Chapter Thirty-Five #2
The ire she’d aimed at Mom over the same subject flared, my entire body tensing as if that would help. Then she clamped her jaw shut, no longer speaking to me but tossing items to pack, her movements sharp and robotic.
Such a fun way to discover my mom learned the silent treatment from her own mother, and Grandma Helen held black belt status.
We went on like that until there was nothing of mine left to pack. Our strained final dinner was nothing short of torturous, and once we moved into the living room, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I do care about Noah,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage while nursing hurt feelings, and Wanda squeezed my hand from the couch cushion next to me, encouraging me along.
“But there’ve been no exchanging of I love you’s, and the timing’s all wrong.
I’m not leaving him or the rest of you behind due to a lack of happiness or because it’s easy.
I’ve worked really hard for this second chance—”
Grandma Helen opened her mouth, a critical arch to her brow, and I didn’t have it in me to go out arguing, so I spilled the rest, fast and firm.
“I can’t be the girl who abandoned her career and changed her entire life for a guy, I refuse.” Look what it did to you, flies through my head as well, but I’d never dare say it, especially after being frozen out for my earlier comment.
At least she pressed her lips in a tight line at that, then gave the tiniest of nods that conveyed she understood why I would make that choice, even if she still thought it was the wrong one.
I should call her.
We had hugged our goodbyes bright and early the next morning, smoothing things over the way we Goodwin women do—by not addressing it at all.
If I don’t do it soon, she’ll be headed to bed.
It’s Boozy Bingo night, which improves my chances of catching her in a good mood, and I assure myself that’s all we need, a nice, cheery phone call to catch up and reiterate how much we love each other.
I reach for my phone, snatching back my hand and eyeing the device suspiciously as it vibrates across my desktop. The papers and files stacked in the inbox on the right corner are so tall I’ve had to separate them into two categories: ASAPs and urgent to-dos.
Productivity is a lot less satisfying when there’s no end in sight.
At seeing my boss’s name flashing across the screen, my pulse skitters and it’s off to the races. I quickly switch on my Happy Helper persona, propping a smile on my face as I answer.
“Mia!” Simone manages to shave a syllable off my name, turning it into an exclamation of its own. “Where are we at with the press junket?”
“All the allergens have been sent to the caterers, and I split up the two interviewees who don’t get along, placing them on entirely different floors in tents, so never the twain shall meet.”
Simone laughs, and see, I’m lucky to work in a place with a boss who gets my humor and finds me clever—not sure why, but it’s surprisingly rare.
“As for our DJ,” I continue, “the reporter at Sun Times Magazine and I are still debating a few of the angles for the write-up, but I managed to secure the front cover.”
“That’s amazing, he’ll be thrilled. What about the collab between him and our energy drink sponsors? When’s the meeting set for? I’d like to join in.”
Everything within me slinks down to my pinchy-toe heels, except for my tongue, which glues itself to the roof of my mouth.
This is the issue that keeps blindsiding me and leaving me scrambling, because I swear on Vonetta’s famous mac and four cheeses that Simone offered to set it up, as she had a friend at the company who owed her a favor.
I cross my legs one way and then the other, lungs rapidly leaking oxygen. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood that I was supposed to set the meeting. I’ll get right on it.”
Simone makes a little huh noise I’ve come to learn means that wasn’t what she was hoping to hear. “What about our WNBA superstar, did you reach out to the Tribune reporter yet? As I pointed out during the meeting, they have the bigger readership.”
Ah, we’ve reached the true meaning behind why she called.
This is about how I refused to cave this morning, when she sprung it on me she wanted the exclusive I already promised to another media outlet go to her reporter friend at the Tribune instead.
It’d undo a month’s worth of bargaining and work, plus make me a liar, so I hadn’t caved.
And there’s only one reason she’s bringing it up again.
