Page 60 of About That One Night
“So, Zoe, tell us more,” Cleo says, setting her fork down before asking. “What’s your new office like? Have you hired a bunch of hotshot lawyers to work for you yet? I can always help with the hiring process—make sure they’rereally qualified.”
I stare at her in horror. Does she think I’m running some kind of dating service? Instead of Magic Mike it’s Magic Lawyer—free lap dance during your first appointment. Obviously, I can’t say any of that. “It’s not quite like that, Cleo. Right now, it’s just me in a tiny little office downtown. I’ve got a desk, a couple of chairs, and well, me.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “But surely you’ve got clients lined up, right? I mean, with your reputation . . .”
I shift in my seat, my smile feeling a bit forced. After I quit Hoffman, Roger & Associates, I had to sign a non-compete agreement. If I had even mentioned to my clients that I was leaving, things would’ve gotten ugly. Of course, bringing something like that to Mom would open Pandora’s box and I don’t want to go there.
“It’s early days yet, Mom. I’m working on building my client base, but these things take time.”
Mom clears her throat, her expression serious. “Zoe, honey, you know we’re proud of you no matter what. But are you sure this is the right move? Starting your own firm, especially in this economy . . .” She glances at Dad. “You could get her something, couldn’t you?”
Dad looks uncomfortable, clearly put on the spot.
I meet his gaze, my resolve unwavering. “You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. I know it’s a risk.” Then I look at Mom. “But it’s one I have to take. I can’t spend my life working for someone else’s vision. I need to create something of my own, something that reflects my values and passions.”
Dad reaches over and pats my arm, his touch gentle and reassuring. “We understand, sweetheart. And we’ll be here to support you every step of the way. Of course, if you ever need financial support, know that you have it—unconditionally.”
I blink back the sudden sting of tears. “Thanks, Dad. That means everything to me.”
And I really don’t know what is happening to me lately. Everything is making me cry. Everything.
Yesterday, I was strolling by Faneuil Hall Marketplace and this kid dropped his ice cream. When the mom promised to buy him a new one—a double scoop—I was sobbing like a child. It was somehow embarrassing. And don’t even get me started on that commercial with the puppy finding his way home. I practically had to mop up my tears with a towel.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Maybe it’s just all the changes catching up with me. Or maybe I’m just a bit overwhelmed. Either way, I need to get a grip on my emotions—they are the last thing I need while I’m going through so many changes.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zoe
Weeksix of feeling like I’m stuck in a bad soap opera. I cry over almost everything, and I’m tired all the time. Lily thinks it’s the stress of my new life. I, on the other hand, am starting to think it could be something more complicated and maybe life-threatening. Confession time: I might’ve googled my symptoms and come up with many, many different diseases that leave me with maybe a few months to live.
Because I don’t havetime to deal with my big imagination, I decided to make an appointment, and while I’m at it, I also scheduled my annual exam. See? I’m being efficient.
I step through the sliding doors of the doctor’s office, and a blast of frigid air conditioning hits me like an Arctic wind. My head feels heavy, stuffed with cotton, and throbbing faintly behind my eyes. Just a routine checkup, I tell myself as I approach the front desk.
“Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Lodge,” I say to the receptionist, forcing a polite smile. “Zoe Harper. I have a ten-thirty appointment.”
The receptionist types rapidly, her long and very beautiful acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard. I should ask her where she gets them done. Maybe on my way out, I don’t want to make this awkward.
“Ah, yes, here you are. Please have a seat, and the nurse will call you back shortly.”
I settle into one of the hard plastic chairs, crossing my arms over my stomach. Among everything else, I also have nausea—which is nothing new. Having IBS is unpredictable and inconvenient; my symptoms can go from nothing to abdominal pain, nausea, and even vomiting if I’m not eating right or my stomach decides to just be an asshole for the day—or the month.
Though the nausea doesn’t worry me as much. My theory is that while I was in Fiji, I indulged in too many treats. It’s a good thing I know how to treat these symptoms with home remedies, but still, the nausea isn’t going away.
I probably need an emergency prescription like Idid the time Tom and I went to Italy and I indulged in many different kinds of pasta, sauces, and desserts. My mouth still waters at the thought of that double scoop Stracciatella I had before heading to the airport.
Maybe I need something stronger because sometimes, even smells make me want to puke.
As I wait, I glance around the room, taking in the sterile décor and the faint hum of the air conditioning. This building might hold the answer to what could be a scary future, but for now, I just need to get through this appointment.
Minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. I flip through a magazine without registering a single word or image. If only I knew exactly what was wrong with me, I could go back to focusing on work and my future.
“Zoe Harper?” A nurse in lilac and flowery scrubs appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
I follow the nurse down the brightly lit hallway, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils. They weigh me—I’ve lost some weight—and ask me to pee in a cup. After I’m done, the nurse leads me into an exam room and gestures for me to sit on the paper-covered table. She asks about my current medications, symptoms, and if there have been any other changes since my last visit six months ago. She asks when my last period was, and I respond, “Not sure, but probably four weeks ago?”
She nods, looking unconvinced, and makes up a date for my last period. I nod because it sounds good.
