"You do my billing."
"Yeah and it's a pain in my ass. You think translating your illegible notes into invoices is an effective use of my time?"
I shrugged. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me it's not."
He glared at me. "We're going to have a talk about this. I see a lot of opportunity in it for you."
"You mean a lot of money."
"Money won't kill you, Lin."
"Bullshit. You're billing me for this hour."
"I'll back out a tenth," he replied with a laugh. He jabbed a finger toward Midge's house. "Here's some free advice about that."
It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Your advice is never free."
"Listen. Take it from me. Give the strange girl a place to stay."
My brother had a bizarre story about meeting his fiancée on an airplane, immediately hiring her to work in his office, and then taking her home with him the same day. So bizarre. "I'd say that advice applies once in a blue moon."
"All I'm saying is, be a good neighbor. Let her crash in your den for a night or two while she gets her place sorted out. Don't be an ass about it. You never know what might happen."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He eyed Midge's house for a second, his brows lowered. "Nothing. Just don't be an ass. Seems like she has enough to deal with right now."
"I'm not being an ass. I'm being extremely reasonable. It's ridiculous to invite a random woman to stay in my den just because you did something somewhat similar and it didn't go down in flames."
"You assumed she was a burglar," he called as he dropped into the driver's seat.
"So did you," I cried.
He pointed to his ear as the engine roared to life. Either he couldn't or didn't want to hear me. My money was on the latter. "Don't be an ass," he repeated.
"Not wanting random people in my space doesn't make me an ass," I said as he backed out of the driveway. "I don't even like having you around."
He only waved in response and drove up the street, leaving me here with all the trouble he'd chased into my life.
After scowling at the empty street, I glanced back at Midge's house only to catch sight of Jasper climbing the porch stairs, a toaster oven tucked under one arm and two grocery totes hanging from the crook of her other elbow.
The bags were crammed and cumbersome, swinging and twisting around her arm with each step. She had to hold her arm out to prevent the bags from careening into her leg but that unbalanced position made her wobble a bit.
She'd said she had this under control. That she knew what she was doing. If I sprinted across the yard to take those bags off her, she'd tell me the last thing she needed was me rushing in and telling her how to carry her stuff.
She didn't need any help from me and, like she'd said, she didn't want it either.
And I preferred it that way.
4
Jasper
One of my worst habits was my tendency to ignore things I didn't want to deal with. At this point, it was probably more of a personality trait than a habit. If I could navigate around something, even if it demanded more time and energy from me, I'd do it in a damn heartbeat.
I avoided my banking app when I knew I was running low on cash. If I didn't look, I wouldn't panic over money.
I pulled back from relationships that didn't work anymore. If I didn't participate, I wouldn't have to acknowledge the problems.
I unfollowed my nutty, conspiracy-theory-addled cousins on social media. If I didn't see their posts, I wouldn't have to engage with them on batshit crazy ideas.
And speaking of batshit…
I'd shoved all evidence of Midge's death in a drawer. The funeral, the estate, everything. If I didn't slip on an understated black dress and if I didn't eat ham salad sandwiches in a church basement— If I ignored calls from her attorney— If I tucked the paperwork in the back of my closet and pretended it wasn't there— If I did all of this, it didn't have to be real.
Unfortunately for me, there was nothing more real than rubber-gloving up to the elbows and scrubbing Midge's walls with diluted bleach for six hours.
Because of the batshit, both literal and figurative.
On the other side of my compulsive avoidance of unpleasant topics sat my compulsive drive to get it done. Though I was completely unemployable at the moment, one of my most attractive professional qualities was my ability to plow through any problem.
I didn't need to ask questions. Didn't need to call any meetings or set any agendas. I'd be well on my way to fixing it before everyone else finished debating and defining the problem.
I'd always been this way. No time to dally around when you can shake open a trash bag, snap on the gloves, and get down in the dirt. For the past decade, my style of problem-solving and my record of getting it done every damn time meant my job security was never in question. I was the irreplaceable right-hand woman.
Until five days ago.
So, I forced open another door, scrubbed another wall, filled another trash bag. I hadn't slept more than a handful of hours all week but I was good at this. If I kept going, I'd find the way through. I'd figure it out. If I kept my eyes ahead, I'd nail this situation the way I nailed everything.
It had always been this way. Always problems, issues, tragedies, disasters, dramas. One lined up behind the other. It had been this way when I was a small child spending summers with Midge while my mother worked her ass off to keep the wheels turning. There was no time to examine these things, no time to deliberate over them or file them into any context other than the problem to solve today.
I didn't have to look back. It wasn't as though it would change anything. What was the point? I couldn't go back in time, couldn't erase the mortifying things I'd said on a hot mic, couldn't stop the dual train wreck of my humiliation—and termination—on live cable news, couldn't prevent so-called friends from turning their backs or colleagues from blacklisting me. Couldn't prevent others from blowing up my phone with messages of support and thinly veiled requests for more gossip. Couldn't even shut up the cable news bookers determined to get me on-air again so I could dump out the whole teapot on what it was really like inside a pointless bid for the presidency.
The only way out was through.
Pay the bat guy, call a plumber, scrub the ceilings. I was going to figure this out the way I figured everything out, and I had some money saved. I could get by for a bit before things grew hairy.
I could stay here at Midge's cottage and clean up two years' worth of avoidance while the news cycle beat my gaffe-turned-scandal to a pulp. It would take a few months and a good, humble comeback story—or someone else stepping in something far worse than a few unsavory complaints about my former boss, the senator from the great state of Georgia and hopeless presidential hopeful, Tyson Timbrooks. In this sense, it was nothing more than a waiting game.
Scrub the floors. Empty rotten food from the cupboards. Plug in my toaster oven.
All I had to do was get through.
Falling asleep should've been easy. I should've been comatose the minute my head hit the pillow but I was too tired to sleep. I hated trading in these extremes but it seemed to be my way. So hungry I lost my appetite. So stressed I was calm. So angry I came off happy.