“But that would mean having to come up with an entirely different scoop for the Sun Times, or we risk losing our local, most reliable tabloid.” It’d really piss off the reporter I’ve been going back and forth with all day, too, not to mention I leveraged it to get our DJ on the cover like Simone insisted.
I spent the afternoon so proud of it, too.
Unfortunately, my on-the-spot skills are obscured through my fog of exhaustion. I slog through the haze, searching for alternatives. “What about releasing the footage of her playing ball with the kids at the youth camp to the Tribune? The video’s so damn sharable, it’ll be viral in no time.”
Silence.
The fucking worst.
“Of course, if you think the Tribune is the way to go,” I reluctantly offer, my anxiety taking the wheel, “I can send the Sun Times the video and do my best to convince them to change the focus of the article, but—”
“See, this is why I hired you,” Simone says, her voice triumphant. “And once that’s done, you can start prepping for the press conference.”
That fist that usually comes at night shows up a few hours early, clamping those steely fingers around my windpipe. At least she appreciates me, I tell myself, the same way I do anytime she asks more of me.
“Are you at the office?” she asks, and I do a quick sweep, but I’m the only one without a family to rush home to.
Even without glancing at the picture tacked to my cubicle wall, my mind returns to the photo of the Cronies and me. And to Noah, because he lives rent-free in my head.
Also, the maybe loving him thing, except I don’t allow myself to linger.
“About to head home for the day,” I say, likely in vain.
A light repetitive beep sounds in my ear, signaling I have another call, and great, that’s probably the reporter calling me back at long last, now that everything will have to be changed.
I swing my phone in front of my face, not wanting to miss him but fretting over having to ask my boss to hold.
It’s not the reporter, though.
Wanda’s info flashes onscreen, and I stare at it for far too long, ravenous for sympathy, validation, and affection.
“Let’s make sure to generate as much extra buzz before the press conference as we can.” Simone’s voice sounds distant, but the urgency and expectation for me to hop-to comes through loud and clear. “I want them salivating.”
By let’s she means me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned a ton. Simone was brilliant, not to mention so freaking charismatic it sent up a tiny red flag I’d ignored because Top publicity firm in Miami! Second chance! I’m good enough, I promise!
All because I refused to become my mother and end up beholden to a guy, or my grandmother, who got hurt in every way you can be and shut her heart completely.
I didn’t know the right answer, and with Simone’s targets always bobbing and weaving, and me constantly jumping as high as she asks, I’ve grown skeptical of the idea I could truly have it all.
Hell, I couldn’t even get enough time to catch up on the fantasy series everyone was raving about online, and I’m desperate to find out whether Violet Sorrengail gets a dragon.
“On it,” I automatically say, clicking out of programs and tabs and logging off my computer as Simone signs off.
The ticking clock on the big press conference has begun, only two days to go, but I decide to do the rest of my prep at home.
I’ve hit the twelve-hour mark at the office and at least my apartment isn’t lit with fluorescents—I have a serious headache forming.
I go to return Wanda’s call as I’m gathering my belongings and stuffing thick folders in my bag, but as I pull up my contacts, my phone rings.
And there he actually is, my soon-to-be-infuriated reporter.
It takes me a second to gather the courage to answer, and rather than build up to it, I rip off the Band-Aid in a flash, launching into an explanation about how twisting the angle will be much better.
We debate my entire ride home, until at long last, he gives in while remaining upset.
Once I walk through the door to my apartment, I drop my laptop bag on the floor, too exhausted to lift it higher. Then I head straight down the hall and fling myself face down on the bed, even kicking off my shoes too much effort.
Even as tired as I am, here comes the barrage, all the intrusive thoughts that insist on running laps while I try to fall asleep. Over and over, no matter how many times or ways my brain spun it, I couldn’t imagine ever finding anything close to what I had at Lakeview Retirement Village.
Not just Noah, although he was a big, burly piece.
And, as I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but think that for a gal who lived out other’s regrets, I sure am filled with them.