Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ONE MONTH LATER
After quitting Landmark, Brinton had settled into a new routine: she woke up at a respectable two in the afternoon. Cold leftovers, eaten while standing over the kitchen sink, followed by a glass of tap water swished with a scoop of instant espresso, plopped directly into her mouth.
She spent the rest of the day in bed—wearing a T-shirt and cotton briefs ripped from the multi-pack her mom left by the door each week—binging comfort movies until her body forcibly shut down.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“So, we’re not even knocking anymore?” Brinton groused as Shay flung open her bedroom door, rudely interrupting her Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century triple-feature.
“Since Mom is out of town, I’m checking to make sure you’re good.”
Shay surveyed the staggered piles of clothes, crumpled baby wipes, and junk littering the floor and every surface. “Though it’d be hard to tell in this emo dungeon. This is a UFS crash site.”
Brinton plucked a rogue spaghetti noodle from her Aaliyah T-shirt, slurped it into her mouth. “UFS?”
Shay pursed her lips. “Unidentified Freaking Shit. How do you live like this?”
“Feel free to leave at any point—”
“Relax, I’m kidding.” She kicked an open package of golden Oreos with her chunky black loafer. “It’s giving more Quantum of Sadness vibes.”
Shay cautiously stepped through the minefield and cleared a small corner at the edge of Brinton’s bed so she could sit. Immediately, her caramel eyes stretched open, and she pinched her button nose between her fingers. “Oh my God. Brinny, when was the last time you showered?”
In fairness, personal hygiene was the first thing to go when Brinton slipped into a depressive episode, which she was definitely in. It was somehow worse than the anxiety variety.
Brinton chucked up her shoulder. “I don’t know. Sunday?”
“Bitch, today is Friday.” Shay whipped her palms around the room. “I know you’ve been going through it for a few weeks, but you gotta get it together.”
Brinton sat up, back aching from the slouch-induced curve in her spine. “Fine, pass me the baby wipes.”
“No,” Shay hissed. She slapped down Brinton’s laptop screen. “You haven’t left the house in a month. And you ditched Gael and the book club. I’ve been covering for you, but I’m done. That will make you wake the hell up.”
Brinton wriggled to the edge of the bed and snatched the pack of baby wipes from the floor. “I’m awake, thanks to you. In case you forgot, I blew up my whole life. I got dumped by a man I should have known better than to trust. Forgive me if I hate myself so much I want to crawl out of my skin.”
Shay smoothed her orange daisy-print maxi dress, eyes narrowed contemplatively. “Well, at least you’re not trending anymore.”
Brinton flicked away an eye-boogie with a baby wipe. “Yeah, because Agatha is. She’s getting praised for her brave storytelling in Jamie’s profile. For stealing my fucking work, remember?” She collapsed back against the pillows. “And she got away with it.”
“Yeah, that was shitty. It was so shitty I don’t even have the words to properly sum up how shitty it was. But my question to you is, what are you going to do now?”
“Rot in peace. The universe skewered and roasted me extra-damn-crisp. I’m done, Shay.”
“Why, because you’re not perfect and need some help from time to time? I love you, but for years, I’ve watched you look everywhere but inside for validation. That only happens when you love and nurture yourself—and especially the hard stuff—first and foremost.”
She flicked Brinton’s toes. “You know I’ve struggled with my ADHD, but that’s how I’ve managed it.
Notice I didn’t say that I’ve overcome, because neurodivergence isn’t something to overcome.
I will live with it for the rest of my life.
It’s the same with anxiety or depression or anything else.
You can lie down and bleed for a minute, but you have to get back up.
And you have to stop hiding from things that are uncomfortable. ”
Brinton scoffed. “Dad wouldn’t.”
“Uh-huh, and that’s why Mom divorced him.” Shay pulled a face. “And what about Jamie? You’re going to pack all those feelings in a box and torch them, Waiting to Exhale–style?”
“Actually, yes.”
Brinton had told Shay about her fight with Jamie. Only, she didn’t have the heart to admit that he’d called and texted her for weeks. What was left to say? He didn’t want to be associated with her. She didn’t want to be associated with herself.
“He wanted his fresh start without me, and he got it. He used me.”
Shay flung a dirty sock into the wicker laundry hamper.
“Look, I thought about galloping down to Tennessee to slap some sense into him myself, but…I don’t know, Brinny.
