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I’m not sure why I took this client on, since I don’t need the money. But he’s one of the biggest, and I always feel like I’m letting Jamie down if I don’t say yes. He’s worked hard to get us where we are.

“I’m fine,” I say. “We talked about this.”

He leans back in his seat, and his fingertips tap against the side of his coffee. This diner has had the same red and white cups since…I don’t know, probably since Johnny Cash walked these streets. Maybe even before that.

“You’re not, though,” he says.

Something in his tone makes me lift my head. “What?”

He clears his throat. There’s a look people get in their eyes right before an intervention. I’ve had enough friends with substance problems to have sat in on a few. Right now, Jamie is giving me that tight-lipped smile that says I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I have to for your own good.

“I think you should take a break,” he blurts out.

My fork goes still on my plate. I haven’t had a bite of donut yet.

“What?”

He shrugs, lifting a hand. “We’ve been going hard for a decade and a half. You need to take a break.”

I let that sink in, trying not to be offended, though I’m not sure why that’s my natural inclination. Maybe it’s because I grew up working with my hands, on horseback, starting from age ten. Working hard isn’t just about the money. It’s a point of pride, something that meant a lot to my mother, and she instilled it in me too.

“I can’t,” I say.

He leans his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers. I just don’t like the concerned look in his eyes. “Normally, I would say you’re fine, we can take another contract on and just work slow, but you are really fucking burned out, man.”

“You’re saying this because…of what?”

“Nothing’s interesting to you anymore. You can’t remember stuff. I can hear your words slurring in meetings, like when we were in Miami last week with that record label. They were looking at you sideways.”

“I’m not on anything,” I say, pulling back.

“No, you’re exhausted.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he lifts one hand.

“It’s not new.” His face is so sober. “You’re not happy.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“How do you know?”

I shrug. “Because I don’t feel that way.”

“You feel…nothing.”

I start to nod, and he gives me a look that says I walked right into it. “You feel nothing, man. You need to start feeling something again. You’re running on fumes, and I can tell you’re not sleeping without help. Fuck, I haven’t see you eat much either. That’s what I noticed that scared me.”

I’m quiet.

He’s right. This kind of tired isn’t the same tired I’ve carried for the last five or so years. This exhaustion is deep set in my bones.

I’m so fucking sick of working, but I don’t know how to do anything else. Outside of my job, I don’t have a life because I didn’t have time to build one. Every single one of my friends is embedded in the industry. There’s no way to get away from it. Dinners turn into meetings. Drinks at the bar always lead to discussing contracts and schedules. Everyone I’ve dated, which hasn’t been all that many women in a while, knows someone I know through the industry.

All I have outside of that is the memory of the house in Wyoming where I grew up, the ranch next door where I worked before I was tall enough to get up on a horse without a wooden milk crate.

Deep inside, something breaks, like a frozen tree shattering without a sound.

I don’t say a word or let any of it show on my face, but it hurts so damn much. This moment, sitting in a diner with Jamie, is the moment I hit rock bottom. It isn’t as spectacular as I anticipated. It’s just the end of a conversation. It’s the way we avoid each other’s eyes for a bit. It’s the way we stand on the street corner, and he says he’ll call me a taxi, but tomorrow, we’ll talk more.