Page 8 of As a Last Resort

I hadn’t been home in over two years. Since I escaped for good seven years ago, I had only been back a handful of times. None went over particularly well.

But it hit me as I stood in the silence—I didn’t have a choice.

I wanted this promotion. I deserved it. And the best way to show I was the right person for the job was to suck it up, jump on a plane, down three first-class tequilas, and enter the seventh layer of hell for thirty days. That’s all it was.

I had done everything in my power to get away for the sake of my sanity a very long time ago, and here I was, heading back.

A fist pounded at my door half a vodka tonic later (only clear liquor—it was still before noon, after all). Ivy barged in with a wardrobe of clothes with tags draped over her shoulder, two triple skinny vanilla lattes, extra hot, and a large brown paper bag.

“These will fit. Stick them in your suitcase.”

My shoulders sagged. “Can I stick you in my suitcase?”

“The baggage compartment is a far cry from first class.”

My typical facade of I have my shit pulled together must have been wavering because her expression changed into something a bit softer. “This will be good for you. Maybe the Florida pace will force you to slow down. Believe it or not, there is a life outside of work.”

She had a point.

“And Jack just dumped you and is ignoring you so you might as well go,” she added quickly.

“So… I saw him at the market yesterday.” I paused. The tears that pooled in my eyes took me by complete surprise. I blinked them back. “He wasn’t alone.”

It seemed like a bigger deal once I said it out loud.

Ivy pulled me in for a hug then lowered her voice. “Jack is not your epic love story.”

“I don’t believe in epic love stories.”

“Neither do I.”

“You literally write about them in your free time.”

“ Wrote. And that’s why I called it fiction.” Ivy’s voice was level and calm. “This is not a vacation. Like you told Snuffleupugus earlier, you’ll be working so much it’s not like you’ll even have time to see your mom. At least, not a lot.”

I smiled. That was her best name for Robby yet.

“Forget Jack for now,” she continued. “That’s for another day.

I’ll stalk him and bury his body while you’re away.

A little distraction from that could be a good thing right now.

You need to focus on this trip, which will set you up perfectly to take over this male-run chauvinistic testosterone show we’ve come to know and lovingly conspire to take down. ”

She was right. It was due diligence for a multimillion-dollar deal.

This was a huge opportunity to show I wasn’t even playing in the same ballfield as Robby.

If I steered this due diligence and knocked it out of the park, he couldn’t take credit for it.

Unlike everything else I’ve ever done in my entire career.

I’d prove that I could severely kick ass and that there’s no better choice for the next director.

It would just cost my soul in the process.

“Let’s think tank this. What about sending Forrest? He’s on the North Dakota project.”

“I think you’d have a hard time convincing Glenn you know more about farms than Forrest, who I’m pretty sure was born in an actual barn. In North Dakota.”

I thought for another second. “I could make you go.”

“This isn’t about me. Indulge me for a second on what our future would look like if Puganator made director over you.”

I thought about it for a minute. “There’d be an office chant with foam fingers for sure.”

“Team-building excursions at the gun range.”

“Can you just imagine the jokes about his concealed weapon?” I cringed.

“For the love of God, please don’t subject me to that. Samantha, you’re the right person for this job. This isn’t just about you anymore. Glenn’s company will swan dive headfirst into an HR nightmare if PugDiddy makes director.”

I knew developed cities. But there was a part of me, a small part, that perked up knowing I could come up with anything I wanted for the land. Anything. When I framed it like that, it almost sounded exciting.

“And you’re basically saving humanity as a bonus,” she finished. “What’s there to lose?”

“My sanity?” I suggested.

“Overrated.”

“My pride?”

“Overvalued.” She reached for the brown paper bag. “And look, I brought you lots of tiny hugs to pack in your suitcase.”

She opened the bag showing me thirty or so miniature liquor bottles. “I was wondering what was in that thing.” I laughed as they clanked against each other. “Okay, I’ll go. But will you promise you won’t kill my fern?”

“No.”

I sighed. “You are absolutely zero help.”

“You’re going to do great. Do I need to ride to the airport with you so you don’t go to Hawaii and open a snow cone hut on the beach instead?” she asked.

My eyes widen. “That’s such a great idea.”

“Samantha.” She leveled her gaze at me.

“No. I promise not to bail and move to Hawaii to open a snow cone hut. I will go to Florida and save the human race.”

“Great. Then it’s settled. Let’s get your ass to the airport before you change your mind and miss your flight. I need a martini after all this.”

I was going home . As I rolled my carry-on through LaGuardia security, I ran through the roster at Goodrich in my head again. I’d looked at the situation from every angle and suffice to say, I was heading to Florida unless I wanted to spoon-feed Robby my promotion.

A loud buzzer went off as I walked through the scanner, interrupting my internal debate of fighting a decision I’d already made.

