Catering for the Nelson event isn’t finalized yet. Those revisions on the mood board for the Rodriguez event are still pending. There’s that new client I still need to get a head-start on—what was the name? If I stay up late, ask Mom to help out after work to put the girls to sleep, and focus all my time on fulfilling these projects, it’s all doable.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I cringe.Shit, I can’t do this.
There is no possible scenario in which I can fulfill all this work, find another qualified planner quickly, start growing the business,andkeep myself plus all three kids—including one baby—alive and unscathed. Even if I remove the business growthaspect from the equation, I still don’t see how I’m going to pull this off.
Theoretically, I can find the hours in the day. I could cut on sleep to make it work. But I know that will just make me crash and burn. The quality of my work will suffer. And there goes my perfect reputation. There’s no way I’m half-assing an event plan because of my bad judgement with an employee.
I took on these projects because I had Rosalie to rely on. Did I know that her quitting was a possibility? Of course. But I never imagined she’d leave me high and dry like this. I expected better.
Guess my taste in employees isn’t much better than my taste in men.
“Settle down,” I whisper to myself. There’s no use letting this get to me. First, I need to get back home so I can sit down and think properly and figure out how to get myself out of this without sacrificing my clients, my reputation, or my sanity.
So that’s what I do; I jog back home with less enthusiasm than before. Julian, on the other hand, is as happy as can be, not a care in the world. Looking down at him all settled in the stroller, I feel a pang of love and tenderness. There’s a part of me that wishes I could keep him like this forever—carefree, oblivious to every nagging thought haunting his mother.
But every parent knows that’s not how it works.
By the time I’m back home, the dizziness and slight panic have faded away, leaving room for calm to settle over me. I lean back against the couch to breastfeed Julian and begin to focus.
I’ve got a few options. And I like … absolutely none of them.
Option one: I drop and reimburse one of my clients. I’ve only just started with the Latraverse project, for instance, so there’s not much sunk cost to worry about there. What I am worried about, on the other hand, is a frazzled client who will bad-mouth me for cancelling. Right now, I’ve got a solid reputation around the city. I’m seen as creative and reliable, which is a hard comboto get. And if I want to keep growing this business, I can’t do something that’ll taint how people see me.
Option two: I ask my mom to handle the girls—and Julian for the most part, except for feeding him—for all of next week; drop-offs, pick-ups, dinner, bedtimes, the whole shebang. The worst thing is that I know she’d say yes if I asked. But she’d also have to take several weeks off from work, which would hurt her cash flow significantly. And that wouldn’t be an issue if she accepted my financial help at all, which she does not.
Option three: I hire a full-time, short-term nanny with the cash I would have used to pay the fees for Will’s help. But in all honesty, finding someone I trust on such short notice would be nearly impossible. And I’m not willing to throw my children into the arms of someone I haven’t carefully vetted.
Finally, there’s option four. My least favourite option which, unfortunately, seems like the best option.
I call Will back and tell him I need his help. The thought alone sends a bout of nausea through me. I don’t know if Julian senses it, because he fusses at my chest and starts wriggling. I do my best to reposition him as I think through this option carefully.
The idea of willfully spending my valuable time with that man sends my heart racing. I can just imagine his self-righteous smirk and the patronizing look he would give me. The last thing I want to give him is the satisfaction of asking for his help.
I glance at Julian, who is quietly drinking with his eyes closed. I caress his soft blonde hair and revel in the feather-light feeling of it. My chest wants to explode with all the love I feel for him. And for my girls.
I can’t let my ego make decisions for me. I must think of them. After all, none of it matters if they’re unhappy. If they’re not properly cared for. What kind of mother would I be if I let myfear of wounded pride stand between me and what’s best for my kids?
Closing my eyes, I take a moment to savour the present. The last instant where I get to pretend I’ve got it all under control on my own. It’s a blissful moment, even if it’s built on lies.
I wait until Julian has had his fill and is settled on his tummy time mat in front of the couch, then I go stand by the large window at the end of the room and reluctantly pull my phone from the pocket of my leggings.
I take another deep breath before dialling Will’s number. I hate that I still have it.
He picks up but doesn’t immediately speak. A few seconds go by before he only says, “Sophie.” His voice is deep and steady, unwavering.
“Will.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I hope I don’t have to specify why I’m calling.”
“Actually,” he starts, “please enlighten me.” From the sound of it, he’s got a huge smile plastered on his face.Dick.
I sigh loudly. “I … need your help.” The last word comes out as barely more than a whisper.
“You need … what?” he says. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you.” My cheeks flush; I hate how much he’s enjoying this, and a sudden urge thunders through me to hang up and throw the phone as far away as I can.
But a quick glance at Julian, who’s happily playing with a rattle, reminds me of why I’m doing this. With newfound resolve, I repeat my statement: “I need your help.” This time, I’ve left no room for misunderstanding.
