Slowly, he wipes his face, piercing my soul with one final fiery look. Then he turns and strides down the street without a glance back.
I watch him disappear as my heart shatters once more, scattering to the Manhattan breeze.
FORTY-THREE
Lucy
For about forty-eight tedious, exhausting hours, things are pretty mundane apart from one decidedly non-mundane detail—a dread-cloud, monstrous and dark, like a gloomy stalker refusing to get the hint.
It takes hold in every tiny bit of me, rooting itself down into a tight, knotty mess that seems to have replaced my stomach. Food, for all intents and purposes, might as well be cardboard.
My fingers seem to have a mind of their own, relentlessly pulling up those social media pictures of JP on his knees in front of me in the street. It doesn’t matter where I am—slicing onions in the kitchen, strolling in the park, sipping my coffee at the café, or even, God help me, while sitting on the toilet. Waking up at stupid o’clock in the night to peep at them, as if maybe they’ll vanish in a puff of virtual smoke. Then when I’ve had enough of those, I watch the video that publicly shamed JP over and over again.
It’s a compulsion. A full-blown addiction. Every few minutes, my fingers betray me, clicking on the photo, each time feeling the sharp sting of anxiety. I feel more stripped and vulnerable than if I had strutted into the office in my racy Miss Nova getup with the eye-popping cutouts.
The camera’s interest was fixated on JP’s disgrace more than on my own existence in the frame. I take a peculiar comfort in that. I don’t want my fifteen minutes. The idea turns my stomach.
Ding, ding, ding. The messages from Taylor, Matty, and some of the office lot continue to stream in. Their concern seems genuine, but I can practically hear the gossip cranking into high gear back at HQ. I’m haunted by imagined chatter from sales and marketing and finance and all the other teams… and especially, oh especially, from IT.
Taylor called and told me to take some days off. She said if there’s anyone who can cash in their sick leave, it’s the Memoryless Woman.
Angry Andy, apparently, is not feeling as charitable. We have the presentation to the directors in two days for a significant Project Tangra milestone, and he’s having kittens that I’m playing truant.
I’ve been working from home, keeping Taylor in the loop. I’m not about to leave Project Tangra in the lurch, or the team. And Matty, good old Matty, is making a heroic stab at getting his shit together and manning the fort until I come back to the office.
Maybe it takes not doing your best all the time for people to appreciate your best.
I’m trying my damned best to shove JP out of my head. The memory of him, drenched, haunts me. He looked so destroyed.
I pick up books, but the words are just squiggles on a page. I drag myself to the coffee shop two blocks down, but the coffee might as well be dishwater. I waffle into the comic store, but the panels and speech bubbles might as well be hieroglyphs.
Heartbreak is a fucking minefield.
I scrub the bath with vigor in an attempt to scour away my anxiety and pain.
When I see Mom’s name light up the phone, I let out an audible groan. She’s the last voice I need to hear. But I can’t ghost her indefinitely.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Lucy.”
I wince. Christ, that tone.
“Mrs. Mills down the street has just sent me some links. Lucy, why on earth are you squabbling with your boss in public? What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Hold on,” I drawl. “You see a picture of my boss groveling at my feet and you automatically assumeI’mto blame?”
“It’s not exactly professional. You need to consider the fallout of your actions.”
My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Something inside me breaks, like a ten-year-old dam. She’s hit a nerve. Just the right mix of words, tone, and timing has tipped me over the edge I’ve been teetering on for years.
“You know what, I’ve had enough of this. You’re either in my corner or you’re not. I can’t do this right now. Call me when you’re ready to play the role of a supportive mother instead of pumping venom into my life. As if I don’t have enough crap to handle.”
I slam the phone down, my heart pounding as I slump next to the bath. Mom’s name pops up on the screen again but I mute it. I’m physically trembling.
No wonder I’m all tangled up about what people think, trying to outwork myself at the office. I’ve endured her sniping, backhanded comments for years. Ever since she figured out that Dad was sometimes a bit of an asshole—sorry, dead dad—and maybe she hadn’t quite bagged Prince Charming after all.
I take a deep breath and rest my head against the bath. It’s time I sort my shit out.
