Page 41

That’s all I have to do.

“Kamden.”

My whole body jerks. The can slips from my fingers, and I catch it against my chest an instant before it hits the floor, hugging condensed cream of mushroom like someone just tossed me an infant.

At the end of the aisle, Marla stands with both hands planted on her hips.

“Jesus,” she says. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I reply too fast. I put the can back on the shelf and make myself breathe. “Yes. Sorry. I’m okay.”

Marla looks unconvinced. She’s been looking at me that way since I showed up twenty minutes early for my shift and apologized four times before she’d even managed to say hello.

She’s forty-something, wears her hair pulled so tightly into a ponytail that I’m convinced it affects her personality or brain function or something, and has managed this store for nine years while complaining every day that corporate is destroying her will to live.

She exhales, a tired sound that rattles in her chest. “You don’t have to apologize just because I said your name.”

I press my lips together and nod. “I know.”

“Then stop.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes narrow to slits. I feel the urge to apologize rising in my throat again, a reflexive bitter taste on my tongue, but luckily I’m able to stop it before it comes out.

Marla leans one hip against the metal shelf, arms folded across her chest. The harsh overhead lights throw brittle shadows across her face. “How’re you feeling?”

I force a half-smile. “Better.”

Better is a shield.

Better acknowledges that something was wrong without requiring me to explain exactly what that something was.

Thursday afternoon, after I finally worked out where I was and managed to get myself onto a bus, I texted Marla that I was sick.

And technically, I was, since I threw up twice before I made it home, though there hadn’t been much in my stomach besides an apple and acid.

She reminded me that calling out after my shift started didn’t technically count as calling out and was unprofessional and impolite to my coworkers.

I apologized.

She told me we’d discuss it when I returned. Yesterday wasn’t a scheduled day, so today is my first time back. I spent most of last night imagining being fired. Which would be objectively terrible, but still somehow only the fourth or fifth worst thing currently happening in my life.

Marla tells me, “You look like shit.”

“Oh, um…” That was mean, and I’m not quite sure what the appropriate, professional response is.

“I mean, you look sick, Kamden,” she clarifies after probably seeing the hurt on my face.

“O-oh.” That’s so much better. “It’s better than Thursday,” I offer.

Thursday only exists in jagged flashes at this point. There’s the cat, then buying the cheapest sweatpants and sweatshirt the nearest gas station sold, both three sizes too big, because I couldn’t get on a bus in jeans smelling like pee.

Then there’s the gas-station bathroom, where I locked myself in the largest stall, stripped off my wet sweatshirt and jeans, and used handfuls of paper towels to clean myself off as best I could before putting on the too-scratchy gas-station clothes.

Then the bus driver asked me twice whether I needed help because I sat in the back with my arms wrapped around myself and apparently looked like I was either going to pass out or start crying.

Marla asks, “You got a doctor’s note?”