Chapter 6 #2
Morgan splits off another small piece of cookie and pops it into her mouth. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ve gone through so much change this year and the PTSD from your last job…”
“PTSD?” I chuckle. I can’t tell if Morgan is joking or not, but she normally doesn’t say insensitive things. “That’s for soldiers or people who witness catastrophic events. Not someone who brought in six figures a year and only had to deal with a dickhead boss. I just need to get over it.”
A warm hand presses into my arm, and Morgan peers at me. She looks at me for so long without saying anything that the back of my neck starts to itch.
“There will always be people in the world who have it worse. Or better for that matter. Don’t discount what you went through.
That’s not fair.” She drops her hand from my arm.
“Frankie told me enough stories to make my head spin. Sure, you weren’t in combat or saw a grisly murder or something.
But it doesn’t mean that all the time you spent with your former boss didn’t mess with you and rewire you a bit. ”
My stomach is turning, but I take another bite of cookie, anyway.
I don’t know… maybe reading a bit or journaling about my time there might help.
All I know is, these last ten years, I’ve changed.
The spunkiness, the hopefulness I felt as a child, even with our suboptimal parenting, shifted into massive bouts of irritability and anxiety when I started working in New York.
It’s like the fire that once ran through me teeters between flickering out or inflaming, and neither one is good.
As much as I’d like to think I’m a special snowflake, I’m not.
Isn’t this constant feeling—like you’ve stepped onto a lake you thought was frozen and feel it crack—just what happens when you become responsible for health insurance, rent, and contributing to a 401K?
Sure, Frankie remained herself all these years, but Frankie lives out her dream of being a photographer every day.
It’s not like my childhood dream was to be an executive assistant.
And yet, I feel it in the deepest part of myself, that I’m not the same person I once was.
But… slowly, slivers of my old self push through the surface.
After years of waking up in the middle of the night, terrified I forgot something, or that my legs wouldn’t run, or I was lost in a building, these last few months, I’ve gotten solid sleep.
Might be the fresh air and physical labor, but it’s still sleep.
The buttery cookie slides down my throat, and I clap the crumbs from my hand.
For my entire life, I’ve operated like I’m charged by a high-capacity battery.
I have boundless energy, which is why farming almost seemed a natural fit.
But now, being back in Minnesota, it’s different.
For years, jolts of electricity fired in my cells, like I was in a charged hamster wheel, and the harder I ran, the more they zapped me.
This rush to prove my parents wrong, that I could actually make it on my own, that I was as gifted as Frankie, fueled me.
Then my boss delivered that same message, and I became obsessed with proving myself.
Today, that same rush consumes me, but this time, I’m trying to prove myself to myself. I run a palm across the tablecloth and tug the edges. “Hey, are you cool waiting here? I want to check out some of the other vendors. Gotta size up my competition.”
“For sure.” Morgan hands me a notepad, pen, and a stack of business cards. “Don’t forget these.”
Saved again.
For the next hour as the other vendors set up, I put on my executive face, lift my shoulders, and shake hands as I stroll the pavilion.
A vendor who makes stunning wreaths catches my attention, and we set up a meeting for next week to discuss bringing in her items for my Christmas gift shop.
I chat with a man who makes homemade cutting boards, and another with delicate snowflake ornaments.
There’s even one that takes recycled soup and coffee cans and paints them in winter scenes for pen holders.
I love it all. I want it all. My body springs alive as I scribble notes and ideas.
The speakers kick on, and the sounds of Billie Holiday and Bing Crosby ring through the space.
This is exactly what I need. It might be the end of August, but I’m overflowing with the holiday spirit.
I love Christmas.
Who would have ever thought I’d get to this point?
Joy surrounds me as I visualize these products spread across my gift shop.
With Frankie being a photographer, she can take award-winning worthy photos of my place for social media.
Morgan is a natural designer, and well, I’m scrappy as hell. Together, we can do this.
I turn the corner and see Morgan chatting with someone and my breath stops.
Zoey. Oh God, is she a vendor here? It might make sense since she has a bakery that probably goes all out during the holiday season.
She’s wearing a cute white-and-yellow sundress, her hair is flowy, reaches her mid-back, and is pinned back only on the sides.
A walking boot is on one foot, and a sandal on the other.
She laughs at something Morgan says and thumbs up her glasses.
God, she’s cute. Ugh. And yes, I know I’m a hot-blooded woman with a libido the size of the moon. But I really, really screwed this up if Zoey is into casual hookups. I mean, is there ever a more perfect scenario if she’s as monogamy allergic as me and lives within ten minutes of my house?
As she and Morgan chat, a tension string weaves in my stomach and tugs. What is she doing here?
More importantly, what the hell do I say?