I accept a tissue, knowing I’m going to have a headache after this visit. And then I explain why my dad left: “Mom finally called him out on his cheating, though she’d known for a while. And that was it for him.”
“How did you feel about that? Your mother calling him out.”
I blow my nose noisily, then wave my tissue-clutching fist in a faintly frustrated gesture. “I— He wasn’t the greatest father, but I loved him. That’s what you do when you’re a kid, right? You love your parents. And he… He taught me some stuff, I guess. How to throw a ball. How to plant things without killing them. I helped him with his landscaping business for a few summers before he bailed.”
I snatch another tissue, my voice growing thicker. “But for every kiss I got on a feverish forehead, there were twenty angry freak-outs over nothing. Tension whenever he came home in a bad mood, Mom crying after finding out about another woman. I could tell Mom was unhappy with him, but—” I shake my head. “She was worse after he left. Miserable. We struggled a ton with bills. She kept saying she should’ve just kept her mouth shut.” I slam my rolled-up ball of tissues into the little trash can to the left of my leg.
“Why do you—?”
“Even a broken pot holds some water, I guess. Better than no pot at all. I don’t know.” I fold in on myself. My tone is clipped. This raw nerve needs a respite. I pull my hair over my shoulder and thread the strands through my index and middle fingers aggressively, like a monkey trying to self-soothe.
“We talked about the Vaughns last time, and you were alarmed by the idea that in a healthy relationship, the partieschooseone another each day. Do you think that, maybe, some of your fears related to relationships and commitments are grounded in this trauma? That one of the most foundational relationships you can have—the one you have with a parent—resulted in younotbeing chosen? That a parent-child relationship should be exempt from the ‘choose each other each day’ idea, but when things became difficult, your father didn’t choose you?”
I drop my hair and sit back, feeling as if I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.
The day is a hazy one, like the entire week preceding it. The clash between summer and fall has led to a streak of weather that is by equal turns unbearably warm and extraordinarily damp. It’s a match for the discomfort I feel inside following my therapy session a few days ago.
I adjust my hair clip to pull more hair off the back of my sticky neck and lean against the copier, listening to the loud whining of the beige beast. All the rooms on this side of the building face the onslaught of the glass-amplified sun each morning. Doesn’t matter how little light peeks out from the clouds, the air-conditioning is no match for the mini-greenhouses the conference rooms and copier room become.
My stomach calls my name, and I ruthlessly ignore it, promising myself a wrap from the cafeteria in—I glance at my cell—half an hour. Instead of counting down the half hour till noon, I turn my attention to the framed minimalist motivational posters on the wall and sigh. Less than five weeks left to finish the global project, earn myself a raise, and get myself approved for a mortgage so that I can formally offer for my place before my lease is up.
No pressure.
DON’T DECREASE THE GOAL.
INCREASE THE EFFORT.
The poster shouts at me in white block letters on a black background.
Fuck you, poster.
The global project has legs, but Monday—when The Professor is back from his vacation—is looming large. I feel like a woman possessed, working all hours to get the framework built out, thinking through every angle I possibly can. Rochelle nods approvingly whenever I share status updates with her, but the downside to all of this, besides killing myself with work, is that work on the wall has slowed. Jack seems to be similarly wrapped up with a case, so we agreed to table the remaining wall demo until the coming weekend.
“I told them,” my coworker Donna says, just outside the copy room. “I said if I don’t get that title, and the payday to go with it, I’m walking. And they gave it to me, like that.”
“What’s your title going to be? Finally a director?” Donna’s favorite lunch buddy, Judith, asks as they pass. I barely hear Donna answer in the affirmative.
FuckingDonnagot a promotion and a raise? She spends more time gossiping than doing work, her voice is nails-on-a-chalkboard unpleasant, and she takes every opportunity she can to henpeck everyone around her. The Vanna White of the company also loves showcasing other people’s efforts as her own. And I know for a fact she refuses to work evenings and weekends. What the hell kind of ladder am I trying to climb if Donna is beating me up it?
I grab my printouts and walk to my desk, flopping the stack of copies down with athwack. Three years and no increase. Rochelle said she’s tried. And yetDonnagets a raise? I sit heavily, slumped in my chair.
I need to rage to someone, but Margie’s filming a commercial her agent booked for her. Avery’s always lab-coated and covered in the cooties he studies, so he can’t pick up until way later. Mom… I laugh. She hates this job. I’d get a more sympathetic ear out of my dry cleaner.
I pick up my phone and scroll, pausing on a name in the Ds. It belongs to the only person I kinda, sorta, really feel like talking to at the moment, which worries me.
Demon. It’s how Jack is listed in my phone. Gence made us exchange numbers when he was trying to head off our little war at the pass. The picture I added to his entry was the first horned, red-faced, evil creature Google served up.
Do I…?I click to start a text.
Hey. It’s Penny. From next door.
I delete it. Too formal.
I try again, enjoying the fantasy ofmaybetexting Jack.
Jackoff Penny here
I snort. Friggin’ autocorrect. I’ve just deleted the “here” when Rochelle peers over my cubicle wall, startling me. “Hey, Penny, the pivots you sent are great.” She gives me a bright smile and disappears back over my wall.
