“Missed you at dinner on Sunday,”my brother says as I step into the kitchen, condescension dripping from his voice, and passive aggression apparent on his face.
“My PMDD was acting up.”
“Thought you had a migraine.”
I pause, staring into the fridge before snatching a jar of pickles from the door. I slam it shut and turn to face Leo. “Migraines are a symptom of PMDD, asshole.”
Truth be told, I was through the worst of the week by Sunday evening. On Thursday, I was so anxious I wanted to set the world on fire. Friday, it was myself I wanted to set on fire. Saturday is when the migraine set in, and after twenty-four hours of wishing I could dissolve into nonexistence, I sort of began feeling myself again on Sunday.
Except, what does feeling myself even mean at this point? I have no idea who I am.
Those thoughts of dread aren’t linked directly to my PMDD, I don’t think. But they are impossible to explain to the people around me, so telling Everett I had a migraine when we reached Sunday afternoon felt like the easiest explanation.
“Fuck. I know. I’m sorry. That was insensitive.” Leo sighs, his blue eyes warring between guilt and disappointment as he looks at me. “We had news to share with you.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Sometimes I think I’m lying to myself too.
After popping the lid on the jar, I fish out a pickle. Both of my brothers eye me suspiciously from the other side of the kitchen as I take a bite. Bitter juice slams into my tongue, and my entire body clams up before I’m leaning over the sink and spitting it down the drain. “Ah fuck.” I spit again, desperate to get the taste out of my mouth. “These are dill.”
I hate dill pickles. They’re evil incarnate.
Leo snorts, holding out his hand. I set the pickle in his palm, and he immediately takes a bite, moaning. “Goddamn, I miss these.”
“All that money and you can’t afford pickles?”
“My wife doesn’t like the smell,” he deadpans.
“Marriage woes,” I hum, sitting up on the counter and letting my feet dangle off the edge. “So, what’s this news you have to share with me?”
Leo opens his mouth, but Everett speaks before he can. “Actually, Lele, I have something I’d like to talk to you about first.”
Fuck. Here we go.
You’re too messy.
You’re not pulling your weight.
You’ve overstayed your welcome.
We don’t want you around.
All things I expect him to say.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
“You know the bakery is set to open in a few months, and Dahlia needs some help in the cafe. She’s great, you know? At literally everything.” He smiles to himself. “But believe it or not, she’s never worked an espresso machine before. She wants to beknown as much for her coffee as for her baked goods, and since you worked at the coffeehouse years ago, I thought maybe you’d be able to help out?”
He looks nervous, and I wonder if that’s how everyone who talks to me feels when they ask me for a favor. Like they’re walking on eggshells. Ironic, considering it’s also how I feel about myself.
“She needs help curating the menu, setting up the coffee bar, and training new staff. We’d put you on payroll, of course.” He gulps, glancing at Leo before his eyes find mine again. “Plus, we… We think you need to get out of the house. You need something to wake up for in the mornings. Need something to?—”
“I’m writing,” I snap back defensively.
“Where’s the book, Lena?” Leo asks. Sighing, he looks away from me, blinking hard. In a calmer tone, he continues, “Maybe having something else to do will…I don’t know? Help the creativity flow for you? It’s clear you’re stuck, and you can’t live off those dwindling royalties forever.”
My nostrils flare as I attempt deep breaths to calm myself down.
I don’t even understand why I get like this. I know it’s apparent to everyone around me that I’m a dysfunctional mess. I’m a pathetic, twenty-nine-year-old woman with no job, no money, no friends, and no future. I rarely leave the house, and I never do my laundry. I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal with all the major food groups included.
