Page 89 of Burn the Script

The strap of my messenger bag digs into my palm, I’m squeezing it so hard. My neat stack of floor plans from Friday’s design meeting are not where I left them. No, they’re spread across the opposite end of the conference table, where a preppy brunet in a tight polo shirt marks one with a red pencil.

“Andrew.” I unclench my jaw to get more words out. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone forgot to invite me to Friday’s meeting, so I’m adding my suggestions.”

“The design meeting.”

He drops the pencil and stands, shoving his chair back. With his hands flat on the table, his corded forearms bulge. “As the lead structural engineer, I should be involved in every design phase. You, and only you, try to keep me from doing my job. What’s your problem with me?”

In the calmest tone I can manage, I say, “I have no problem with you. I’m simply trying to maintain focus in the meetings and not waste time.”

“Bullshit.” As he comes closer, I back away, pulse racing. “I think my presence bothers you because it means you’re no longer the smartest person in the room.”

“Not true.”

“Without me, there’s no one to challenge your ideas. You’d rather surround yourself with people who agree with everything you say.”

I glance at the door. In our current positions, he’s blocking my escape route. And the conference room is too small, offering nowhere to hide from the brutal truths he’s dealing, blow after blow.

He must sense my panic, because his expression softens. “What happened to you, Miguel? We had fun competing during our first year of college. But when we teamed up for the group project our final year, you were different. The least bit of negative feedback would set you off.”

Our last year of school was when my ex began criticizing me at every turn. Academics was the only area where I felt like I could do everything right and do it well. Andrew took that away because he’s as smart as me, if not smarter. Also, he looks like my ex, another reason I limit my interactions with him.

Desperate to end this exchange, I offer a concession. “You’re great at what you do. One of the best in your field.”

He attempts a smile. “I know. And so are you. So can we please stop this petty, nonexistent rivalry and work together? We made a great team, once.”

“Our combined brainpower was invigorating,” I say, and the admission costs me nothing.

“Exactly. Think of how unstoppable we’d be with our combined experience. We could be partners in this, Miguel. We could run the collective together once Greg retires.”

My heart stops, shut down by a bold, slaps-you-in-the-face kind of epiphany. I’m a terrible partner. I may not even be a good person. Hell, I can’t be bothered to remember people’s names.

Mama Mary, am I…a narcissist?

With a mental note to research my symptoms later, I straighten my shoulders. “I’ll try to do better.”

Andrew pulls out a chair. “Great. And I’ll accept your non-apology if you look at my suggestions with an open mind.”

Wednesday, March 1st

Three’s a crowd in my apartment: me, Carmen, and her massive tote bag of judgment. Hands on her hips, she soaks in my agony, one pile of clutter at a time, starting with my sewing table.

“Was there a sale on royal blue satin and seashells?” She rattles the jar of shells I bought from Ms. Darcy.

After my run-in with Andrew on Monday, I went to Linens & Lace for some retail therapy, my version of pregaming before stitch therapy. It didn’t help. This is the second day I’ve called in sick to work, and I haven’t touched my sewing machine.

“Those are embellishments. I’m planning to make mourning pj’s and a matching robe. And in case you missed my texts, blue represents the ocean and narcissism.”

Her eyes narrow on the kitchen counter. “You’re supposed to be making progress, not descending into the pits of takeout-container hell. This place is a pigsty.”

I cleaned yesterday, moving the empty glasses from the living room to the kitchen. My energy depleted fast, so I curled up on the sofa where I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in the same outfit. Look what I’ve become…a textbook, narcissistic sloth.

Well-versed in my emotional needs, Carmen waves a bag of sour tamarind candy in my face. The yellow packaging matches her leggings and zippered hoodie. “Go shower and get dressed in comfortable clothes. We have somewhere to be. You can eat the candy on the way.”

An hour later, I’m standing near the ticket counter in a neon purgatory with the taste of sugar and chili powder on my tongue. The chaotic atmosphere consists of slides, trampolines, loud music, and screaming children.

“What is this nightmare, and why have you brought me here?” I ask.