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I’m Fine: The Musical

ANICA

“ I ’ve cataloged twenty-six different ways to commit murder with wedding supplies, and right now the clear winner is strangling someone with fishing line from a bustle repair kit,” I announced, viciously stapling a contract with enough force to puncture the desk beneath it.

“It’s virtually untraceable, available in every emergency kit I own, and I could make it look like a tragic crafting accident. ”

Mari looked up from her phone, where she’d been scrolling through Instagram wedding photos. “You sound like a deranged Martha Stewart. I’m into it.”

“No one’s even asked you about him today,” Devonna pointed out without looking up from her tablet.

“She did,” I pointed out, jabbing an accusatory finger at Mari. “This morning. While I was in the bathroom. You slid a note under the stall that said ‘Forgive him yet?’ with three heart emojis and a crude drawing of what I can only assume was meant to be his?—”

“It was a microphone,” Mari interjected innocently. “For karaoke. Which we should go do tonight, by the way. Nothing helps process emotional trauma like screaming ‘I Will Survive’ while drunk on tequila.”

“That was not a microphone,” I muttered, attacking another stack of papers with my stapler. “Unless microphones now come with anatomically incorrect veins.”

“I’m an artist, not a doctor,” Mari shrugged. “And you’re avoiding the question, which means the answer is no, he hasn’t called, which means you’re still pretending you don’t check your phone every eight seconds hoping he has just so you can reject the call and cry some more.”

“I am not,” I insisted, my stapler creating a small crater in a wedding contract. “I made a professional decision to distance myself from a client who crossed boundaries. End of story.”

“Uh-huh,” Mari nodded, clearly unconvinced. “And that’s why you’ve been wearing the same cardigan for four days straight and I found you crying into a wedding cake sample yesterday.”

“I was not crying. I had an allergic reaction to the buttercream.”

“You’re not allergic to buttercream.”

“Maybe I developed a new allergy. People develop new allergies all the time. It’s very common.”

“Is it common to whisper ‘stupid abs’ while having these alleged allergic reactions?”

“I did not say ‘stupid abs,’” I hissed, my cheeks flaming. “I said ‘stupid labs’ because the bakery’s quality control is clearly subpar.”

“Ani, it’s okay to admit you’re hurt. It’s okay to admit you miss him.”

“I don’t miss him,” I lied. “I miss who I thought he was. But that person doesn’t exist. The real Callan Burkhardt is a man who doesn’t believe in love, who thinks relationships are transactions, who refers to what we shared as ‘just a good time.’”

Just a good time. That’s all it had been to him. A good fuck.

“You know,” Mari said carefully, “there’s nothing wrong with ‘just a good time’ if that’s what you both want. Not everything has to be forever to be worthwhile.”

“That’s not the point,” I sighed, setting down the abused stapler before I broke it. “The point is that he doesn’t believe love exists. At all. As a concept. How could I possibly build anything with someone who thinks the foundation of what I do—of what I believe in—is fiction?”

“And I’ve told you that was a fair point the first one hundred times you said it,” Mari conceded.

“Though to play devil’s advocate, which I’m excellent at because I’m basically Satan’s more fashionable sister, he did say those things to his bros.

Men say all kinds of stupid shit to their bros that they don’t actually mean. ”

“He meant it,” I said flatly. “He’s been consistent about that from day one. I just... I foolishly thought maybe I could be the exception. That maybe with me, he’d see...”

I trailed off, unable to finish the thought without my voice breaking. That was the humiliating truth I’d been avoiding: despite all my professional boundaries, all my carefully constructed walls, I’d started to hope that Callan might change his mind about love. For me. Because of me.

God, I was pathetic.

“You’re not pathetic,” Devonna said, making me realize I’d spoken aloud. “You’re human. And humans hope. It’s what we do.”

“Especially when the human in question has abs you could grate cheese on,” Mari added helpfully. “And a net worth with more zeroes than my dating history.”

“Thank you both for that deeply insightful analysis of my emotional state. Now can we please get back to work? We have the wedding this weekend, and the flower crisis for the one in two weeks, and the cake disaster for the Albertson’s wedding to manage.”

“Actually,” Devonna said, consulting her tablet, “those have all been handled. Mari took care of the wedding details for this weekend, I resolved the flower situation, and the Albertson’s cake issue was fixed yesterday when you made the baker cry.”

