Page 41

“That sounds good to me, Addison. Thank you so much. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Wait.”

Addison leans toward her camera like we’re just two girls gossiping over coffee. “Just so I know, dear…between you and me. Have you given any thought to when you’d be available to start?”

My mind blanks. It’s not a question I prepared for.

My thoughts spinning, I try to do quick math around when the campaign will end and when I’ll finish up the mural, then calculate a week out from that.

From a technical standpoint, it would work fine.

My apartment is still there, waiting for me.

My roommates text me sometimes, asking whether I’m going to renew the lease in the fall.

But it feels wrong. That’s still too soon, I panic. Don’t say it, I’m not ready to leave.

I swallow and say it anyway. “August fifteenth?” Three weeks and change from today.

Addison clasps her manicured hands together. “That would be perfect,” she gushes. “Mid-August would be ideal!”

“Of course,” I say smoothly, trying not to stumble over my words. “Thanks for everything, Addison.”

She gives me a little nose-scrunch smile and logs off of the call.

I barely give myself enough time to shrug off the blazer and slip into my running shoes before I’m hurtling down the stairs, hopping over a snoozing Howard, and running out the door.

The first time I ran, I did it because it hurt like hell.

A meeting had gone south at Incite. I’d pitched a new idea for a campaign, and my boss harshly shot it down in front of my colleagues.

It wasn’t new behavior from her, but it was the first time her dissatisfaction had been made public.

Before that point, I’d felt like a star—the new girl with new ideas and new perspectives, beloved by my co-workers and clients.

Always willing to go the extra mile and work the long nights needed to prove myself and succeed.

Later on, I justified that her behavior meant that she was starting to take me more seriously—like she trusted me enough to know I could handle criticism.

But really, she’d just been shitty.

I’d returned home, changed into my cheap pair of all-purpose sneakers, and gone on a long walk toward the park.

It was a good forty-minute hike from my apartment, yet it had always been a trek I was willing to make.

Sometimes the smells of the city and invisible smog made my throat tighten in the same way it did whenever I was anxious or nervous.

But in the park, the surrounding greenery made it easier to breathe for a while.

If you squinted a little and put in headphones to block out the ever-present noise of the cars and the subway crossing the bridge overhead—well, then you might find a sliver of peace.

I’d often walk there, pick up an iced coffee along the way, then sit and people-watch and sketch until the coffee forced me to find a nearby bathroom.

But that day, I skipped the coffee, crossed under the bridge, and took off the second my feet touched grass.

I hated it. At first, I really fucking hated it.

I’d never been an athlete, never played any sports.

I was out of breath within the first two minutes and my feet screamed at me to stop.

It was the middle of the summer, and I’d worn shorts, but I knew immediately from the way my thighs chafed together that I’d chosen the wrong outfit.

But as I homed in on how much the movements hurt, how unused to the exercise I was, how each step felt like a new and worse challenge—I forgot about my workday.

My boss’s words were nothing in comparison to the fire in my lungs.

I’d had to cancel a first date in order to stay late and finish my project, only to have that work discarded during the meeting—but the disappointment faded as I pumped my arms at my side, hoping the momentum would distract from the pain in my legs.

I had to focus so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that my brain had no room left for anxiety, worry, or feeling bad about myself.

Ever since then, running has become a habit.

It’s a switch I can flick whenever I need to turn off the buzzing of my thoughts, to smother the anxious bees that needle me with overplanning and overthinking and overstressing.

It’s still difficult, sure, but it’s not absolute hell.

And after the fog of those first few weeks at Liam’s house, I’ve unearthed my old running routine day by day.

Sometimes I go in the morning, before the summer heat has had a chance to sink into the asphalt, or I wait until the cusp of twilight when everything is shaded a soft blue.

But the second I step out of the door today, I know this run’s going to be misery. Texas’s midafternoon heat is especially brutal, and already I can see the hot air sizzling over the concrete farther down the road. Immediately I start to sweat.

I begin with a light jog to warm up. I’m sorry, I text my mom.

I don’t feel well today. Can we talk later?

I think about texting Liam to ask if he’ll pick up a bottle of wine on his way home.

I think about texting Noah to tell him that my evening has freed up.

Maybe if he can kiss me hard enough, he can chase all of these thoughts into the void where they belong, where I can pretend I’ve slotted them away and ignore them forever.

I think about texting Addison and wonder if there’s a professional way to tell her to go fuck herself, despite how accommodating she’s been this whole time. I think—

I have to stop thinking.

Fuck it, warm-ups be damned. I have to move. If I don’t start running now, I’ll actually have to grapple with all of the feelings that interview brought rushing to the surface.

I run like I’m racing my shadow. I run like there’s someone chasing me.

I’d fled from Liam’s house so fast that I hadn’t even bothered to grab my headphones, and I can hear every frantic slap of my shoes pounding against the sidewalk.

