not many words were said, just a lot of chewing, swallowing, and fork tines scraping against the ceramic dishes. Whenever they did speak, they seemed to tiptoe around the elephants in the room—the huge explosion that happened in the car, the rekindled tension between Shania and Jonathan, and the white elephant sitting on Greg’s chest.
    After they finished eating, Jonathan and Cheyenne went home, and Greg hung out in his office. Thankful for the peace and quiet, Shania disappeared into her basement kitchen and began making another batch of cupcakes to finish off the wedding’s showcase cupcake pyramid. She wondered if she’d ever be able to accept Jonathan into her family.

Six
    Greg woke up Monday morning a bit earlier than usual. He wanted to get an early start in the office since he had paperwork to complete and meetings with a few clients scheduled. Today, his plan was to make up for lost ground. For the four policies that were canceled over the weekend, he challenged himself to sign at least five new policies today. That would definitely be no easy feat, but he planned to give it his best shot.
    Having beaten the usual morning traffic, when he arrived at the office, he turned on the lights and brewed a pot of coffee. Since he was the first person there, he figured he could get a lot of work done before the crowd.
    The coffee finished percolating. There was nothing like the smell of fresh coffee to awaken the senses, he thought. He poured himself a cup and made his way to his cubicle. Once at his desk, he took a few sips of his hot drink, then went through his file cabinet in search of clients who had canceled their insurance policies within the last year or so, and who might be interested in reinstating their policies at a lower monthly price and with a contractual agreement that locked them into a three-month agreement, rather than six.
    First, he pulled up a new spreadsheet and created a field for names, numbers, and insurance policy type. After he inserted all the data from the pulled files, he picked up his phone and began making the calls.
    Half the clients didn’t answer or numbers were no longer in service. Those who did answer either rudely rejected his offer or politely told him they weren’t interested and curtly ended the call. Out of the thirty numbers he called, he got one yes and one “Maybe, but call me back next month when my funds are looking a little better.” Dispirited, he dialed the last number on his list and sighed aloud when he got the no-longer-in-service message.
    â€œWhy such a long face?” Franklin said, inviting himself into Greg’s cubicle with his own cup of straight black coffee. He took a seat in the empty chair with his legs spread wide apart and the cuffs of his dress pants rose high, showing off the lower portion of his ashy, hairy legs. “You look like your puppy died.”
    â€œI don’t have a puppy.”
    â€œWell, if you had one, you’d look like he died.”
    â€œShut up, Franklin,” Greg said, and clicked his pen closed before tossing it on the desk. “I’m not in the mood for