“June is Pride month.”
Her eyes widen. “You want to take almost two weeks off in June? Our busiest time of year?”
There it is.
“No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m more than happy to miss this cross-country Pride-themed family-bonding torture trip they have planned. But they won’t take my word for it. I need something in writing to prove I can’t go.”
“Hold up.” Nat studies me, her eyes way too sharp. “You want a note from your boss giving you permission to skip your family vacation? I think this is a first.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, plopping into the chair in front of her desk. “I won’t survive this trip.”
She smirks at my pain. And then shrugs. “It’s up to Mr. Bishop. He has the final word.”
Unfortunately for me, Mr. Bishop approves my vacation since I never ask for time off. Nat gleefully delivers the news.
“What about all those June weddings?” I gesture toward Nat’s six-month planning board. “Who’s going to lift things for you?”
“You do more around here than lift things, Jonah.” Her attempt at a smile is there and gone as she sits behind her desk and starts typing, a sign she’s done with this conversation. “Besides, it’s summer. We can always hire teenagers willing to make some money.”
“Wow. I’m that expendable.” I jab my hands in my pockets.
Nat stands, her lips in a tight line. Recognizing that look, I take a step back. It’s the same one I got when I accidentally broke the giant sonic screwdriver. She walks around her desk until she’s right in front of me.
“No, Jonah,” she says, poking me in the chest. “You’re that important. You’ve been a mess for the last few months. Snapping at everyone. Taking naps in the TARDIS. Use this time wisely, my friend. Stop avoiding your dad. Tell him you don’t want to be a farmer. Stop snubbing your stepmom. She obviously makes your dad happy. And for Christ’s sake, fix this thing with your brother?—”
“Stepbrother,” I grumble, even knowing she did it on purpose.
She raises an eyebrow. “Fix your shit, Jonah. Then return to work refreshed and drama-free.”
“Can I appeal the decision?”
Nat snorts. “You made a request. It was granted. There’s nothing to appeal. But,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look that I don’t trust for a second, “if you need a moment to yourself, the TARDIS is currently available.”
