I wasn’t sure what it felt like to be proud of something, but I imagined it would feel something like this.
That deserved a celebration. Maybe I’d enjoy the glass if I ignored how ironic this was.
A little glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just enough to take the edge off. I could almost feel it already, the way the warmth would spread through my chest.
After all, I’d earned it, hadn’t I? Thirty days. Thirty goddamn days.
Max didn’t have cameras in here. How would he even know?
“Sure,” I said, my voice tight. “Why not?”
Isa turned to the cabinet and took out two wineglasses. She popped the cork and then poured the wine for us.
When she handed a glass to me, I took it carefully, looking at the wine as if it could bite me, as if it could sink its teeth in and grab ahold of me again.
“So what’s the occasion?” she finally asked, leaning her weight against the counter behind her. “You show up at ten o’clock out of nowhere looking like you’re about to drop some big news. What is it? Do you need money again?”
Wow.Was that really what she thought of me? I wasn’t sure how to respond.
I blinked. “Nice to know I’ve set the bar so high ...”
“Well,” she said undecidedly, “am I wrong?”
“No, but you didn’t have to say it out loud,” I muttered with an eye roll.
She was mad—I could sense that.
“Well? Are you going to tell me why you’re here, or should I keep guessing?”
A part of me wanted to let her keep guessing to see what else she thought of me. But I didn’t think I could handle hearing any more. I could already guess what she thought. Avoidant, careless, a mess. All of it, really.
The worst part? She wouldn’t be wrong.
She’d probably list off everything I already told myself on the nights I couldn’t sleep. The nights I stared at the ceiling, picking apart every choice I’d ever made, until there was nothing left but the truth: I was bad at this. At being a daughter. A sister. A person.
So I cleared my throat, straightened my back, and said the words before I could second-guess them. “I came to talk about Mom.”
“What about her?”
“I’m going to cover the payments,” I began. “Her bills, the prescriptions—everything.”
For the first time in a while, she didn’t say anything back. She was probably still processing my words as she stood there staring at me like I’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
“You? With what money?”
I took a deep breath, ignoring her insult. “I got a new job, if you must know,” I lied. The words felt so smooth they were almost believable.
“A new job?”
“Yep,” I said, popping the “P.”
In retrospect, my job—which was sitting in meetings listening to people talk about their feelings—wasn’t terrible. If I looked at it the right way, it was even productive. Therapeutic, maybe. For them.For me? It was more like a hostage situation.
Still, I was sure I was the only one in those meetings getting paid. Not in cash, of course. My paycheck came in the form of Max’s grudging approval and the promise that once this ridiculous circus was over, he’d finally hand over the money.
I doubted the others had a constant annoyance hovering in the background, withholding every dime until they jumped through all the right hoops. No—they had chips, applause, and the satisfaction of proving something to themselves.
I had Max. And bills. And the kind of desperation that made sitting in those plastic chairs feel like a small price to pay.
