And that damn to-do list racing through my mind won’t stop. I swear, I look around and find one more thing to add. Meanwhile, I’ve spent all morning smiling and checking out customers, prepping for another event at the store this weekend with any lull I can find, tackling the dumb thermal printer that’s jammed again.
I did this to myself. I mean, I built this business. I’m proud of that. But the Salty Romantic is eating me alive, and for so long, I was okay with throwing myself all in. And it’s worked, because we’re growing.
But when does it stop?
Zoe pops her head out from the office where she’s trying to untangle a missing shipment of books. “Peyton’s calling for you.”
“Not now,” I snap. “So sorry, Zoe.” My voice softens, even as she waves off my anger. “Not now. Tell her I’ll call back soon.”
My eyes dart toward my phone on the counter, and that’s when I see another text from Mr. Piersanti.
Shit.
I really need to get back to him, but instead, I make some silly joke with the customer waiting for me to figure out what the fuck I’m doing. I force a swallow, even though it feels like I’ve swallowed a bunch of knives, and say with a lot of unearned confidence, “We are switching to cash.”
It’s fine. It’s all fine.
Only, my nose won’t stop running, and my eyes burn. I’ve been fighting off whatever this is for the past few days, but it’s unrelenting now. I rush into the office to make myself a cup of tea and dig through my purse to find some more zinc.
The bottle’s empty. I toss it into the trash, quickly make a cup of tea, and collapse into my office chair.
Zoe knocks on the door. “Izzy, are you okay? If you’re not feeling well, you should go home.”
My bed sounds like heaven. Some hot soup. Maybe a hug from Jack.
I squeeze my shoulder, except the knot that’s been building there for months doesn’t budge. It tightens. “I’m fine,” I sigh, ignoring the way my eyes sting with the threat of tears. “I don’t want to leave you with all of this.” I wave around. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You pay me to deal with this.” Zoe adjusts her glasses, then grips the doorway, leaning into my small office. “There’s only one of you, Iz. At some point, you’re going to realize you’re human and not a robot.”
“Damn, I was hoping I never had to tell you?—”
“Izzy.” Her voice is firm, which is a surprise. Zoe is never anything but sarcastic and quippy.
“Are you mad at me?” I drop my head on my desk, speaking into my folded arms. I don’t want her to be. But at twenty-eight, I’m still afraid I’ll get in trouble.
“No, I’m not mad at you. Izzy, you’re a grown ass adult.” She sighs. “If you won’t go home, then at least take a few minutes. Rest your eyes, and I’ll shut the door. I’ll grab you if there’s a romance emergency, but I promise you, everything is figureoutable.”
“That’s not a word,” I grumble, sleep already pulling at my eyelids.
“Be grumpy at me if you need to be. Someone needs to take care of you.”
The door shuts softly behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But it’s not a kind place to be. My head is pounding, my chest is tight, and Mr. Piersanti’s message is still waiting for my reply. I’ve been avoiding it, but I can’t breathe.
I pick up the phone before I can talk myself out of it—not because I’m ready, but because I’m so tired of carrying everything. Still, that nagging voice reminds me I’m a failure. That if I tried harder, I’d be better. Easier to love.
“Hi, Mr. Piersanti,” I say when he answers. Shit, why did he have to pick up?
“Izzy, so glad to hear from you. Do you have any news for me?”
I grab a tissue, wipe my nose, and glance up at the ceiling, fighting back tears. “I want to thank you for your consideration. I’ve decided not to move forward with the expansion right now.”
The room tunnels around me, Mr. Piersanti’s voice sounds far, far away. The panic that’s been gnawing at me since yesterday—okay,longer—doesn’t play nice. I tell him I have to goas my hands shake and the air in my lungs burns, squeezing out on each breath. My heart drums in my chest.
My knees buckle when I stand. The thin throw rug doesn’t help when I collapse. The concrete beneath still collides against my knees, cold and hard. I hold my knees and focus on drawing air in and out of my lungs, certain I’m about to die. I reach my hand up to the desk, fumbling for my phone until my fingertips brush over it, and I grab it, pressing it to my ear on another shaky breath.
For once, my mom picks up, and I drag in a breath. I just want her to tell me it’ll be okay.
“Call back later, baby.” She slurs a bit. “Busy. Gotta go.”