“Ma’am, step aside,” the very tall TSA agent barked at me.

“Sorry, I forgot I have to go through the other line. I spaced out.” I reached for my medical card and stepped to the side for the one-on-one pat down party.

Fun fact—when I walk through metal detectors, it sounds like a really aggressive outdoor garden chime section at Home Depot during a hurricane.

“Is this your bag?” he asked as he plucked my carry-on from the conveyor belt.

“Yes, it is.” I gave him the brightest smile I could muster as I handed over my medical card.

He glared at me, inspected the little plastic card I always carried around, and bounced his gaze to my arm like he didn’t believe there were exactly twenty-three screws holding it together.

“Accident in high school. Just call me Ter-mi-na-tor .” I rocked my arm back and forth like a robot.

“Spread your legs, ma’am.”

“Not a joke guy. Got it. Too early for that stuff anyway.” I held my breath as he groped me with a plastic wand that blared as it circled my arm.

Once the unofficial first base had been crossed, he put my carry-on on top of the table.

He unzipped the top and eyed me as he pulled out the brown paper bag.

“They’re all under three ounces each,” I blurted out, like that’s going to explain away all the alcoholic vibes I was giving off.

“Ma’am, have you been drinking today?”

“I have anxiety with flying.” Liar. “And I’ll be gone for a whole month. To my hometown. And I’m seeing my mom and we don’t exactly get along all that well. These are kinda like mini backup reinforcements. Little bottles of courage.”

He didn’t even respond, and walked over to his supervisor who put my carry-on into one of those little machines that test for bomb residue. It clicked green after an agonizing ten-second stare-down competition. He handed me my bag and reluctantly nodded me through.

My phone rang.

FACETIME—MOM flashed across the top of my screen. Against my better judgment, I answered the call.

“Happy birthday to you…”

“Mom—”

“Happy birthday to you…”

I turned down the volume on my phone.

“Happy birthday, dear sweat pea…”

“Mom—”

“Happy birthday to you!” She wore a pointy birthday hat and blew a tiny paper horn into the phone. “I remember the day you came into this world, screaming your head off and red as a tomato. You were so pissed off.”

Her words had that slight, familiar slur. Not noticeable if you weren’t looking for it. “Right. But, Mom—”

“You didn’t calm down until your father grabbed you from that nurse and started singing to you.”

My chest squeezed at the mention of Dad.

“Mom, it’s not my birthday.”

“Of course it’s your birthday. It’s the sixteenth. You think I’d forget one of the most important days of my life?”

“My birthday’s the sixteenth… of next month.”

She stilled for barely a second. “Well, there’s absolutely nothing wrong in celebrating a little bit early, now, is there? If your father hadn’t left, we’d be celebrating at Charley’s tonight like we used to.”

“He didn’t leave, Mom. He died.”

“Well, he’s not here regardless. It’s the same.”

“There’s actually a pretty big difference, technically speaking.”

“Well, we’ll agree to disagree on that one.”

“Have you been drinking today?”

Her face pinched. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” She dismissed the subject like we were talking about the weather.

The intercom screeched from above with boarding announcements.

“Where are you?” she asked. “It’s so loud.”

I was still on the fence about telling her I was coming back, but there was no way I could avoid her for a month.

It was an impossible feat in such a small town, even if I was staying at a hotel.

I’d have to tell her I was coming. But I was thankful for the small things, like not having to sleep in a house that most likely looks exactly the same as it did seven years ago: boy band posters half torn off my bedroom wall, a My Little Pony collection cluttered on the dresser, and a house void of pictures of a father who was taken away too soon.

I took a deep breath. Half-truth time. “I’m actually at the airport now. I have a quick work trip, then I’m actually going to be heading to the island for a little while to scout out a new potential location for work. I’ll let you know when I’m in town, okay?”

“Wait, what? My baby’s coming home?!” she shouted.

“Hey, my flight is boarding. I’ll call you in a few days!” I hung up quickly and leaned against the waiting area wall.

Drinking was back on the table for her. Clearly.

Granted it was after noon, and I myself was already down a drink (or two), but a birthday month swap was a pretty big oops. And it wasn’t like she was having another pivotal life-changing moment plummeting her into the depths of forgetfulness.

It always got worse around holidays, birthdays, or Sundays in general.

When she was good and sloshed, she brought up Dad, which tore open a wound decades deep every single time.

She still carried around resentment for his illness and the swift change it made to our lives.

She lived by herself, and for the last seven years the buffer of distance stood between us.

But I was on my way to being up front and center with the chaos.

I needed to build the cement walls back up in my mind protecting myself from the wreckage that was my mother.

“Now boarding flight 1752 to Fort Myers, Florida,” the intercom screamed.

Well. Here we go.