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Is it really this hard for everyone else?
It must be, right? The system’s broken. Capitalism sucks.
I want to live in the woods with someone who loves me, host movie night on Thursdays, and never put on a pantsuit in order to sit in an office all day ever again. Maybe one day the stress will win and I’ll find myself in a lean-to made of sticks somewhere deep in the forest by the burbling stream…nothing but raccoons and foxes for friends…a plethora of birds I’ve trained to keep me company.
If Willow’s reputation claims she’s a witch, I’ll happily fill the vacancy for forest elf.
Elf.
Picking up my phone, I find the message Willow sent about elves throwing parties, discover that she added herself as a contact, and crumple. That’s right. She had my phone on Wednesday when she was sending herself pictures. Who knows what she thought when she saw I hadn’t even added her name to my phone?
I’m a failure of a human being.
And I still don’t know how to ask for time off without breaking out in hives.
So, inevitably, the next thing I know, I have an article open on my computer—How to Build a Lean-to. It sits pretty right beside the Google search: how much money do you need to fake your own death and move to Europe?
¤
“I’m not what you think of me. I’m not what you think you see. This picture you hold shines like gold, but you deserve diamond things. I wish I could say all the words in my brain and let them be good enough, good enough. I wish I could show all the mistakes I know won’t make me good enough, good enough.” On my phone, Doliver sings the song he released this afternoon, and I’m not just crying. I’m sobbing, croaking along with the words. As I have been. For several hours now. “The regrets I have eat me up inside. If I only could, I’d paint you perfect lies. I’d build you a world where you might be my girl, and I’d be yours. I’d be yours. I’d be yours. Then everything would be good enough. Everything would be…good enough.”
I don’t know what possesses me—although it might very well be the delirium of not remembering half my days lately, never getting enough sleep, and being too exhausted to eat all the time—but I call him.
I call him, and he doesn’t pick up.
So I curse the robot voice telling me to leave a message, then I sniffle at the tone. “Doliver, you’re more than good enough. Do you hear me? You are absolutely, immaculately, and wonderfully good enough. If the girl you like doesn’t see that, then she is nothing like what you think.” Like a lunatic, I suck in a broken breath, then snap, “Text me back, dang it. I don’t know why, but I miss you. That’s not… I don’t mean…” My throat burns, and I scrub moisture off my cheek. “I just don’t have many friends, okay? And I thought we could be friends. I’m sorry. I’m tired.” So tired. Too tired to care when the robot lady’s voice returns. Too tired to delete the message. Too tired to sleep.
¤
I exhale relief when I find Racheal’s email on Sunday, confirming that of course I can have the days I need off for my mother’s birthday party.
No, I couldn’t work up the strength and fortitude to tell her directly, so, yes, I spent all of Saturday evening listening to Doliver sing as I drafted, deleted, wrote, and rewrote my request.
Business emails just aren’t fanfiction chapters.
“Now all I have to worry about is being replaced in my absence, right, baby?” I pet Oxford’s head. He’s been on my lap all afternoon, and I hope he’s not sick since he’s normally not this affectionate on his own. After crying all night, I hope I’m not sick. We have to leave on Tuesday for my parents’ house. Which brings with it a different set of expectations and stresses. “I’m forgetting something,” I murmur, but when am I not?
At least I’ll get to see Alana, right? Right. I’m very happy I’ll see my sister—the only person left in the world who both makes me feel normal and myself and loved without strings and…
Packing.
I’ve forgotten to pack.
I have not packed yet even though I’m leaving very early in two days, and I have to work tomorrow.
That must be it.
Setting the only thing holding the threads of my sanity together down, I pat Oxford’s tiny head then drag myself to my room. “It’s not a business meeting,” I murmur as I look through my closet of work clothes. It might feel like one, though.
When was the last time I texted my parents? Thursday, before movie night. That’s good, I think.
Have I called enough lately?
If I haven’t, the first day back home will be tense as I apologize for being a terrible daughter.
Taking a deep breath, I fish for my phone, determined to put on music, but nothing on my Can’t Be Sad playlist sounds right, so I go to my recents and call Alana.
Astonishingly, she doesn’t pick up. “I hope a dog didn’t eat you,” I say to the robot while I’m fishing around in my underwear drawer for my good bras. “It’s rare that you don’t pick up, so I can only imagine this time you’re pet sitting for cats, and they’ve mauled you to death before feasting on your remains.”
