Levi
Sadie, are you kidding?
Why is he texting me at 6:30 in the morning?
Huh? Going to need a few more details, Coach Montgomery.
Levi
I’ve told you no less than a hundred times to call me Levi.
Text bubbles appear again before I can respond and remind him I’ll never be able to do that. He’s my boss, and as much as he wants me to… my sense of respect won’t allow it.
Levi
Stop trying to get into your work email. It’s called a leave of absence for a reason. Alex reset the password, and she won’t tell me what it is.
Alex knows her future hubby is a softy, even if everyone else doesn’t. I could probably beg or bother him enough to get it out of himifhe knew it.
Fine. But can I make you a list? Because there’s a lot going on, and three weeks is too long for an email to go unanswered.
I close my eyes tightly, willing him to give in. I need this. I need to be able to do this one thing right. My job is all I have, and while my family thinks this is all a good lesson for me, I’ve worked too hard to let it all slip away in exchange for a Mai Tai on a beach somewhere or completing the puzzle book that’s all but finished.
Levi
Sadie, we never agreed on a timeline, and there’s more to life than working. I had to learn that the hard way. But if a list will help you feel better, call me Monday at 9 to walk me through it.
I choose to ignore the timeframe comment and instead send back a quick thank you, paired with a thumbs up emoji. It’s not the same as doing the job myself, but at least I won’t return to a horde of angry pee-wee coaches and players. That is assuming he lets me come back.
Trudging down the hall, my mind makes a list of all the things I need to do today: a shower, food, planning. My stomach bellows, practically begging for pancakes from 1793—Beth’s diner. I need to plan for what I can accomplish while I’m on leave, and what Levi can do in the meantime, but I could do that over a stack with extra syrup.
I feel better already. What’s that saying? Failing to plan is like hoping in one hand, and—nope, that’s not it.
With one foot on the threshold of my room, I stop moving.
How?
The book I shoved in my dresser last night is laid out on my patchwork comforter, but I could swear I didn’t put it there.
"Mom, did you move the book Beth gave me?" I holler down the hall toward her bedroom.
"No, hunny."
How did it get there? Did I pull it out and not remember, or is this thing like my car keys that always seem to be somewhere different than I recall placing them?Could be either, honestly.
Reaching across my bed, I clutch the book, pull open the small drawer on my nightstand, and shove it inside. It takes some effort—there're all sorts of random stuff lingering from my teenage years—hoarder could be my middle name when it comes to anything with sentimental value.
Maybe I should add cleaning out my room and closet to the list.
I head into the bathroom, undress, turn the shower on as hot as it will go, and step into the spray. As the water skates down my body, thoughts of last night flood my mind.
Mom, Mal, and I spent the evening catching up. Mom confessed to continuing her biweekly frozen food delivery from Schwann’s solely to stare at her delivery driver’s ass in his navy blue shorts. I’m fairly confident she’s been harboring a secret crush on Bill for the better part of a decade. Then Mal filled us in on the judgmental PTA moms at Lily’s school. She apparently isn’t "good enough" because she has a full-time job and can’t volunteer daily, not to mention three other small children—they would hate to see me coming.
Finishing my shower, I turn off the water and step onto the plush green floor mat, grabbing my towel. My stomach grumbles audibly, but I take my time drying off. Massachusetts is humid in the summer—all but winter, actually—and while my long hair is pretty manageable, blow-drying it is the only way to ensure itstays frizz-free. Breakfast, and the rest of my agenda, will need to wait despite my body’s protest.
Roughly an hour, and a full episode of the lady boss podcast I’ve been listening to pass by the time I’m making my way out of the bathroom. Years of practice still haven’t made me more efficient at the effort it takes to look presentable. I’m convinced curling irons were made specifically to torture women. My delayed path to pancakes couldn’t have been stalled by the thirty minutes I sat on the floor punching notes into an app on my phone with ideas for new event marketing. Or the time I spent looking at all the junk under the sink.
On cue, my phone buzzes with a reminder to take my medication. I frown at the device while feeling both grateful and a bit like it’s trolling me after the very unnecessary exploration of body sprays I’ve had since seventh grade that I just completed. Choosing to listen instead of being annoyed, I dig the prescription bottle out of my makeup bag, pop one in my mouth, and steal a sip of water from the sink.
