“You are going to meet him, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” I do know. The answer is of the negative persuasion.
Meeting Tristan Whitmore sounds good in theory, but the reality would be a disaster. He’d ask me all sorts of questions about my business and why I run it the way I do. Heat gathers in my cheeks. How would I even begin to explain my limitations? They sound ridiculous, even to me. “What can he possibly do for me in an hour, anyway?”
“Are you kidding?” Grabbing the laptop, she thrusts it towards me. “A business consultant wants to give you free business advice and youdon’t knowif you’ll meet him?”
“I don’t believe in quick fixes,” I argue. “Besides, I’m not doing so badly.” I gesture to the dated, but cosy, kitchen around us. “I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and I love what I do. What more could I need?”
“A working air conditioner,” she replies baldly, before nodding her head towards the counter behind me. “An empty bread box, perhaps? Or how about socks without holes in them?”
My left foot sneaks over my right under the table. The hole is tiny. How did she even see it?
“I’ll admit things are a bit tight right now, but they’ll get better.”
Her expression gentles. “What if they don’t?”
I prefer not to think about it, but… “I have options.”
It’s not like I’d starve rather than go out looking for other work. I’ve done it before and lived to tell the tale. I may just be a little on the lean side by the time I get around to it.
Yolanda puts a hand over mine. “Do you remember what you said after your mum died?”
“Not really.” It was two years ago, and I was somewhat preoccupied with my grief at the time.
“You said, as much as you loved her, you didn’t want to end up like her.”
Oh. That part I remember.
My mother was a wonderful, loving, intelligent woman. She was also a total recluse, so overwhelmed with anxiety that by the end of her life she’d become incapable of going outside her own front door. “I’m not anywhere near as bad as her. I’m just not good with people.”
“This isn’t people,” she argues. “This is one person, for one hour.” Her fingers tighten their grip around mine. “It’s a slippery slope, Sam. The way I see it, you’re starting to lose your balance.”
Staring into the dregs at the bottom of my cup, I swallow hard. I’m definitely not as bad as my mum when she died, but what about when she was my age? There’s certainly no one around I can ask. She had no family to speak of. No friends. In truth, my existence is the only proof she ever lived at all.
Is my future doomed to repeat her past? My genes are already working against me, and the isolation of my childhood added plenty of fuel to the congenital fire. Over the years, I’ve tried to find ways to integrate myself into society and be anormalperson. But despite everything, my ties to the outside world have remained minimal at best, superficial at worst.
I don’t want to end up like my mother, alone in a prison of my own making, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to prevent it.
“I’ll do it.” The words are quiet, but they’re there. If nothing else, they’re proof I’m still fighting.
It’s one person, for one hour. Even I can handle that.
FIVE
______
SAM
My fingertips drum a beat on the table as I hunch over my cup of English Breakfast tea in the back corner of the cafe. I suggested this place for my meeting with Tristan because it’s close to my house without beinginmy house. This way, if the meeting goes pear-shaped, I can escape and be home nursing my wounds within minutes. Knowing this does not make me feel better.
“Sam, it’s good to see you.”
Jumping, I look up to see the cafe owner’s round face smiling down at me. “Hey, Mr Nguyen. How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” he says, “but it’s been so long since we’ve seen you.”
“I’ve been around.” Around my living room. Around my kitchen. But mostly around my studio.
