Page 68 of Finding Jack
I plucked up another lid. “It makes me feel better.”
“Than what? A poke in the eye with a sharp stick?” She set her purse on the counter and dropped down cross-legged in front of me. “Is this working?”
I didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. “I like it better than moping.”
“But Tupperware, Em? Is that what you’ve come to?”
I went back to sifting lids. “I’m highly productive and functional at work. I need to be that way at home too, then it’ll be fine.”
“What’s ‘it’? Your life? Your heart? What are we talking about here that’s going to be fine?”
I tapped the lid against my knee, trying to think of what “it’ll be fine” meant. “All of that. I’ll go back to being me.”
She pulled the lid away. “You’ve seemed less like you this week than I’ve ever seen you. You’re a workbot. It’s weird.”
I dropped my head against the cabinet and squeezed my eyes shut. “My brain isn’t cooperating right now. Giving it projects helps. I need to get back to a non-Jack habit.”
“Why?”
My eyes popped open. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s not like he’s bad for you. He makes you laugh. You guys have a good time. Just call him up and say hi. Or text him. Or whatever. But there’s no reason for you to act like you don’t exist to each other. He’s a quality person, and those are the kind you keep around.”
I scooped up a bunch of the plasticware and turned to shove it into the cabinet. “It’s not my choice.”
“Itisyour choice.”
I shoved the rest of the plastic into the cabinet, heedless of any order, and climbed to my feet. “You’re right. Ichoosecommon sense and respect for boundaries.” I stepped over her and walked out of the kitchen, listening to the sounds of her scrambling to her feet to follow.
“Would you react like this if he didn’t matter?” she asked, pausing in my doorway as I knelt beside my bed to pull out a storage bin that needed organizing. “You weren’t even this upset when you and Paul split.”
“I’m not upset.” I yanked the bin out and tried to open the lid, but it was clamped on too tight.
“Wound up, then.” She leaned against the wall and watched me trying to find a good grip on the bin.
“It’s not Jack. Or not just Jack. It’s not even about boys.” I couldn’t get my fingertips underneath the lid far enough for any leverage to pop it off.
“Then what’s it about?”
I dug my fingertips in harder and felt a fingernail break. I pounded the lid in frustration. “It’s about realizing that my life is out of balance and needing to find it.”
She walked over and held her hand out to me. “You’ve always worked hard, but you found play time too. This workaholism started after Jack, not before, so I guess I don’t follow your logic.”
I looked from her hand to the bin and back again. Finally, I shoved the bin beneath the bed and accepted her hand up, but she didn’t let go when I was on my feet, instead tugging me toward the kitchen.
“I’m putting on some tea, and we’ll fix this.”
“I’m not sleepy.” Sometimes Ranée made me chamomile tea to help during my insomnia spells.
“No, but your brain is so wired I can almost see sparks flying out of your head. You need to relax. And I don’t mean that in the condescending way. I mean you need to breathe or something, find a way to gear down your levels.”
I sat at the table while she filled the electric kettle. “I’m not in love with him.”
She immediately shut the water off and turned to stare at me. “No one said you were.”
“I’m just making that clear.”
She turned the water back on. “Why do you feel like you need to?”
