His hands run up and down my arms in a soothing way that should be considered friendly, but my thrumming heart isn't getting that message. "You are not a trainwreck." His tone is laced with concern and something else I can't put my finger on. "What are you doing up so early? I saw that you were awake before noon and thought someone died.”
"Har har. You’re a comedian. I’d ask why you’re awake, but it’s five o’clock. You’re probably getting ready to have lunch.”
“Look who’s the comedian now,” he says, pulling out the chair next to mine.
I sit next to him, “I’m working on some stuff I promised my mom I’d do last night and forgot about.”
“What stuff? Can I help?”
“No, I’m brainstorming. I need to come up with some ways we can cross-promote this week. I was looking through my social media to get some ideas.” I feel his eyes on me in the silence that follows my explanation and it makes me fidgety. I run my fingers over and over the new cracks in my phone screen.
“And that made you cry?” There is no judgment in his tone. It’s a sincere question.
Social media made me cry? I guess it did. I’m getting soft.
“All of the pollution in California leaves a protective coating around me so the negative comments bounce right off. I’ve had a few days of fresh air and I’m absorbing all of it.” This is my very scientific explanation.
“I don’t think that’s how it works. It’s pretty normal to feel hurt when people are unkind.” He clears his throat. “It’s also okay to step away from situations where people are continually unkind. Not just okay. It’s critical.”
“I know, I know. You sound like your mom right now, Obbs.” I swat at his folded arms playfully, which is a huge mistake. Those arms of his are my weakness. I should remind myself that they are off limits now, but I’m hooked. I’m like a gambling addict walking through a casino:I’m only here for the all-you-can-eat buffet, everyone. I don’t have a problem.I can be “just friends” with his forearms and touch them playfully. I don’t have a problem. “You’re right, though. But I can’t step away from it. This is my job.”
“Does it have to be your job?”
“Now you sound like Mercer,” I say with a laugh.
“Bite your tongue.”
“Seriously. She asked me the same thing.” And I feel like a robot caught in a loop when I re-explain the reasons I can’t quit my job: I can’t walk away from everything I’ve built with my mother. I’m committed to her and our team. They depend on me. Plus, I make a better living doing this than I would doing something else. Yadda yadda. I’ve shared this canned reasoning a few times now and it seems weak relative to the level of unhappiness I’m living with. But maybe Joe will buy it.
He nods through my explanation, then asks, “Are you happy, though?”
“Every job has hard stuff. If I ran away every time I wasn’t happy I wouldn’t keep a job longer than a month.”This is logical, right?
“That’s fair. Can you adjust the way you handle the negative aspects of your job?” He places his warm hand on my knee, “Because I don’t ever want to find you crying on my back porch again.” His words are warm and light, and something blooms in my chest. He is so dang sweet.
“I’m not sure. I know I shouldn’t read people's comments or care about the negativity, but it’s hard not to care.” I think about the comments I just saw and a lump forms in my throat. I can hardly talk around the lump when I say, “My mother posted a picture today and someone called me a psycho and/or an attention seeker. It’s hard to unsee that.”
“Are you a psycho?” His words are clipped and annoyed. I can’t tell if he’s irritated with me, or with the jerkface commenter.
“I don’t think so?”
“Are you an attention seeker?”
“No!” my gut reaction makes me yell. “I hate attention. I couldn’t be more different from my mom in that way. I like people, but I don’t want them all looking at me or talking about me.”
“Sounds like your job doesn’t fit your personality, then.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.“Well, I didn’t get to pick my job, did I?! It was foisted upon me, and I can’t quit or I let down everyone in my life.” I don’t need him coming at me with logical suggestions when I just want to be hurt, cry about it, and maintain the status quo.
“You need new people in your life.”
Now my hackles are up. “They’re myparents. You think I should walk away from my parents?”
“I didn’t say that. Just stand up for yourself! You are too accommodating to everyone!” His words don’t match his bossy, yelling tone. “And when new people come into your life who lo—” he stumbles, “care about you, believe them when they tell you that you’re allowed to choose a life that makes you happy.”
“Well, you’ve known me for about five minutes. You should know what makes me happy,” I say, an unfamiliar bitter sarcasm lacing my words.
He growls. “I think I do, and it’s not taking a million pictures and blasting them all over the internet for people to rip apart! Don’t you remember what they did to you last week? They tore you to piecesand now they’re trying to put you back together again, just the way they want you. But none of it is real!” His voice goes soft, “This week was real. You were happy here. You were happy with me.”
