I nodded. “Mmm.”
“I’m gonna stand here till you’re gone, so hurry it up.”
I did my best. It was only about forty steps, but it felt like miles. By the time I opened the door to my building, I looked back, and the cop was gone.
Gripped by panic and surprised by the motion once the door closed, I threw up in the corner of the elevator. I didn’t mean to. The wave just plowed over me, and I couldn’t control it. Vomit splashed onto my shoes.
Can’t take these into the house, I decided.
I kicked them off when I got to my floor and left them there.
A combination of night sweats and wet clothes made me think I pissed the bed when I woke up wrapped in damp sheets a few hours later. The memory of being forced awake by a police officer played through my mind on repeat, haunting me all morning. Maybe for Elle, a night like mine might have been standard operating procedure, typical for a Tuesday. But not for me.
No. In my world, it felt a whole lot like rock bottom.
Consequently, I’ve been keeping a low profile at the office today. Which isn’t easy, especially since it’s Wednesday and we have softball practice in about an hour.
Daisy’s been great today. She could tell I’d been through the wringer when I came in late. I’mneverlate, unless I have an off-site morning meeting, which is rare. I’m also never hung over, largely because drinking to excess is not a thing in my world. As a result, Daisy’s got her Mama Bear persona on full tilt; she started me out with a Starbucks run that got me through the morning, then went to the bagel store and got me a plain bagel with butter. When I kept that down, she went to the deli on the corner and got Cream of Rice, which I haven’t had since I was about three years old. She prepared it for me in the tiny staff kitchen/break room/storage closet that houses our microwave, among many other things. It tasted like mildly sweet baby food but made me full without actually feeling like I ate anything substantial. And about thirty minutes ago, she left a corn muffin on my desk when I went to the bathroom to pee.
She hasn’t asked me any questions, hasn’t pushed me for details, just pops her angelic little gray-haired head in every hour or so to make sure I’m recovering. And I am. Well, physically, at least.
Mentally? That’s another story.
I’ve tried composing about half a dozen different emails and text messages to Gracie, but each one sounds worse than the last. I’m not good at writing like she is. Also, I feel like I already apologized for everything with Elle—and then I went and made it worse—so now, there’s just really not much left to say.
Which fucking sucks.
I try not to think about it, because that’s easier, sort of. It’s quiet at the office, which typically would be a welcome change from Gordy’s incessant ramblings, but since he impaled his undoubtedly sub-par manhood with a pencil, he’s been MIA. His absence has left me with lots of quiet time to hang out with my thoughts and come up with new ways to permanently obliterate my chances at finding love again. According to Daisy, Gordy needed to go under general anesthesia for surgical repair ofsaid pencil wound and ended up spending the night in the hospital. They gave him pain meds and he’s been resting at home since being discharged Monday afternoon.
I suppose the timing has actually been perfect for this nervous breakdown of mine.
There’s a gentle knock at my door. “Yeah?” I ask.
It’s Daisy. “Want to share an Uber to the field with me?” she asks. “My treat this time.”
“Sure,” I say.
“And I promise, we don’t have to talk at all. Not unless you want to.”
I look at her and offer a small smile. “Thank you,” I say.
I collect my stuff, shut down my computer, and we leave together. True to her word, Daisy lets me sit in the backseat next to her and mindlessly stare out the window. A horn blares outside, and I realize my headache is gone. It appears my hangover has passed.
As if she’s reading my mind, Daisy says, “You okay?”
I nod. “Feeling much better, actually.”
“I’m glad,” she says. “Because I have to tell you something.”
I turn to face her. Nothing good has ever come from a line likeI have to tell you something.“What is it?” I say.
“Gordon’s coming to practice.”
“For what?” I ask. “Shouldn’t he be—I don’t know—resting his one good ball?”
Daisy nods. “Probably, yes. But you know Gordon.”
“Master of FOMO,” I say.
