“Well? I just think that ‘March Men Madness’ has so much more of a ring to it?” Arial manages, taking a sip of her coffee and not looking me in the eye.
I’m tempted. I hate to admit it, but I’m tempted. I tell myself I can just walk down this path I’ve always taken, even though I know where it ends: with me not being true to myself. Really, hasn’t all this writing I’ve been doing forSlickbeen a lie, anyway? I wanted to make a living writing, but I never wanted to make a living writingthis.I realize I let the idea of easy money, and working from home, get in the way of what I truly want to do with my life. In fact, I’ve always taken the easy path, the obvious path, without really considering whether it was the path I really wanted at all.
I realize, with perfect clarity, that if I’m busy writing March Men Madness, then I might miss out on writing the story that really means something to me. I remember Stella telling me I have to make room in my life for the things I do want.
“No, Arial. I’m sorry. I can’t do that story.”
“Oh?” Arial sounds shocked. She sets down her coffee. “Really?” I know why she’s shocked.Slickpays well. It’s high profile. Whatever she wants, she usually gets. But not this time. This time, it’s just… too personal.
“You know what? I think I’m going to step back fromSlickfor a while.”
“You are?” Arial can’t believe it. And, really, neither can I.
“Yes.” Even though I only have a small bit of savings, and going without income is terrifying. I glance at Larry, who is curled up on the couch, sleeping. I know I’ll take care of him and me, somehow. Time to take a risk. For once.
“You’re sure?”
But doing something I believe in is more important right now than piling up credit card debt. And I feel an inner confidence: I know I’ll land on my feet. Because while I may not be able to count on men, I absolutely know I can count on myself.
“I’m sure.”
I end the video call with Arial feeling… upbeat. Saying no isn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. Energized, I send out emails toPolitics TodayandWomen Internationaland a dozen more positive e-zines. I apply for different freelance gigs. I’m hopeful that maybe, at long last, I can write stories that mean something.
My door buzzes, announcing I have a visitor trying to get in downstairs. Larry barks on cue and jumps off the couch, padding over to the door and sniffing it, except he’s about six inches away from my actual door and he’s sniffing the wall.
Part of me worries (hopes?) it’s Jack, as I pull myself off the couch, amble over to the front door, and hit the intercom button. But why would it be Jack? I’ve made it clear I don’t want to talk to him.
“Sora?” Nami croaks, sounding… upset. Immediately, my big-sister radar is on high alert. Something is wrong. It’s nine on a Friday morning and she should be at work. “Can I come up?”
“Of course.” We haven’t talked since the blowup in the fittingroom, and each of us has been waiting for the other to extend the olive branch, so for her to show up here means something terrible has happened.
I buzz her up and unlock my front door, even as I try to tidy up a little (the stacks of clothes make this impossible). Then Nami bursts through my door, tears streaking down her face. She runs over to me and throws herself in my arms.
“What’s wrong?” I manage, panic in my gut, as my mind moves through all possible tragedies: cancer, car accidents, death in the family.
“M-M-Mitch,” she stammers. I’ve never seen her this undone, and so it can’t be a simple fight about the music for the wedding processional. I grab my mostly empty box of tissues and hand her one. She whips one to her face and blows her nose like a B flat on a trumpet.
“The wedding’s off.”
“The wedding is off?” I still don’t compute what my sister is saying. She grabs another tissue and blows her nose again, sniffing, as she swipes it across her nose. She spies the tequila bottle on my kitchen counter near the sink, grabs it, and takes a big swig straight from the bottle. Then starts hacking uncontrollably.
“Ugh! That’s so… so bad.” She swipes at her mouth.
“Whoa,” I caution, because Nami is a lightweight. She gets tipsy after half a glass of wine. “Sit down. Tell me what happened.”
Nami doesn’t sit; she paces, hugging herself as she sobs, then sucks back tears, and then sobs again. For a second, I think she’s going to have to tell me via sign language, because she can’t actually control her voice.
“Okay, maybe you do need this.” I hand her the tequila bottle and she takes another swig to calm herself.
She makes a sour face and glares at the bottle. “How can you drink this straight? Ugh. Don’t you have anything else? Maybe a hard seltzer?”
“I have red wine?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew. I don’t like red. I only drink rosé—and only if it’s got bubbles. You seriously do not have hard seltzer? I’ll even take a gross flavor.”
I want to make fun of her for her sorority-girl taste in booze, but I refrain. Now’s not the time to tease her.
“Sit. Tell me what happened.” I pat the couch next to me. Nami sinks into it, sniffing.
