Page 99 of True Colors

I purposefully ignore my work email. No way am I looking at that today. Instead, I go straight to the message app.

Me: I’m taking a sick day, Dot.

Dot: Good. Take as much time as you need.

But for Dot, honestly, I’d have walked out of HelixSphere yesterday and sent a resignation letter today. I didn’t because I learned a long time ago that you don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. I also learned not to make decisions when I’m sad, depressed, anxious, exhilarated…or any seesaw of emotions, up or down.

“Morning.” Finn sticks an empty coffee cup under the coffee machine and presses a button.

“Morning.” I sit at the kitchen island.

He’s in sweatpants and a tank top. He’s just come back from his morning workout since he has the day off. He tends to work out in the morning on his days off or when he has the night shift, and in the evenings when he has the day shift.

He pushes a coffee cup in front of me and settles next to me on a barstool.

He waits until I’ve finished half the coffee.

“You wanna tell me what you’re doing at home on the day of the board presentation you've been killing yourself for?"

I don’t answer. It’s easier to stick to coffee.

“Annie,” he insists, his tone loaded with warning.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumble.

He holds up his phone. “You want me to call your boyfriend?”

I shake my head. Tears prick my eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend any longer.”

“Hmm.”

Finn’s not one to jump to conclusions. He doesn’t judge. He’s patient. He assesses. He gives everyone a fair hearing. After all that, if he thinks you deserve a thumping, well then, according to him, you have it coming.

“You broke up?”

I circle the top of the coffee cup with a finger. “Yes…I think so.”

He arches an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

I lick my lips and finally look him in the eyes. “He didn’t want me to present.”

Finn’s jaw clenches. “Why?”

I shrug, as the humiliation of his words, of Erin’s, washes over me. “Because of the…you know…the stutter.”

“Fuck.” He cups my cheek. “You, okay?”

“No.” I let out a long breath, shaking my head slowly. “But I will be.”

He tips his chin in acknowledgment, like that’s a perfectly acceptable answer.

He kisses my forehead. “Strawberry pancakes?”

I sniffle. “Yes.”

Miss Helen used to make strawberry pancakes when something bad happened—when Finn came home with bruised knuckles, when one of us got yelled at, or when the world felt especially unsafe.

Finn gets the ingredients together, and within minutes, he’s whipping the batter.