As if I could forget.
A week left, and I’m still almost two thousand short.
The back of my throat pricks like a warning. I’m either getting sick or about to have a mental breakdown. It’s a toss-up. Zoe lovingly grabs the Magic 8 Ball and asks.
The answer? Most definitely.
What does a dumb, plastic toy know anyway?
By mid-morning, Zoe is deep in the middle of sorting a preorder campaign for a local indie author. There are stacks of signed books, bookmarks, and stickers. She has a highlighter in her mouth and a pile of bubble mailers beside her, trying to make heads or tails of the shipment schedule.
Then my mom calls.
At first, I try to be patient. I really do. Butthen I snap, tossing down my own stack of papers. I don’t have the space for this. Not today.
“I’m working, Mom. You know that. You’ll need to call me later.”
“You’re too busy to talk to your own mother? I need you. Phil?—”
“Phil is your ex-husband who’s regularly trolling Tinder. He’s back with you because he couldn’t hold down a job. But I have one, and I need to do it now, especially if you want help with rent this month.”
“JesusfuckingChrist, Isla. You’re too good for me now? I’d never talk to my mother like that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. I know for a fact she did. I lived with her mother. But she edits her own history the way she edits her Facebook posts. Everything is a highlight reel of perfection.
“I really need to go, Mom,” I say, checking the clock. “You can call me later.”
When I hang up, Zoe is twirling the highlighter between her fingers. “Go, you!”
I fold in half on top of the counter, hitting my head against the cold surface. That feels nice at least.
I peek up from behind my arms. “There’s too much going on, Zoe.”
“Take a break.”
Just like that. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I hate that cortisol is a new buzzword for the wellness gurus. But mine spikes at the mere mention of slowing down. I swear I can feel it surge through my body. Or maybe it’s just making friends with the anxiety that’s already buzzing around my veins, thanks to the two giant peppermint lattes.
“Take the day off. I can handle everything.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “God, I’m so sorry, Zoe.”
“I think that is exactly the point,” she says gently. “You’re overwhelmed. It’s okay to need a break.”
“I can handle it,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
But even in her soft, careful tone, I hear she doesn’t really believe me.
And I don’t think I do anymore, either. Which is new. Growing up, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. If something went wrong, I was the one who fixed it.
Now, that’s not entirely true for me anymore.
Jack is at the old hockey rink in Merritt Point today for a small clinic with some of his teammates. He figured it would be good for everyone to see him actively taking part in the community before his big meeting in January.
I tap my fingernails on the counter. Damn, I really need to get them done before Christmas. “Can you watch the store for an hour?”
“I just told you to take the whole day off.”
