Eventually, I passed out on my couch. Again.
I dreamed I was back at my desk in Simon’s office, trying to wade my way through a sea of emails. And it felt like a relief. After weeks of being home, alone, people finally needed me again. Every Slack or text was a hit of adrenaline. A rush of validation. A tiny little fire only I could extinguish. James was late with his report. Simon was lost on his way to lunch, and for no reason, Delia showed up to hand me a sweater.
At some early hour the next morning, I woke up sweating and gasping, completely lost.
It was all a part of the cycle. I’d wake up sometime past noon, try to do something moderately good for myself—like drinking water or going for a walk—and then catch sight of the note card. And instead of doing anything productive, I’d sink right back into the gaping wound that was my ruined career.
Of course, not totally ruined. I could look for another job. But I didn’t have enough experience to vault too far past the title and tenure I had with Simon. So whatever job I landed would feel like starting over. Clawing my way up the ladder all over again. Impressing new people, doing grunt work, saying yes to everything. I’d already done the all-nighters and the whirlwind trips. I couldn’t stomach the thought of going back to the starting line and cutting my teeth again.
A few weeks ago, I had a five-year plan—an airtight, bulletproof, underdog-takes-the-moon plan.
Getting a great degree and then the perfect job and then insulating myself with power and money were the sum total of mymission. And every now and then the thought crept in that I hadn’t felt this lost since my parents died. Or maybe ever.
Because when my parents died, I had the thought of some perfect job to distract me.
Now, all I had was a recycling bin full of wine and tequila bottles. And a note card I worshipped at like it was some kind of shrine.
Another fun feature of my post-Simon life? Midnight panic attacks.
At some early hour the next morning—after I passed out on my couch—I started awake, heart pounding. My head throbbed like all the red wine I’d had was trying to punch its way out of my system.
My phone was ringing from somewhere on my coffee table. It was Delia.
“Hello,” I croaked.
“Morning, darling,” she said in that breezy voice of hers. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
We didn’t catch up with any kind of schedule—she wasn’t partial to tradition—but she happened to call two days after Simon let me go. Calling more than once a quarter was about as maternal as she got.
“Sorry,” I said, rubbing at my eyes. The lights of my living room were on, but my vision was clouded with sleep. “I’ve been—”
“You’ve been wallowing. I can hear it in your voice.” When I didn’t disagree, shetsked and added, “Go get a blowout. Buy a new dress. You’re young. You should be enjoying it.”
Slap a smile on and keep it moving, that was Delia’s doctrine.
Nothing champagne and a jazz bar can’t remedy.
On better days, I admired her indomitable spirit and the way she made being alone look heroic. But today, it only sharpened the truth: In this world, I had no one to lean on when I was broken.
“A new dress,” I mumbled. “I’ll try that.”
“Do you want me to call someone? Find you something new?”
Delia had been adoer.Someone with little use for feelings. Emotions were distractions, and Delia never let herself be distracted for long.
“I’m just going to take a little time, and—”
“Wallow.” She sighed. “Well, all right, but don’t waste too much time on regret. There’s not much any of us can do with that.”
Right.
I hung up and thought of the last time my life detonated like this. Delia plucked me from the chilly Boston suburbs and dropped me in New Orleans. Never to return. And since I’d moved to California, I hadn’t been back to Louisiana. Another clean break. Now, as I reached for my water glass on the coffee table, I wondered if California should be next on the list of places I’d abandon for good.
Sitting back with my water in hand, my fingers grazed the stem of a day-old glass of red wine. I heard the top-heavy wobble and lunged.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.
The wineglass tipped toward the note card. Pinot noir sloshed up to the edge of the glass before I managed to get my hand underneath it. But just in time, stem in hand, I righted it. Only a few drops had escaped, landing on the bottom-right corner of the note card. A tiny stain, blooming like a drop of blood.