“I did not make her cry,” I protested. “I explained, in detail, why five layers of rum-soaked cake at a dry wedding was inappropriate, especially when the bride’s father is a recovering alcoholic and the groom’s mother is a strict Baptist.”

“You made her cry,” Mari confirmed. “It was magnificent. You said, and I quote, ‘This cake has consumed more alcohol than Lindsay Lohan circa 2007, and unlike Ms. Lohan, it hasn’t even had the decency to check into rehab.’ I recorded it for my personal collection of ‘Anica Destroys People With Facts and Logic.’”

“The point is,” Devonna continued, glaring at Mari, “your schedule is clear for the afternoon. We made sure of it.”

I frowned, instantly suspicious. “Why would you clear my schedule?”

Mari and Devonna exchanged a look that set off all my internal alarm bells.

“What did you two do?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” they replied in unison, which was about as convincing as a groom claiming he didn’t notice the stripper at his bachelor party.

Before I could interrogate them further, the office door swung open, and in walked the last person I expected to see: Vivian Burkhardt, resplendent in a sky-blue pantsuit, with Norbert the butler trailing behind her carrying what appeared to be a basket of baked goods.

“Anica, darling,” she greeted me like a relative rather than a virtual stranger. “So lovely to see you.”

I blinked, momentarily speechless. “Mrs. Burkhardt?—”

“Vivian,” she corrected, kissing both my cheeks as if we were old friends. “Or Gram, if you prefer. I’ve decided to adopt you informally, regardless of your current estrangement from my grandson.”

“That’s... very kind, but unnecessary,” I managed, shooting Mari and Devonna accusatory looks over Vivian’s shoulder. They both suddenly found various ceiling fixtures fascinating.

“Nonsense,” Vivian waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been wanting a granddaughter for years, and you’re perfect. Smart, capable, and you don’t put up with Callan’s nonsense. Norbert, the muffins, please.”

Norbert stepped forward, presenting the basket. “Blueberry streusel. Madam made them this morning.”

“Thank you, Norbert,” Vivian said, taking the basket and offering it to me. “Peace offering. I understand my grandson has been spectacularly idiotic, and while I can’t apologize for him, he’s a grown man who needs to grovel properly on his own, I can at least bring baked goods and sympathy.”

“That’s... thank you,” I said, accepting the basket. The smell of fresh muffins wafted up, making my stomach growl. I hadn’t had much of an appetite lately.

“Shall we?” Vivian gestured to my office. “Somewhere private for a chat?”

I nodded, leading her in and closing the door behind us. Vivian settled into the chair across from my desk, smoothing her pantsuit as if it might dare to wrinkle in her presence.

“You look dreadful. Heartbreak doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not?—”

“Darling, please don’t insult my intelligence by claiming you’re not heartbroken,” Vivian interrupted.

“I’ve lived too long and seen too much to be fooled by brave faces.

You’re walking around like someone performing a one-woman show called ‘I’m Fine: The Musical’ with a soundtrack of sad Adele songs playing in your head. ”

I sank into my chair, too exhausted to maintain the pretense. “It doesn’t matter. You know as well as I do that he doesn’t believe in love. He made that abundantly clear.”

“Ah yes, the ‘love doesn’t exist’ nonsense.” Vivian rolled her eyes. “He’s been spouting that ridiculous theory since he was a preteen and caught his father with the tennis instructor.”

“It’s not just a theory to him. It’s his worldview. And I can’t... I won’t be with someone who fundamentally dismisses something I consider essential.”

“Very reasonable. Very sensible. And completely miserable, yes?”

I stared at her, caught off guard by her directness. “I... yes. Completely miserable.”

“As is he,” she assured me. “Though he’d rather gargle glass than admit it to most people. But a grandmother knows. He hasn’t been sleeping. Barely eating. Erika says he stares at his phone constantly and has your name programmed into his speed dial even though you won’t take his calls.”

“He made his feelings clear,” I said, trying to ignore the little flutter in my chest at the thought of Callan missing me as much as I missed him. “He told his friends I was ‘just a good time.’ That our relationship was ‘something fun until he figured out the bet.’”

“Men say profoundly stupid things when they’re terrified,” Vivian replied, reaching into the basket of muffins and selecting one. “Especially men with abandonment issues and commitment phobias the size of small countries.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No, it doesn’t. Nothing excuses hurting someone you care about. But it might explain it, if you’re interested.”

Despite myself, I was. “I’m listening.”