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A pit formed in her stomach as she entered the store. Social Interaction 101: stay calm, maintain eye contact, don’t fidget. “Um, the machine outside isn’t taking my card.”
The man behind the plexiglass security wall stopped stocking vapes. “What pump?”
“Pump five.” Tiny beads of sweat formed on her lower back.
A customer stood behind her, tapping their foot. More sweat pooled and her increased heartrate thudded in her neck. The front door opened, and two additional guests entered. Was everyone staring at her?
The attendant pulled down the skinny microphone above his head.
Oh God, not the microphone.
“Jimmy! Can you come up front? Customer having a credit card issue.”
Every eye in the convenience store bored into her.
“Machine issue… not credit card issue.” She fanned the lower part of her shirt.Don’t they have air-conditioning around here?She placed her hands on her hips—an over-heating preventative measure while she waited for the manager. Was everyone still staring? They were probably angry she caused them a delay. She stumbled a bit to the side to allow other customers to come to the front, and froze her gaze at some random tabloid, pretending it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
Ten minutes later, with her tank full, her hands still clammy, and a logged mental note to never buy gas in the morning, she exited off I-5 in search of coffee.
Her phone buzzed.
“Ugh.” She sent Viviane, her literary agent, to voicemail. A minute later, she tapped the phone to listen to the message.
“Mack. You know it’s serious when I’m leaving you an actual recording like it’s 1995. Pick up your damn phone.Listen, lady, I respect and appreciate your creative process, but I’ve got multiple people waiting for a status update, including me… Send proof of life, or I’m organizing a search party. Your Instagram posts of books don’t count. Love you. Byeee.”
She’s pissed.
Mack swerved left to avoid entering what she thought was one-way.Goddang Seattle drivers. People parked on whatever side of the street they wanted and faced whatever way they wanted, and it was totally disorientating.
Her GPS rerouted, and when a car honked behind her, she panicked. The drivers here almost never honked and gave constant “thank you” waves. But the guy behind her was obviously in a hurry, and her GPS was frozen, so she took another left and parked.
Exhaling, she reached for her phone.
Mack: I’m alive. Just head’s down, finishing up.
Viviane: Send proof of life. You may be a kidnapper.
Mack sent a picture of her middle finger.
Viviane: Much better
Viviane: Wait, are you driving a car? In Manhattan?
Mack: Went to see my parents in Seattle
Viviane: Are you kidding me? You weren’t going there for a few weeks yet for the book signing
Viviane: What’s going on?
Mack could picture Viviane’s smiling, smooth brown face morph into flatlined lips and a scowl.
Viviane couldnotknow Mack was nowhere near delivering her overdue first draft, nor that Viviane wasted months busting her butt to secure a totally undeserved advance for Mack’s sophomore book.
Viviane’s name flashed across the screen, and Mack declined the call.
Viviane: you know it’s crappy when you’re texting with someone, but they send your call to voicemail.
Mack: Sorry, I know. Bad service. I’ll call later.
