But because I quit my job yesterday and I feel lost. Rudderless and anchorless. I’ve spent years traveling the country for a nonprofit, working first time, non-violent sentencing cases—writing reports, meeting with families, trying to convince judges that defendants are more than the worst thing they’ve done.
I’ve loved it.
And I’ve hated it.
And I never thought I could do anything else … that is, until yesterday, when I snapped. And quit.
Part of me thinks I should call my boss and claim I had a nervous breakdown. But the idea of working on another case, of seeing more offenders and victims and their families?—
My hand trembles as I drop water into my mouth, making me miss. It dribbles down my chin.
I can’t go back. I can’t do this work anymore. I can’t see one more family hurt by a broken system. I can’t look in their children’s eyes?—
“You okay?” Ollie asks, sliding into the booth across from me.
I force a cheery smile. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
His eyes look extra blue and extra tense. “Forget about it.”
Gladly, I think, looking around at the diner. My eyes fall on the sign for the “Mistletoe Express” again.
When our server delivers our plates, my order looks even worse than I feared. My stomach growls loudly, but the unappetizing mess in front of me makes my appetite shrivel up and die.
“How’s it look?” she asks me.
I make my eyes bright. “Mmm! Can’t wait!”
“And you?” she asks Fletch.
He’s already taken a bite of his burger, so he just nods.
And the server looks back at me like she’s waiting for me to take a bite.
A flattened piece of fried meat sits there coated in thick, soggy batter and drowning in lumpy white gravy, reeking of old frying oil and something vaguely metallic.
I’m iffy on fried food. Idespisegravy. What was I thinking?
I cut into the meat (is it chicken? Or steak? Or mystery meat??), and the smell hits me harder, making the hollow spot in my gut twinge. The server just waits and watches.
Waits and watches.
I bring a bite toward my mouth, my stomach flipping. The server’s still standing there, no doubt waiting for me to fall in love with “her” recipe. Then a stroke of brilliance hits, and I point to the sign on the window. “So what’s the Mistletoe Express?”
She looks behind her at the sign, and I use the opportunity to drop the food into the napkin in my lap. When she looks back, I’m fake chewing. “Old steam engine that runs up into the mountains. It’s the only way to get into Pine Mountain in the winter.”
“Ooh, what’s Pine Mountain?” I ask, cutting off another bite slowly. Soooo slowly.
“The cutest little Christmas town. You guys should go if you get the chance.”
“That sounds fun!” I say at the exact same time Fletch says, “We won’t have the chance.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, and he doesn’t even look at me.
The server raises her eyebrows and turns away, like she wants to avoid our little lover’s quarrel.
As if! Though I guess to an outsider, we probably do look like a bickering couple. The thought makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the chicken fried monstrosity in front of me.
As soon as the server’s out of view, I set my knife and fork down with a loud exhale.
