ChapterOne
Olivia
There area million ways someone can get into trouble at 2:30 in the morning. There’s the usual sneaking out of the house, getting kicked out of a bar, or drunkenly throwing up in an Uber. Then there’s my version of two am trouble, which is not sending a tax return up to my senior manager on time, despite my best efforts, on April 15th, aka Tax Day.
As a Teams message chimes… and another and another, the walls of my lungs close in until I’m gasping for air. Sweat coats my palms, and my heart pounds insistently in my chest until it’s the only sound I can hear. My head spins as I scramble into the nearest empty room. I can’t let someone else see me like this.
After closing the door behind me, I fling the window open, but the cool ocean breeze floating through does nothing to help me get more oxygen into my lungs.
Another Teams message dings. I don’t need to read it to know what it says.Where is the return, Olivia? I’m waiting. This needs to be done.
I’ve never failed to get something done on time, but this spring busy season has been awful. Everyone has been working more than seventy hours a week for over a month and a half. I’m tired. I’m not performing my best. Great, now I’m wheezing.
I slide down to the floor with my back supported by the wall. Tears slither down my cheeks as I pull my legs up into my chest and hold them tight. I’m in full-fledged panic, and I know from experience it’ll take every fiber of my being to finally calm myself down again now that I’ve let myself spiral this far.
Come on. Pull yourself together. You don’t have time for this.
I desperately want to call someone, to have someone rub a soothing palm on my back while I figure out how to breathe again, but there’s no one to call. I’m alone, and it’s way too early in the morning. My old college roommate, Anna, will be sound asleep until her fifth alarm finally gets her out of bed twenty minutes before she needs to leave for work. I know better than to mess with her sleep. Besides, I haven’t done anything more than send her an occasional text or Instagram reel in the last few months. It’s tax season, so I’ve been spending every day just trying to make it to the next. I’ve closed out the world because I’ve been so focused on filing tax returns for huge companies and millionaires that don’t even know I exist. It feels unfair to call Anna after three months of near silence just because I need help.
You need to do this on your own. You have a deadline, and no one wants to see you like this.
Remembering what my mom first taught me freshman year of college, when I couldn’t think straight because I was so nervous about my final exam, I focus on my breathing.
Gradually, my pulse slows, and the sound of the wind zipping through the cracked window grounds me again. As my shoulders release the slightest bit, I think about what my mom would say if she were here. She’d probably tell me this is exactly why she didn’t want to leave me here in California. She’d probably argue she should be here taking care of her daughter, to hell with finally getting to live her dream life with my dad in Texas, where he grew up.
There’s a part of me that wishes she was still here, but there’s also a part of me that knows my mom has made too many sacrifices for me in her life. It took me years to finally get my parents to loosen their grip on me enough to go live their own lives. I’m tempted to call Mom, and let her know that I love her, that I appreciate her. But it’s 4:45 in the morning in Texas, and I have a return that needed to be sent to my senior manager about five hours ago.
I settle for a simple text, harmless.
Me
Just thinking of you. Love you
My love to dad too ??
With another swift breath out, I rise from my place on the ground, squiggling my finger across the mousepad to wake my computer back up. I just wasted fifteen minutes on a panic attack. I need to get back to work. I need to push this aside.
A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach as I swipe away my tears and type in my password on my laptop.Focus. Focus. One thing at a time. I’m close. The deadline’s today. I’m almost done.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of “The Best Day” by Taylor Swift. It’s Mom’s ringtone. Furrowing my brows, I reach for my phone and hold the screen up to my face to check anyway.Why the hell would she be awake before five in the morning?
Frazzled, and a bit concerned, I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Hello?” My voice sounds like I just gargled with thumbtacks.
“Olivia, honey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine. I’m just trying to get some work done and thought it had been a little while since I’d sent a text.”
“You don’t sound fine. Iknewsomething was off when I saw your text.” Before I can argue with her, my phone is ringing again. It’s the Facetime tone.
I accept the switch to video, hoping she won’t notice my swollen red eyes or the dark, puffy bags that have made a permanent home underneath them over the last several months.
“Why are you up right now?”
“I’m always up early. I was up half an hour ago.” She moves her face closer to the screen. “Ol, I need you to be honest with me. What’s going on? You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Twice.”
Ignoring her questions, I mutter. “Gee, thanks.”
I can’t tell Mom about what just happened. She will freak out. Ever since I was little, any small thing that went wrong would send my mom into panic mode, whether it was a scrape on my knee or the hiccups. I can’t exactly blame her after losing three babies before having me, but it doesn’t change the weight it puts on me. It doesn’t take away from the constant feeling that I need to protect both herandmy dad from any of my darkness.
