Page 3 of The Maine Event

I sink back, allowing myself to relax for the first time in what feels like months. I haven’t been to visit in ages, and it feels… strange. Almost like I don’t belong here anymore.

I moved out of Mom’s house as soon as I could, desperate to make something of myself. Even back in high school, I was the girl with the color-coded planner and the stack of textbooks bigger than my head. The girl who stayed up until midnightfinishing extra credit assignments just to make sure no one could beat me to valedictorian.

God, I remember the feeling of opening that acceptance letter to Northwestern, my hands shaking so badly I almost ripped it in half. It wasn’t even about leaving—no, I was ready for that. It was about proving I could do it. That I could be the best. That all the late nights and stress-induced migraines meant something.

Mom used to worry about me back then, always saying I was pushing myself too hard. Claire, on the other hand, just thought I was nuts. “You’re like a hamster on an espresso drip,” she once joked when I was cramming for finals. “Chill out, Rach. You’re already a shoo-in.”

But chilling out never felt like an option. Not for me. I couldn’t let myself be just good enough. I had to be the best. I had to make something of myself—something big, something important.

Maybe Mom was right all those years ago. Maybe I have been pushing myself too hard. But the thought of slowing down, of stopping to take stock of my life, terrifies me. Because what if, when I stop, I realize that none of it is worth anything at all?

“I know, I know,” I concede, putting my phone away. “I’ll try to unplug more, I promise.”

“You’d better. You’re not too old for the flying slipper, you know.”

To be fair, my mom’s ability to nail someone with a slipper from across the room is legendary. When Claire and I were growing up, she could hit your arm or your leg, or whatever appendage was offending her, from thirty feet. It was never thrown with particular malice, but the accuracy was astounding.

“Still think you’ve got it, Mom? You’re not in your thirties anymore, and I’m not eight.”

“That’s true, butyouare in your thirties now, and luckily for me, you’re a much bigger target. I like my chances.”

Mom hovers a hand near an ankle, fingers twitching over her slipper like a gunslinger ready to draw.

“Okay. Okay.” I concede and place my phone face down on the coffee table, out of sight, out of mind.

As soon as I do, Mom smiles and turns off the television. “So, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Have you been fired?”

“No!” I squeak, horrified at the thought. “I’m… I’m on vacation.”

“Since when?”

“About an hour ago.”

I fill Mom in on my forced sabbatical and foolishly admit that I don’t really know what to do with myself. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.

With the lithe grace of a mountain cat, she’s up and out of her armchair, dialing my sister’s cell phone before I know what’s happening.

Thirty minutes later, my life is ruined.

“Claire will pick you up at ten on Sunday,” Mom announces, far too pleased with herself. “Pack warm.”

I stare at her. “Mom. No.”

“Oh, come on. A cabin on Lake Michigan! Fresh air! Family time! Youloveyour nieces.”

“I love them in small doses,” I mutter. “Preferably when they’re asleep.”

Mom grins. “Then think of this as character-building.”

“Idon’tneed character. I need Wi-Fi and a coffee machine that doesn’t require manual labor.”

Mom pats my cheek. “You need to live a little, sweetheart.”

“Thanks for the support.”

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