Breakdowns aren’t common for me. Not the ones that seem to tear you from the inside out, like this one is threatening to do. And I know it’s dumb that I’m feeling this way when I should have seen it coming. It’s just an article. One thing I wrote. And I was an idiot to think it was going to lead to something, that it was going to change my life.
But I can’t ignore the disappointment. It hurts. More than that, it’s embarrassing. I’ve told everyone I know about this and so many people are going to be looking for it come the weekend. Yeah, I did good…but it’s not the same.
I stay in the bathroom stall my whole lunch break, fighting back tears, swallowing my anger. Then, after a while, I push my pity aside and turn on myself, my next best target. I berate myself for freaking out on Joe like I did. He’s an ass and definitely not in the right, but I could have lost my job—my real job—by talking back like I did. That was hella risky and I wasn’t thinking straight. Even though the whole thing is just awful, what I really need to do is go back to Joe and apologize for freaking out.
But my pride can be a lioness, and instead, when I’m finally calm and composed, I go back to my office, sit down, and commit myself to my real job—the one I’m paid to do. The only one I know how to do.
Mondays fucking suck.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kayla
Naturally, I have a hard time shaking it off. I lay low all week, shutting myself away from the world. The only person I see is my mom, and I’m not even planning to go over because I know she’ll ask about it and I don’t want to let her down. But she sounds so sad and helpless over the phone, maybe even weaker than normal, and I can’t say no.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks me from her chair, watching reruns of The Nanny on TV, while I make dinner for us. I ended up telling here there were changes with the article but I didn’t go into details.
“Not really,” I say.
“That’s okay. Talk when you’re ready. Just remember what I told you last time—you’re on your own track.”
Yeah, but my track is officially going nowhere.
I spend the weekend shut in as well, eating a pint of caramel waffle cone ice cream and binging on Netflix. I know that the Outside Lands Festival is going on, I know that Steph and Nicola are getting aggravated by my inability to answer the phone or respond to their texts. I even get a text from Bram on Friday that says, “Kayla, what happened?” assuming that he’s read the article that Neil wrote. But still, I pretend that it doesn’t exist.
When I wake up on Sunday morning though, it’s not my alarm that seems to be blaring in my head. It’s my buzzer.
I groan and slip on my leopard print robe and pad my way over to the intercom.
“What?” I say angrily into the speaker, eyeing the clock on the microwave. It’s nine a.m. and I’d planned on sleeping all day long.
“Hey!” Steph yells, voice crackling. “If you don’t let us upstairs, I’m calling your mother.”
Ugh. And she would, too. Steph and my mom love each other.
“Fine,” I say, buzzing her in, unlocking my door, and then going into the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee. All the caffeine is needed before I can deal with today.
Moments later, Steph and Nicola barge into the apartment.
“What the hell, Kayla?” Steph exclaims, tossing her purse on my sofa. Both of them look like they’ve just rolled out of bed, wearing pajama pants, flip-flops, and hoodies. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been right here,” I say tiredly, opening the bag of coffee and inhaling deeply.
Steph walks right over to me, looking me up and down, as if checking for signs of injury or bodysnatching. “You’re ignoring our calls, our texts…”
I shrug and measure out the coffee into the filter before pressing the on button. “Didn’t feel like being social this week. Sorry.”
“Bram told us about the article,” Nicola says quietly. “We read it. It’s excellent, Kayla, really. He’s so happy with it…but…what happened?”
I sigh heavily and turn to face them, crossing my arms. “You mean why is my name not on it?”
“Yeah,” Steph says. “Who is Neil? Is that the same Neil we’ve met?”