I flip the screen over without opening it.
Buzz.
FRANCHISE SEATTLE – CALL MOVED TO 8:30 AM FRIDAY
Buzz.
Client:Can we get your preliminary notes by Monday?
Normally, this would give me a little thrill as I love challenges.
But right now it just feels like someone's holding my head underwater.
You need to figure out what you want, Naomi. Not just what’s safest.
“Oh, don't you start, Liam,” I tell the bedside lamp.
From my room on the third floor, I can hear somebody massacres the opening chords of “Last Christmas” on a guitar. Voices join in, off-key and enthusiastic. The whole town is out there, gearing up for the festival game like one big, happy family.
And I am in here, still stuck on 7.2(b).
I squint, try to reread the sentence.
“Fuck it,” I breathe.
The laptop snaps shut with a satisfying clap. I swing my legs off the bed and pad to the window. Down on the street, a couple walks past holding hands, tripping on the icy sidewalk and laughing every time they nearly wipe out.
My gaze snags on the suitcase by the desk.
Still open. Half-packed. Clothes folded in precise, accusing stacks. My heels lined up at attention in the corner like they’re ready to march me onto the next flight.
“Right,” I mutter.
I cross the room, yank the top closed, and drag the zipper all the way around.
I stare at it.
My fingers find the zipper pull again.
Unzip. The case gapes back open.
When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
“I said shut up, brain.”
But the question just… sits there. Heavy.
Spa day? No, that was networking with a side of cucumber water. Yoga? That was “accidentally” in the same studio as aclient’s wife. Every “vacation” since law school has been chosen for its concentration of people I might need in my contacts list. Networking.
All roads lead to billable hours.
The carolers outside switch to “Jingle Bells.” Someone yells the “hey!” part so loudly I can hear it like they're in the next room.
I could be down there. Three flights of stairs and a left turn away.
Instead I’m up here arguing with myself.
A frustrated noise crawls out of my throat. I grab a throw pillow and whack it against the side of the suitcase. Once. Twice. A third time, just because it feels good.
