Page 108 of Wells

"Yes, you do. You're choosing you."

He lets the silence sit between us for a second, then his voice comes back firmer.

"It doesn't feel like I'm choosing me. It hurts so bad."

I press my hand against my chest, and the uneven rhythm of my heartbeat thuds under my palm.

"I emailed you the information on the ashram, the one in Kerala. I want you to seriously consider going. It will help you heal."

I shake my head even though he cannot see it.

"Locke, I can't let my apartment go. I can't just pick up⁠—."

"You can."

"The lease. The bills. I don't have that kind of money saved up."

"You have enough. Didn’t you say your lease is month-to-month since before Shitbird left? Give notice and worry about what comes after when that bridge comes. Let the apartment go, let the job go, let all of it go."

I close my eyes and nod.

"Okay."

"You'll look into it?"

"Yeah, I will."

I end the call and sit there with the phone in my lap for I don't know how long. Time has no concept today. Everything is a blur, like I'm slogging through mud, just trying to get to solid ground.

I get up and walk over to the sofa, pull my laptop onto my knees and open my lease to confirm it is month-to-month. It is, just like I remembered, just like Cas threw at my face when he asked us to downsize after losing my job.

I wouldn't do it then. I wasn't ready. But Locke is right. I need to clear it all out, remove all of the pressures and stress, and start fresh.

I write my landlord a short email giving thirty days notice and send it before I can realize this is completely irresponsible.

Then I open a blank email to Sandra Benney.

I type three lines.

I am resigning my position effective immediately. I need to take time to care for my mental health. Thank you for the opportunity.

I read it twice. It's plain and true. I don’t soften it to make anyone else comfortable.

I hit send.

The laptop screen flashes, and the email disappears into the sent folder. I close it and set the laptop on the coffee table, then lean back against the couch. Those two tasks give me just a little relief, like I'm taking action.

They also scare the ever-loving shit out of me.

TWENTY-SIX

Wells

Remember You Are Dust: The words spoken with the ashes are a reminder of how little a person finally keeps hold of. He proves every dollar of it and ends with nothing in his hands but the name of the man who raised half of him.

I light another cigarette and stay where the noise goes quiet.

Work is the only place that still does it. When I force my mind into records and patterns and systems that follow rules, the Cera-shaped hole in my chest goes numb for whole minutes at a time.