I open my notes app instead and add a bullet point.
Pick up Nina’s parcels. White boxes. Do not let them get wet. Or damaged. Or accidentally launched into traffic.
From the outside, this probably looks like teamwork. Flexibility. Going above and beyond.
From the inside, it looks like this: I am pregnant, caffeine-deprived, and apparently responsible for urban planning admin, magazine alignment, and festive gift logistics for people who own dogs that cost more than my monthly food shop.
The phone lights up again.
I put on my headset and answer it, smile perfectly in place.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
Because this is what I do.
And somewhere, quietly, under the professionalism and the compliance and the Chihuahua-based intimidation, a thought settles in again.
There must be something better out there.
The minute I end the call the phone rings again.
I answer it without looking at the display, because optimism is a character flaw.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
“CHRISTA.”
Oh God.
“Mum,” I say, instantly dropping my voice by an octave. “I’m at work.”
“Yes, I know,” she says cheerfully, which means she absolutely does not care. “I won’t keep you. I just had to call because I’ve just seen Alex.”
My stomach drops so fast it nearly takes my soul with it.
“Mum,” I say, already waving a hand at the phone like she can see me, “now is not—”
“He looks very well,” she barrels on. “Bit thinner. Still handsome. I always said that man looked good in a coat.”
“I am begging you,” I hiss, glancing down the corridor, “please do not talk about Alex.”
“And he asked after you,” she continues, undeterred. “Well, he asked how you were, which is basically the same thing. I told him you’re still at that planning place and—”
“Mum,” I say through clenched teeth, “I am just the receptionist.”
“Yes, yes,” she says. “Anyway, I thought, you know, maybe this is fate. People do find their way back to each other. Look at your Aunt Sheila and Ron.”
Aunt Sheila and Ron divorced twice.
“I am not getting back together with Alex,” I say, grinning brightly at a man walking past because professionalism is a prison. “That ship has sailed. Sank. Exploded. Took on water again for good measure.”
“Well,” my mum says, unfazed, “you were engaged. That has to count for something.”
“It counts for a panic attack,” I mutter.
“And you did always say you wanted stability,” she adds. “And he’s got that nice job now. And I know things ended badly, but—”
I glance up and see Caroline approaching reception, heels clicking with purpose, clipboard in hand.