Thankfully, I don’t see anyone. No one is insane enough to be outside in Texas when the temperature is at its peak.

So it’s just me, the cloudless sky, and the orb of the sun glaring down on me.

It takes a while for the pain to come. Even with the brutal pace I’m setting, my body has become used to this.

At first I’m like a bird freed from its cage, marveling at the release.

If I can just run fast enough, maybe I can escape into the sky and never have to return to figure all this shit out.

Energy hums through every limb, pushing me forward farther and faster.

And then the sides of my thighs start to burn.

My lungs can’t move fast enough, can’t pull in oxygen quickly enough to supply my screaming muscles. Sweat pours down my face, and with each step I take, the heat sucks away at my energy and resolve.

Within five minutes of my sprint, I’m forced to stop in my tracks.

I suck in great gulps of air. I gave too much in the beginning, and now I have nothing left.

Just like at Incite, I think ruefully.

As I stop and hunch over, my hands braced on my knees, the emotions come flooding back.

What the fuck am I even doing ?

Why the hell do I continue to pursue a job when I’ve dreaded every single interview I’ve had?

Every time I slink back into the role of Josephine, it’s like I’m tugging on a jacket that I’ve long since grown out of.

The seams are frayed and stressed. The buttons strain all the way up to my chin and I can barely breathe.

Every time I log off of an interview, I want to hide.

Why do I continue to pretend that I might enjoy a job I’m literally running from?

I could stop running. I could rest. It’s been two months in the Lone Star State, what’s two more? What’s five more?

What’s a year?

Maybe I can rent Liam’s second floor from him.

We could live together again, just like we did in college, and I wouldn’t feel so much like I’m taking advantage.

I can bounce around between jobs, figure it out as I go, try something new.

Maybe Morgan can show me around Austin, and we can all go out dancing.

Maybe Noah will discover he loves it here just as much as I do, and he’ll stay, too.

Panting, I stare at the crack in the pavement where a shoot of green grass has burst through.

Give me a fucking break, Sadie, I snap internally. You’re overreacting. You’re stronger than this. It’s my voice, but with my old manager’s tone. What are you going to do, just give up on your career? After everything you’ve worked for?

The seed of doubt takes root, tangling my thoughts and squeezing my heart miserably.

I flip to the other side of the coin. The darker side.

What the fuck am I even doing in Texas ?

I’m fooling myself if I think that I could live here long-term.

Sure, I’m making good money from the mural—but it’s not exactly full-time work.

It pays the grocery bills, but it wouldn’t pay rent.

And would I even want to do it full time?

I’d have to do several murals a month just to get to the level I’d been at Incite.

And I’d bet having to financially rely on my passion in that manner would suck the joy right out of it.

Maybe Paragon doesn’t spark the same level of enthusiasm that art currently does for me, but I’d be lying if I told myself that it’s not a good fit on paper.

I try to rationalize my terror, try to tell myself that all of my panic surrounding this new job is rooted in the fear of how my old one ended.

Just because things were shit at Incite doesn’t mean that Paragon’s bound to be the same. Right?

Right?

I’m fully spiraling now, but I can’t stop myself from riding the wave.

If I could just figure out how to overcome my fear that I’ll fail if I try again, my dread that maybe I’m just not cut out for this industry or for New York—I’d be fine. If I could just drag my perspective back into shape, build a healthier relationship with my work, forge a new relationship with—

A new relationship.

Noah.

I clench my jaw. My thoughts sour.

At the very least, I shouldn’t be making any plans where Noah is concerned.

He’s the antithesis of a plan. He’s everything that’s chaotic and good, hopping from state to state with careless abandon, always seeking adventure and never staying long enough to grow roots.

He’s the dictionary definition of winging it.

He could be plotting out Alchemist’s new location with Dan right now.

Maybe he’s sitting at home, mapping out our camping trip just as he starts to wonder which trail he’ll disappear down next.

He makes everything feel so easy—so effortlessly simple. But days like today prove that things are much more complicated than that.

As I sit with my head between my knees, the heat burns away all the delusional daydreams I’ve had during my time here until I’m left with hard, bitter facts.

Stop.

I swallow thickly.

Take a deep breath in for me.

I follow the memory of his voice, scrunching my eyes closed and sucking in a deep breath.

Take it one day at a time, okay?

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and shake my head. And then, finally—something breaks.

One day at a time.

Okay. I exhale in a rush.

I’m soaked like I’ve run for miles, but I’m not very far from the house at all.

My formerly bouncy curls stick limply to my face as I start to walk back to Liam’s.

Every time my thoughts creep back toward the decision I’ll have to make in the next few weeks, I focus instead on my breathing.

In. Four steps forward. Out. Four steps more. In…

One day at a time.