Page 20 of Resist Me (Forget the Past 3)

I whistle an innocent tune as I tuck my hands deep in my pockets and stroll down the next aisle. Passing by cookware, I let the happy glow of the day infuse my entire being. In the past, shopping with my mother would have ended up low on the list of fun activities. But now, after being away for so long, I’m enjoying myself.

Doesn’t hurt that I just finished eating delicious brunch with my best friend, and before that spent more time in Luna Lamont’s presence. I conveniently gloss over the part where I once again made a complete fool of myself.

Overall, this is shaping up to be a great day. Which puts into stark contrast how few of those I’ve had lately.

I wince at a stab of shame.

How could I think that? I have a great life.

I work for a company with a good atmosphere and reasonable hours. They’ve set me up with a position in a foreign country, just like I told them I wanted when I was first hired four years ago. Over those years I’ve built up a group of friends in Germany, getting drinks with them at least once a week and traveling all through Europe.

Some might say my life is charmed. For a while I thought so too.

The dissatisfaction came on slowly, with small dips in my mood that lasted for a few days. I’d press the snooze button a few more times and find myself gazing at the clock, trying to will the workday to pass by faster. Then there were the spikes of anxiety that gripped my chest whenever my supervisor gave me a new project. My mind shied away from spending any more brain capacity on fabric sales.

All of those signs I forced myself to ignore, accepting them as normal among all adults in the workforce.

But then one night when I was chatting with Paige about her latest editing project, I blurted out the question.

“Does your work ever depress you?”

On my phone screen, Paige blinked wide eyes. “Depress me? I mean, some of the authors write about hard topics. They craft the scenes so excellently that I feel what the character does. Their sadness. Is that what you mean?”

“No.” I’d searched for a way to explain the creeping shadow descending over the hours I spent at the office. “I mean, does the idea of doing your job ever…I don’t know. Do you wish you could get away from it? Just keep sleeping through the day or something.”

My friend stared at me, and I let her. The moment was important. The first time I’d shared the ache no painkillers could correct.

“Martin.” Paige announced her cheating ex’s name like it was the solution to a brain teaser I’d given her. I flinched at the sound, my dislike for the asshole rooted deep in my bones.

“I’m not talking to that motherfucker about my work problems if that’s what you’re saying,” I growled.

But she was already shaking her head. “Sorry. Meant to say more words. What you described, work never made me feel that way. Martin did. Our relationship. I should’ve gotten out of it long before he cheated on me. You should break up with your company. Not that I think they’re going to cheat on you. How would a company even do that?”

And just like that, my friend had me laughing, my anxiety forgotten for a time.

But never gone. Especially with her advice lingering long after we hung up.

You should break up with your company.

Easier said than done. I can’t just serve up the “It’s not you, it’s me” line. My employers are good people. How can I leave a career with great benefits when I don’t know what I want to do in my life? I’ve spent many evenings trying to figure out what my passion is, but nothing falls perfectly into place.

“None of these are right,” my mom says, unknowingly echoing my inner monologue. She’s stopped in front of a variety of sheet sets.

Slipping my phone from my pocket, I pull up the web page we consulted before coming into the store. “These are on the registry.” I tap a slate-gray set and try to imagine my friend gravitating toward the neutral color.

“You and I both know Ginny cobbled that together when her daughter forgot. Neither Paige nor Dash are the ask-for-gifts type.” Mom passes on the boring sheets.

“Well then, what do you want to do?”

“I want to get her something withlovein it.”

The emphasis she puts on that four-letter word has me backing away, hands raised. “Sorry, Momma. I draw the line at going to an adult toy shop with you.”

“You devil!” She barks through a laugh, then chucks a pillow at me. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“I’m not the one throwing things in the store.” With a mocking amount of carefulness, I place the pillow back on its shelf.

“You’re a bad influence.” She meanders away, smoothing her hands over the purple silk scarf wrapped around her head, as if the brief moment of immaturity might have knocked the fabric loose.

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