Page 1 of Room for Us

1

My left arm is numb and my ears are ringing. I might be having a heart attack. Panic attack? I’m not breathing. My face is tingling, the skin ballooning. Pressure pushes against my ribs, my spine, pelvis, collarbone. I’m going to pop. Decorate my office with my insides. Splatter-paint my guts all over the white walls.

The idea, however impossible, brings a smidgen of relief. At least it would be something new. A new feeling. No-feeling.

Is this what crazy thinks like?

“Zoey, what on Earth is wrong with you?”

My boss’s mouth is hanging open. She has lipstick on her top teeth, which is a part of her standard operating procedure. When I first started working here, I would discreetly let her know whenever her Mac Russian Red streaked her pearly whites. Basic girl-code, right? If you see a woman with spinach in her teeth or her skirt tucked into her underwear, freaking tell her. Except in Edith’s case. Unlike every other woman on the planet, she took offense to my helpful heads-ups.

I don’t tell her about the lipstick anymore.

Edith waves a pale hand in front of my nose. “Hello? Earth to Zoey! We’re in the middle of a conversation here!”

Edith doesn’t know the definition of conversation. She’s been talking at me for ten minutes regarding the new account I’m taking over next week. Some snooty legal firm downtown wants to throw a fancy party. At the moment, I can’t remember why.

Have you ever seen a pool full of tadpoles? It’s just like the video we watched in middle school health class. Yes, that one—billions of sperm fighting the good fight, trying to be first to the egg. That’s what my brain feels like right now. Little squirming, squishy-tadpole thoughts that can’t find an egg.

The ringing of my desk phone momentarily quiets my mind. Lifting the receiver is automatic.

“Hunter Events, Zoey speaking.” My voice sounds normal. That’s good.

“Zoey Humphries?” asks a chipper woman.

“That’s me. How may I help you?”

“This is Abigail Nelson. Your husband asked me to remind you that we have three confirmed showings today between four and six p.m.”

My mental tadpoles swarm, knocking heads. “Uh… what? Showings of what?”

“Your beautiful apartment, of course!” The real estate agent chuckles, the sound a little forced. “To recap, we’ll be out of your hair by six-thirty this evening. Fingers crossed for an offer!”

I hang up without responding.

Edith’s small, dark eyes squint in disapproval. “Was that a personal call?”

“No.”

There’s a knock on my office door.

“God, what now?” grumbles Edith.

“Come in!” I call, my voice riding an edge of hysteria.

You know the saying about bad things coming in threes? It’s true. I’m riding the bad luck train and there’s no getting off until it lets me off.

“Zoey Humphries?” asks the young, steely-eyed messenger.

“That’s me!”

A manila envelope sails onto my desk, spinning to a stop just inches from my hands. My brows lift and alarmingly, I giggle.

“Whoa! Good aim.”

The messenger doesn’t smile as she says, “You’ve been served,” and leaves, off to make someone else’s day.

Edith has finally had enough. She stands, her knees cracking, Chanel No. 5 mixed with stale body odor wafting over me. A blood red fingernail points to the envelope.

---