People are like jigsaw puzzles with bent edges.
The answer is never straightforward. His life was in shambles, even before you met him.
That said, it’s hard to believe that he woke up one morning and decided to stop caring about you.
You need to talk to him. He wants to talk to you. ”
Brinton bolted upright. “How do you know I’ve been ignoring his calls?”
“Ha—I do now.” Shay clapped her hands triumphantly. “Besides, I had a hunch. Your phone’s been blowing up, and bitch, nobody calls you but me.”
Brinton rolled her eyes. “Wow, thanks for that.”
“What are sisters for?” Shay stuck out her tongue. “At the very least, now that some time has passed, it’s worth getting some closure.”
“What are you, a disciple for Mom’s rules for well-adjusted living?”
“Whatever gets you out of those crusty-ass pajamas,” Shay trilled. “Lie to me all you want—which, you’re horrible at, by the way. I know you still care about that man. I also know you deserve to be happy. Aren’t you tired of giving up on yourself?”
“I can’t call him.” Brinton’s cheeks warmed with the looming threat of his rejection all over again.
“I didn’t say you gotta call him. You’re a brilliant writer. Use your words.” Shay flipped open the laptop, where Zenon’s smiling face was still paused. “Who’s the white girl?”
“Zenon, Disney Channel Princess and the GOAT of space,” Brinton said. “You are so uncultured.”
“Ah, how uncouth of me,” Shay snorted, sauntering to the door. “I really hope it works out for you two. I no longer dabble in the men, but Jamie’s face was made for riding.”
Brinton didn’t want to smile, but the corners of her lips betrayed her.
When Shay was gone, Brinton closed out of the movie. On her home screen, her Photos app randomly generated a beaming Jamie on the pontoon boat. Golden sun kissing his face and chest. It felt like someone had taken a Louisville Slugger to her core.
What did that mean? That Shay was right? Brinton had lost, round for round, in bouts with her own self-doubt.
She rolled out of bed and crossed to the old wood dresser by her door.
Opening the top drawer, she tore through the abandoned receipts, single socks, and maxi pads until she found the business card with the number of the psychiatrist her mother had suggested.
Brinton had lived through this bad movie enough times to know the ending. She needed to rewrite the story.
She plucked her phone from her knotted bed sheets and dialed.
A few days later, outside an Upper West Side bar, Brinton considered her options: she could go home, where another season of Insecure awaited her.
Or, she could do the exposure therapy homework Dr. Mensah, her new psychiatrist, had given her to help address her panic disorder.
The idea was that gradually, the more she immersed herself in places and scenarios that triggered her, the less likely she was to experience severe panic attacks.
That’s how she found herself in the crowded hellscape that was a professional networking mixer for Columbia alumni.
The bar had that old New York City feel, dimly lit with cracked leather booths and permanent rings on the tables from the many pint glasses of yore. This was the first time Brinton had been out since she left Iris. It was nothing like the Skylight’s neon glow, but it would do.
She slipped into a booth with a glass of tap water and waited.
The plan was to stay for twenty minutes, enough time not to feel like she completely lied when she reported back to Dr. Mensah tomorrow morning.
She pulled out a copy of Pleasure Activism by Adrienne Maree Brown, but only got a few lines in before the seat across from her dimpled and the table lurched forward.
She looked up to find a woman with a crown of Bantu knots and violet lipstick that popped against ebony skin. Brinton learned that Aida was a literary agent who, on the side, was set to open her own YA Fantasy–themed bookstore in Brooklyn.
They bonded over their mutual distaste for forced networking and, surprisingly, Aida’s admission of being a highly functioning Virgo with OCD. To her surprise, Brinton was drawn to Aida like a moth to a flame. It had been weeks since she’d smiled so hard.
A few hours later, Brinton hunched over her laptop in bed. She opened the manuscript for her would-be novel. It had been at least a year since she last touched it. Then, she thought about what Jamie had said weeks ago at the bar.
You’re an artist, like me.
The draft was a mess of half-baked prose, but it was hers. That was part of the artistic process, as Aida reminded her when they had talked at the mixer.
Screw it, she was an artist.
Brinton massaged paragraphs and strung together lines of dialogue for hours. By the time she looked up, the sun had started to rise, shading the sky a spectacular shade of iris.