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The three little dots appear for a moment, then I get a reply.
My Girl: I was planning to drive myself. We’d just have to come back here so I could get my car afterward anyway.
Me: Yes, but that’s still less wasted gas.
My Girl: So your concerns are purely environmental?
I stare at my phone for a moment. I don’t know how the fuck to respond to that. Mostly because I’m not sure if she’s flirting or being sassy or completely detached. Fuck texting. I push out of my chair and walk out of my office, down and around a couple of hallways until I get to hers. Reaching for the door, I force a deep breath, not wanting to walk in there unhinged or acting like a needy asshole. I don’t know what the fuck I am at this point, so I’m trying to temper every emotion and be calm, which is not fucking easy with her holding my heart in her hands and squeezing it whenever she feels like it.
I knock quickly, then stick my head in. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she says, eyebrows going up.
I stare at her for a moment and she tilts her head.
Say something, jackass.
“I hate texting. I can’t read your tone.”
She taps her thumb on her desk, then looks down. “I’m not sure what my tone was, honestly. But if you want to drive me, that’s fine.”
“Okay. We can pick up your car after, then we can grab takeout if you want.”
She swallows and looks away from me again. “Yeah. That would be… good.”
“Great,” I say, voice way too tight. I hate this. Feeling uncomfortable with her makes me want to rip my skin off.
“Well, I need to get a bit more work done before we go. I’ll meet you at your office when it’s time?”
“Sure. See you then.” The sound of my voice makes me want to punch myself in the face.
She nods and turns to her computer, and I spin around and stalk out the door, probably looking as much like a psycho as I feel. I don’t know how to do this shit. I don’t like drama. I don’t like uncertainty. Clear communication is how I was raised and this in-between zone is driving me nuts. It’s also playing with my anxiety. The inability to fix this is eating away at me. I wish my appointment with the psychiatrist was sooner. Now that I’ve finally accepted the fact that I can’t manage this on my own, I feel like I’m treading water, waiting for the lifeboat to come, and hoping I can keep my head up and not drown before it does.
Fuck.
I walk back into my office, shutting the door behind me, and drop into my office chair. After rubbing my face a few times, I unlock my computer and get back to the project I was working on, focusing my thoughts on something I can actually fix.
I’m knee deep in creating a new business plan for a small business that hasn’t seen the growth they’d like. I won’t be meeting with them for another couple of weeks, but when I get focused on something, I like to stay in it for as long as I can. It keeps me productive. It’s the only thing that’s kept me going. Kept my mind off Amelia. Except not really because she’s always there in the back of my mind. I’m always worrying about her. Wondering if she needs anything, if she’s drinking enough, if she’s eaten.Has she eaten?
I lift my phone to call her office like the crazy person I am, but before I can, the door to my office flies open. Looking up, I see Amelia. Her eyes meet mine, then she breaks down sobbing.
I leap out of my chair and cross the room to her in two huge steps, wrapping my arms around her.
“What’s wrong?”
“The nursing home called. My mom… they think she—she had a stroke.”
Holy shit.
