“I was going to talk to you about that,” my mother says. “My work schedule is shifting the next few weeks. Chris assigned me a really messy case that’s going to trial. I’m going to have to go into the office each day until it settles down.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I blurt out.
“Maya, language,” my mother says.
“Crap. I mean . . . sorry.” I wince. Ramadan isn’t just about not eating from before sunup to sundown. We’re supposed to be patient—the best versions of ourselves we can be. But this is . . . flocking unbelievable.
“How am I even getting to Dad’s apartment, then?”
“Door to door, it’s only four minutes away, and—”
“Four minutes by driving,” I correct him.
“I’ll set you up with a rideshare app,” he says. “Honestly, it’s so close by, it’s barely moving out.”
No such thing as barely moving out, I want to say. Moving out is moving out. And what about Willow? She freaks if we move a houseplant to the other end of the room. Am I going to cart her back and forth to two different houses in random people’s cars? But I can’t get the words out, because tears threaten to spring to my eyes.
They look at me from where they sit on the ironically named love seat. What do they want? Absolution? Tears? All I want is to run as far as I can out of here and never look back.
Because the truth is, it’s not just Willow who doesn’t like change. I literally got twitchy when my favorite yogurt company rebranded to a bigger font. When my hairdresser accidentally cut off three inches more than usual, I wore it in a bun until it grew back out. Let’s just say I’m not exactly the most adaptable person in the world.
But I don’t mention that. I don’t even move. I just stare at the coffee table and try my best not to cry, because I’m legitimately terrified that if I start, I might never stop.
Because this?
This fucking sucks.
Chapter Three
Jamie
“Knock knock,” Grandma says, instead of just knocking, which I used to think was a funny Grandma quirk. Now I know it’s because she always has her hands full of food or dog or both.
I sit up in bed, yawning. “Morning.”
But she doesn’t come in—she just cracks the door. “Now, take your time, lovey, but just so you know, there’s breakfast in the kitchen.”
“Um. Thanks.” I rub my eyes. “Are you—”
The door clicks shut, and she’s gone. I yawn again, tugging my phone out of the charger. Per usual, I’ve missed a mile of texts on last night’s group chat. I peek at the most recent one, from Felipe. Nine o’clock tomorrow it is. I cannot emphasize enough how much you owe me for this. I scroll back to find a whole series of negotiations—namely, Drew explaining the absolute exquisite hotness of a long-distance runner named Beth and making a hard pitch for early morning wingman backup at our school’s track.
I glance at the time—8:15. Normally I’m kind of weird about texting back this early. Not because I’m worried about waking anyone—Drew and Felipe sleep through texts, thunderstorms, sirens, pretty much anything. But there’s something fundamentally uncool about being the first texter in the group chat. Which I am. Every single morning. I’m like that guy who shows up to keg parties at the exact time listed on the evite. Or I would be, if I got invited to keg parties.
But there’s no point trying to convince Drew and Felipe I’m suddenly a rage-all-night-sleep-till-noon kind of party animal. I text back a thumbs-up. And then I run through the full repertoire: shower, teeth, mouthwash, deodorant, fresh clothes, everything. I don’t know if I’m a good wingman, but I’m a hygienic wingman.
By the time I reach the kitchen, Mom and Grandma are camped out in their usual chairs, nursing coffee. Boomer jumps up from his spot near Grandma’s feet as soon as he sees me.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Grandma hits me with the shoulder-squeeze, cheek-kiss combo. “Look at you, all dressed. Let me get your breakfast out of the warming drawer. Where are you off to?”
“I’m supposed to help Drew flirt with some runner girl.”
“Isn’t he dating that girl from Steak ’n Shake?” Mom looks up from her news app.
“They were just hooking up. It wasn’t really . . .” I trail off, watching Grandma bustle over to the oven, Boomer zipping along beside her. I narrow my eyes. “Okay, why am I getting a special home-cooked breakfast? What happened?”
“Well.” Grandma turns around, smiling warmly. She’s holding a plate stacked high with challah toast. “You were so upset yesterday about having to give the pre-challah toast, I thought . . .” She peers down at the plate, eyes glinting behind her red-framed glasses. I follow her gaze, and then groan.
“It’s challah toast!” she says. “Get it?”
“Oh, I get it.”
“Too soon?”
“Way too soon.” I take a giant bite—it’s slightly crispy, with no raisins, and it’s perfectly buttered. “Okay, food toast is good,” I admit. “Speech toast is not good.”
“You’ll be great, bubalah. I have no doubt.”
“I have doubt. Doubts. Plural. Lots of doubts.”
“Jamie, you have to stop doing that.” Mom looks up again. “It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. You’re so convinced you’re going to screw up, you end up sabotaging yourself with that negative self-talk.”
“It’s not negative self-talk if it’s true.”
“It’s not—”
“Mom. I’m a catastrophically terrible speaker. That is an objective fact.”
Grandma pats my shoulder.
Mom frowns. “Sweetie, is this about the interview? You have to let that go. I know it sucked. No one’s pretending it didn’t. But you’re still getting to work in politics. It’s just a different side of the experience.”
“You’re missing the point.”
I think she thinks I’m bitter. Or that I resent having to make spreadsheets and run errands for my cousin all summer, rather than marching up and down marble staircases in the state capitol. But it’s not the lack of marble staircases that depresses me. And I don’t mind the errands. I mean, that’s what I’d have been doing for Senator Mathews anyway.
It’s more the I-suck factor. The I-couldn’t-even-make-nepotism-work-for-me factor. The a-sitting-state-senator-created-an-internship-just-for-me-and-I-totally-choked factor.
I mean, I literally choked. I don’t know how to explain this without being gross, but a lump of phlegm lodged in my throat, and I panicked, which made me start gagging, and then that turned to puking, and I spent about an hour in the bathroom, and needless to say, I did not get the job.
Which doesn’t exactly bode well for my half-baked dream of running for office one day. Let’s face it. Some people are meant to change history. And some people are meant to change out of their vomity interview clothes.
“You just have to keep practicing,” Mom continues. “Speaking to strangers is a skill. It’s like a muscle, you know? You keep exercising it, and you’ll see. One day it’s going to be second nature. It’ll feel just like talking to Drew and Felipe.”