“So, I need to choose one?”
She laughed stiffly. “Oh, no. You’re part of the bridal party, so you get to attend both, silly.”
Silly, silly me.
Before anyone else can lay claim to another minute of my time, I change from my work clothes to my pajamas, grab a notebook and a pen, plus the movie, Nine to Five, for inspiration, and plop onto the couch. I’m not moving until I have a clear plan of action for the fall fair. Even if that means simply outlining the bare requirements, so I have something to show Cynthia next week at our meeting. That still won’t be enough, but it will at least be something to prove I’m not completely blowing off this assignment.
Ignoring my buzzing phone on the coffee table, I start with a to-do list that includes contacting the usual employers about two weeks after the spring fair. We want to give them time to put the one fair behind them, but not enough time to forget how helpful it was (hopefully) and to secure their spots for the next one. I’ll also need to make a decision on the food, but I put a question mark next to that, since it hinges on what else I do and how much budget I have left. The easier tasks include renting the huge tent that we set up in the office park’s courtyard, arranging the catering (whatever it ends up being), and contacting the usual sources to place ads and other promotional materials, none of which I can create until I have a firmer plan.
Oh, gosh. List-makers are liars. This activity isn’t making me feel better at all. It’s merely highlighting how far behind I am! I toss the legal pad away from me, onto the floor. The pen soon follows, landing with a “thwack” on top of the skewed paper.
I cover my face with my hands, wishing I could have a good cry about everything. That’s another thing that helps, according to normal people. But I don’t cry about work. Work is something that facilitates life. It’s a means to an end, not a source of angst. Or even joy. It just is.
And if my phone doesn’t stop buzzing, I’m going to throw it through Jane Fonda’s face on my TV.
Lowering my hands, I blink my burning eyeballs and frown at the insistent device. I know it’s Jet, and I know if I don’t answer his texts, he’ll start calling, and he won’t stop until I answer, because he’ll worry I’m not answering. That could lead to a worse possibility: a visit. I can’t temper my bitchiness with him face-to-face right now. The mere thought of how that will end (with more pouting) motivates me to pluck the cell from the table and tap, Can’t talk, without reading through the messages he’s been sending all evening.
A few seconds later, he replies:
You okay?
Just tired
I’ll bring you dinner
That’s okay. Not hungry
Too late
I’m staring at that message, wondering what the heck it means, poised to reply with a string of question marks when I hear a car door slam, followed by my doorbell ringing.
Now I want to cry.
When I open the door, and he lifts in greeting a paper sack with the logo of one of my favorite sushi restaurants, my rumbling stomach outvotes my bad attitude, but I remain silent and passive while he unpacks the food on the coffee table.
Taking in the movie and the pen and pad on the floor, he asks, “Whatcha doin’?”
“Trying to work,” I answer shortly.
“Fuel up, and you’ll feel better.”
Thanks, Coach! Ya think? Are you gonna slap my butt next?
Keeping my snarky comments to myself, I separate the disposable chopsticks Jet hands me and rub them together to smooth away the splinters, then examine my choices. All of my favorites, of course. And way more than I could ever eat.
Jet folds the bag and takes it into the kitchen. Returning with two beers, he sits next to me on the couch and, after setting my drink on the table and taking a few sips of his, says, “So. Rough day?”
I shrug, pluck a tempura-covered nugget from one of the trays in front of me, dip it in soy sauce, and, while I wait for it to stop dripping so I can transfer it to my mouth, reply, “They’re all rough lately.” I pop the roll into my mouth.
He watches me chew, then checks, “Good?”
Nodding, I finally locate my manners after swallowing and say, “Yeah. Thanks.”
He nudges my shoulder with his. “Any time. Now about this job fair…”
I tense once more when he assumes his fix-it mode voice but try not to show it as I select a cream cheese-, avocado-, and crab-filled piece.
“I could help you brainstorm ideas.”
Oh, my favorite word. My brain has been a non-stop storm for weeks now. Surely, he knows that. Or maybe he doesn’t. He’s been busy getting ready for his family’s visit, and I’ve tried to take advantage of that and leverage some space, so we haven’t spent nearly as much time together lately. The time we have spent together, I’ve made a conscious effort to be present and positive—until now. I can’t fake it anymore.
I wash down my food with three gulps of beer while I try to figure out how to kindly reject his offer. Finally, still stalling, I set down my bottle and ask, “You going to eat, or just watch me?”
He avoids my eyes as he picks up the next piece to feed to me. “This isn’t for me. I ate before
