Page 61 of Grease Monkey
I nod in answer, even though he can’t see me. But mentally, I’m miles away in this sea of fear as I imagine my life as Mrs. Atkinson: cocktail parties, expensive luncheons with other dutiful wives from our social circle, talking about the best schools to send their unborn children for Pre-K.
“It’s just cold feet,”Shay had said when I told her how I felt.
Cold feet.
Freezing blocks of ice weigh me down, dragging me deeper and deeper into a darkness where I can’t—
“Morgana!”
I jump, tugging on the wheel, swerving a little out of my lane.
“Shit,” I puff as a car flashes its high beams from behind.
“Morgana? Are you okay? Stop ignoring me and tell me what is going on.”
“Yeah, yes. Sorry,” I reply, lifting a trembling hand to my throat. “A cat ran across the road.”
“A cat?” He laughs skeptically, and I can picture the pull of his brow and the twist of his lips in my head. “On the highway?”
Right.
“Uh-huh,” I lie, my voice an octave higher than before. “That’s why I got so scared.”
“Maybe you should pull over and have a break. You’ve been driving for hours.”
No sooner has he suggested that, does an illuminated sign for Phoenix in fifteen miles give me a second wind. I am so close, I can almost taste it. Fresh nerves roil in my stomach. Tiny baby butterflies that only hatched a day ago are a thriving colony, as I’m finally nearing the Airbnb I’ll call home.
“Good idea, honey,” I agree, knowing I’ll continue driving until I’m there. With renewed energy, I glance at the time on the dash and say, “Richard, I’ve got to go. I promised Shay I’d call her every night when I was on the road, and it’s already after eleven. She’ll be home from work.”
“Work,” I hear him scoff, even though it’s not directly spoken into the phone. My eyebrows dip, and I feel that prickle line my arms in a way that happens every time before he’s even said his following sentence. “I wouldn’t exactly call what she doeswork.”
Maybe not up to your standards.
“Why not?” I ask, defensive of my best friend. For some reason, Richard and Shay have never gotten along. Not when they first met and not now that I’m engaged. It isn’t that Shay dislikes him; it’s Richard who despises Shay. She hasn’t done anything to warrant such a reaction, but Richard always says she is a bad influence. No wonder my mom loves him. At times, I wonder if she’s more suited to him than me.
“She goes around eating free food, Morgana. Like a poor person.”
“In return for a review on herthree-hundred-thousand follower Instagram page,” I reply. “She’s a blogger, Richard, a food critic.”
“Hmm,” he mutters, the noise bouncing from the speakers like bad static.
“Besides,” I cut in before he can bash her job some more, “she has been asked by the New York Times, on several occasions, might I add, to write reviews for their column.”
“Okay, okay.” He chuckles, yet I don’t see anything funny. “No need to get defensive. I just meant she could be doing that on the side. Beingan influencerisn’t exactly a long-term job. Especially with the connections her parents have. Such a waste.”
My finger hovers over the phone icon on my steering wheel, itching to hang up on him. Very rarely does Richard aggravate me to the point of wanting to disconnect our calls, but when he starts talking down about Shay… Maybe four months apart would do us some good.
“I’ll call you when I get to the apartment if it’s not too late.”
“Okay, honey. Drive safe. I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
The words barely leave my lips before I slam my thumb down on the button, ending the call.
“I think this could be good for my career,” I said, adding an extra pair of socks to my suitcase.
“I understand that, but do you think that’s what’s best right now?” Richard asked, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it in the laundry basket. “Surely, there are more qualified people they could send? Someone more senior with more experience.”
