When I bragged about how well I was doing. Revenue, budget, marketing. But what about the most important skill of all—managing the business?
Today, I failed at that big time. “I know.”
“And I’m just saying, you seem a littleoffright now,” she says, her tone gentle, caring even, and somehow that makes me feel worse. Frazzled.
“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m clearly not fine, and that’s obvious.
“I just don’t want you to get distracted.” She sets a hand on my arm in a reassuring, motherly way. “What if this had happened to another client? Someone who’s not your mother?”
My stomach drops.
The implication is clear—at least I didn’t mess up in front of someone else. I hate that she’s right. “I appreciate you giving me this chance,” I say.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
But right now, I feel like I need help with everything, and that’s the problem. I’ve never felt more childish, foolish, or unlucky. Except it’s not luck at play.
It’s just me.
43
THE ANTI-CONTRIBUTOR
CORBIN
This is the worst game of my professional life.
I’ve spent more time in the sin bin tonight than I have in the last month. It’s penalty after penalty, and that’s unlike me. I move the plays along. I don’t fuck shit up.
But tonight I’ve done plenty of the latter.
I grind my teeth, ready to bolt when the seconds tick off.
At the end of my jail time, I fly out of the box and race across the ice, hell-bent on making something happen. Riggs feeds me the puck, and I’m fast and aggressive, slapping it toward the opponent’s net.
And missing.
Of course.
The rest of the game goes just like that. When it’s mercifully over, we’ve lost and I’ve contributed nothing.
No. That’s not true. I anti-contributed.
I stomp into the locker room, slam my stick down on the floor, and head straight for the showers. I avoid everyone. Coach, the publicists, even my teammates as best as I possibly can. Once I’m dressed, I leave, stalking to my car. On the way home, I blast loud rock music that drowns out all the thoughts of everything that went wrong today.
I’ve got to apologize properly to Mabel. But when I reach Cozy Valley, surprise, surprise, the flower shop is closed. Hell, the grocery store is even closed.
Great, I’ll show up empty-handed. Isn’t that perfect?
I park outside the bakery, turn off my car, and head inside, where I find Mabel spraying down the display case. Her eyes are empty. Her expression, grim. My heart hurts so much. I did this to the woman I adore. The woman I love.
“Hey,” she says, her tone flat.
“Hey.” I walk toward her. She looks like she’s had a worse day than me. “I’m sorry,” I add, but it feels hollow. Not because I don’t mean it, but because I keep doing this—apologizing. Which means I keep messing up. “Just like I was sorry for the pretzels, and I was sorry for not getting here to help for the cookie swap, and I’m really fucking sorry about this morning.”
“It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” she says with a shrug. But she sounds wooden. No, it’s not that. She sounds depressed.
“It is my fault,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
