I’m on my way out of my office, having stood up abruptly when I realized I was late for a meeting, when my head begins to pound, inky black spots poking at my vision. I sway, knocking my hip on my intern’s desk just outside my door.
I tumble a bit at the obstruction, catching myself with my palms on the surface of her desk and sending my laptop and planner flying.
“Oh!” Eugenia gasps.
My eyes blink closed when I realize the black in front of my eyes is growing. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Firm hands grip my wrists, lifting me away from the desk. “Just…” Her voice trails off. She pulls me back and pushes on my shoulder. “Sit down for a second.”
I obey, lowering myself to the floor and resting my head between bent knees. Eugenia rubs my back while I take a few breaths. My office is at the end of the hallway; I’m desperately hoping nobody comes past and sees me like this. Vulnerable. Overwhelmed.
“This is embarrassing,” I grumble.
“You’ve been putting in a lot of hours lately,” Eugenia notes. “Your body caught up.”
I can feel a tiny heartbeat behind my eyelids pulsing in agreement with her words. I haven’t slept, eaten,breathedevenly since Garlic Fest.
I inhale, exhale. Do it again.
Every day I get closer to my two-week trip abroad with Will Grant is another day I’ve been piling obscene amounts of work onto my desk. Even Derrick asked why I’d been calling so much lately, and he’s usually the one sending angry texts when I don’t answer the phone.
I’ve made a pointnotto create a toxic hustle environment. I’ve made a point to encourage our employees to maintain their work-life balance.
For everyone besides me.
I’m usually better at hiding it than this.
“You’re usually better at hiding it than this,” Eugenia says.
A garbled laugh trips out of me. I pry my eyes open, focusing on her. She’s on the floor, too, seated facing me in her pink jumpsuit, her braided hair draped over one shoulder, her legs crossed, posture straight.
Over the past ten days of Eugenia managing my calendar, I’vebecome a scarily productive version of myself. She’s asked me on several occasions if this is too many meetings per day, if I’d like her to block thirty minutes for a lunch break, twenty minutes for an outdoor walk. I lied when I registered the concern on her face, told her that the day I got back from San Francisco last week, I took the afternoon off and spent it lounging in the sunshine. (Actually, I spent that afternoon indoors at home, catching up on my CEO class coursework.)
“I know an overachiever when I see one.” Eugenia points at herself.
“You’ve gotten me at my worst,” I admit. “I’ve been self-medicating with work ethic.”
“At first,” Eugenia says, “I thought you were just trying to get everything squared away before your trip abroad with Will Grant. But Josephine, you spent thirty minutes on the phone yesterday haggling over a warehousetoilet paper contract.”
“What if we fail the B Corp review because our toilet paper isn’t made with recycled materials?” I practically shriek.
“Nobody wants to wipe with recycled toilet paper!” Eugenia shrieks back.
“It’s not recycled toilet paper, it’s toilet paper made with recycled—” She holds up a palm, and I cut myself off, huffing.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Really. You can talk to me. About anything.”
I swear, there’s something easier about admitting your problems to people you hardly know at all.
“I feel guilt,” I blurt. “The guilt is what’s pushing me to act like this.”
“Guilt,” Eugenia repeats.
“I feel this overwhelming, heart-wrenching guilt,” I say, all in a rush, confused and unsure and wobbly. “Because I have a crush on him. Will Grant.”
“No kidding.”
“You aren’t surprised?”
