I click it.
A woman wants to book twelve girls for a painting party next month. She says her daughter loves bright colors and wantssomething fun, not too babyish. I smile for half a second, already picturing the canvas. Maybe a neon butterfly. Maybe sneakers with paint splatter. Maybe little canvases with their names in bubble letters and colors that don’t have to make sense because twelve-year-olds understand joy better than adults.
Then Jacquetta appears in my doorway again and clears her throat.
I close the email.
My smile goes with it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I grab the folder. “Ready.”
I am not ready.
For the next three hours, I sit in rooms where people use words like accountable and communicate while doing neither. I take notes while two department heads argue without raising their voices, which is worse somehow. I watch Jacquetta nod and redirect and summarize feelings back to people who do not want their feelings summarized. I understand why she thinks I’ll be good at this.
I can hear what people aren’t saying. I can find the real issue beneath the petty one. I can keep my face neutral when somebody says something ridiculous with their whole chest. I can sit in the middle of a mess and help people find the cleanest way out.
But being good at a thing does not mean I want to give it more of my life.
By the time I get back to my office, I have fifteen minutes before the next meeting. My stomach growls, and I realize I never ate breakfast. My lunch is in the fridge down the hall, but that feels far away, and I don’t have the energy to stand up again.
I check my phone.
No missed calls or texts.
Javonte is giving me space, exactly like he said he would.
I should appreciate that, but I hate it a little.
I consider sending a quick hello. I miss him, but I lock the screen and set the phone facedown. I’m the one who said I didn’t want to talk. He’s doing what I asked. I can’t get mad that he’s listening.
I turn back to my laptop and open the Lit with Lily email again. The birthday party mom sent three possible dates. One of them could work if I move a class. Another could work if I skip the leadership shadowing session Jacquetta already put on my calendar. The third could work if I give up the only Saturday morning I have free next month.
I open my notebook and start making a list.
?Birthday inquiry.
?Supply inventory.
?Post Bahamas reel.
?Confirm venue deposit.
?Send refund for canceled class.
?Order more brushes.
?Follow up with the woman who asked about a private event for her church group.
The list keeps going and going and going. I stare at it until the words blur.
This is what Javonte saw.
He saw enough to know I was overwhelmed. Enough to know art had started living only in the leftover parts of my life.
He wasn’t wrong about the problem; he was wrong for deciding the answer without me.
