Page 29 of Changing the Playbook
He recognizes the danger, because he bails on our call. “Look, I have to go. Team meeting in five. We’ll talk tomorrow, OK?”
“Dad—”
“Love you, Fee.”
Click.
I stare at my phone with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for boyfriends who ghost me or Wi-Fi that cuts out during season finales. This is what he does, drops these cryptic breadcrumbs that send my brain into overdrive, then acts like I’m being unreasonable for wanting actual information.
What if her symptoms are progressing? What if the new medication triggered something unexpected? What if they found anomalies on the MRI and they’re constructing some misguided protection bubble around me? The questions pile up, each one tightening the knot in my stomach until I can barely breathe.
The wall presses into my shoulder blades, a reminder that I’m still here, still standing, even if everything else feels like it’s spinning. This is my life now, holding everyone and everything together, even when they apparently don’t want me to. Because whoknowswhat the hell would happen if I stop.
And then there’s?—
No. Absolutely not. I’m not thinking abouthim. About that parking lot. About the way his face crumpled when I called him complicated, like I’d kicked his puppy instead of stating an objective fact. But, if I’m being honest, it was about me as much as him, like I was describing himandmy entire existence.
“Sophie Pearson, you look like someone just told you they’re discontinuing cafeteria coffee.”
Maya materializes in front of me, clutching a textbook thick enough to double as a doorstop. She’s impeccably dressed in a leather skirt and boots combo that makes my sweats-and-sneakers ensemble look like a cry for help.
“Worse,” I say, shoving my phone away with a sigh. “Parental communication breakdown.”
“Ah.” She shifts the book with a grunt. “I thought I recognized that particular furrow between your eyebrows.”
“I have furrow categories?”
“Oh honey, you have a whole furrow taxonomy. Peer-reviewed and everything.” She demonstrates, scrunching her face into an expression that would be insulting if it wasn’t so devastatingly accurate. “See? This one is different from your ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday’ or your ‘Professor Klein is a sadist’ furrow.”
She links her arm through mine, steering me toward the exit with the determination of someone who’s staged interventions before. And I’m glad for the company, because Maya always seems to know when I need to talk and when I just need someone there.
“Hey,” she says when we’re outside. “You’re coming to karaoke tonight.”
My stomach drops. “Maya, I can’t. I should drive to see my parents, in case?—”
“In case what? Your dad continues his vow of silence? Your mom rests like a normal person after a medical appointment?”Her look could peel paint. “Sophie, you’re about two weeks away from a burnout that’ll make you useless to everyone.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
She’s not wrong.
Maya squeezes my arm, her voice gentling. “Two hours. We’ll drink cocktails with embarrassing names and pretend we’re normal twenty-somethings rather than one normal twenty-something inkillerboots and a frumpy fifty-year-old cat lady…”
“I don’t act like?—”
“Yesterday you told me you were excited about a new pill organizer.”
“It has AM/PM compartments with moisture barriers!”
She stares at me.
“OK, point taken.”
I chew my lip. Dad did say everything was fine, in his infuriating and mostly useless way. And the thought of going to my parents’ house, where I’ll be the elephant in the room, or home to stare at my phone while my brain manufactures disasters, makes my chest tight.
Maybe distance will give me some perspective. Maybe prescribed frivolity will reset my brain. Maybe I’ll stop wondering if I was too harsh with Mike, if fear made my decisions, if I threw away something good because I’m terrified of needing anyone the way I needed?—
I shake my head, banishing the thought. “Two hours,” I say. “But no Disney.”
