Page 106 of So Not My Thing
I knew writing it was a bad sign. The last time I’d written a blues song was when Miles had dissed me onLive with Laura.
“What can I do to help?” she asked. “Do you want to go shopping? Get some ice cream?”
I uncurled from my protective ball and climbed to my feet, still in my pajamas that I hadn’t bothered to change. I stretched and caught a whiff of my own slightly musty smell. I needed a shower. But I didn’t want a shower. “I’m going to take a nap.”
I stumbled upstairs to bed, feeling the weight of her worry the whole way up.
I ended up sleeping all the way through until morning, an uneasy fitful sleep, and I woke up feeling as if I’d been on the edge of waking up the whole time.
When I opened my bedroom door, my overnight bag was sitting in front of it. I wondered if my mom had gone to get me some clothes, or if Chloe had dropped them by. I hauled it into my room and threw it on the bed, digging inside it to find clean underwear, yoga pants, and my favorite T-shirt. Chloe, then.
I still wasn’t in the mood to go into the office, and I’d have to reschedule another client today, but I definitely didn’t want to be in my stinky pajamas anymore. I grabbed the clothes and headed for the shower, rinsing off two days of moping.
Progress, basically. If you measured progress with super pathetic benchmarks.
When I walked into the kitchen with wet hair, my mom smiled at me. “You look better. How are you feeling?”
Like I wanted to write another blues song. But I didn’t want to worry her, so I said, “Fine.”
“Very convincing.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a sip. I didn’t like plain chicory coffee, but I needed the caffeine more than I needed to take the time to put cream and sugar in it.
“Chloe’s worried. She wants you to call her.”
“I will.”
“Soon?”
I didn’t answer. I’d used up all my grit on showering and getting dressed.
My mom had been on her laptop, probably checking the headlines, but she shut it and rested her hands on top. I could feel her looking for the words to say next, but when she stayed quiet, I leaned back against the sink and studied her over the rim of my mug.
“What, Mom? I know you want to say something.”
“I called Miss Mary last night.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s good. How’s she doing?”
“Fine. Having a grand time. But I didn’t call her to catch up. You said she’d met Miles, and I wanted to get her take on him.”
“You could have asked Dylan or Chloe.”
“I wanted a mother’s perspective. She knows what it was like last time. And right now, all signs point to you spiraling again.”
“I’m not spiraling, Mom.” It was an irritating assessment. “I just need a minute to process this.”
“That’s what I thought when you were fourteen, but it took three years. And this past forth-eight hours has been heartbreakingly familiar.”
I digested that with another swallow of coffee. Those three years had been hard on her too. She’d never lost patience with me then, so I’d find some for her now. I owed her that. “Okay. What did she say?”
“She said she left a letter for you, and you should read it. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
I’d forgotten about the letter Miss Mary had given me at the goodbye party until she mentioned it. “I do.”
“She said to tell you to read it right away.”
“It’s at my apartment.”
