I get my phone from the bed next to me where I left it last night and turn it on, dread pooling in my stomach at finally having to face what happened.
I immediately regret the decision when the phone dings with voicemails, texts and emails.
I contemplate turning the phone back off and pulling the covers back over my head, but I suppose I should at least listen to everything in case there’s an actual emergency on my phone. I tally the missed calls up before I dig in to the messages: nine from Mom, five from Sonia, three from Ajay and none from Dad or Gavin.
Mom’s worried. She said Dad told her something was wrong but wouldn’t give her any details so she demands I call back and let her know who she should be mad at. The message catches her saying that it’s probably going to be Kabir under her breath before it cuts out.
Sonia’s confused. She said Dad told her I’m coming back but there’s a lot of tension in the office and she wants me to let her know how much longer she has to be the supervisor, and also to let her know if I’m okay.
Ajay’s contrite. Dad must have told him what he did, and Ajay’s deeply sorry that he indirectly interfered with my sale. He also wants to show me the painting he did when I was gone, hoping it’ll cheer me up when I get back to the office.
Apparently Dad didn’t tell him everything then.
I ignore everyone, not having the energy to respond. I do find just enough energy to drag myself to the couch, where I stay the rest of the day wrapped in a blanket, my streaming service asking me multiple times if I’m still watching. Yes, but thanks for the reminder.
Finally, when the sun goes down and I know Sonia’s day should be over, I call her back.
“Oh thank god,” she says before I can say anything. “Please take your job back. I hate this much responsibility. I just want to look at pretty art and have a life.”
The normalcy of the request makes me laugh, but the events of the last few days catch up with me and the laugh cuts off abruptly.
“Priya, are you okay?” Sonia gets serious.
“Not really.”
“Where are you?” I can already hear her packing up her purse, rustling paperwork around her desk.
“Home.”
“Okay, I’m coming. Have you eaten? Doesn’t matter, I’m bringing food.”
“You don’t need to come...”
Sonia scoffs. “Right. I’m coming.”
I drag myself to the bathroom to do the bare minimum in personal hygiene, and then curl back into a ball of athleisure on the couch.
Even thinking about explaining it all to Sonia makes me want to throw something.
Before I start destroying my home, I hear a knock on my door. I psych myself up to get up, but then the lock turns.
It’s a good thing that I gave Sonia a key for emergencies. This has to qualify.
“I have pizza and gyro and cheesecake and pad thai.” Sonia bursts in, bumping the door closed behind her, a lot of smells coming from all of my favorite take-out comfort foods. She sets all the bags on the table in front of me, goes to my kitchen, and comes back with plates, utensils and wine bottles. No glasses, just the bottles. “What do you want first?”
“None of it.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a plate with a little of everything then.”
How Indian of her.
She opens one of the wine bottles first and hands it to me. When I don’t do anything with it, she pushes at the end until I take a sip. Satisfied, she fixes me that plate.
After I attempt a few bites, Sonia stops being patient. “So. What’s happening?”
I put the plate down, not able to eat and go through everything again. I focus on the plate while I tell her what happened so I don’t have to look at Sonia and lose it.
I’m gratified by the sounds of outrage that come from her at the exact perfect moments.
