Page 23 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

XXII

Light filters through the windows. I can hear birds chirping. It should be perfect. Peaceful. Calm. Instead, I’m itchy with the desire for escape. From here and from myself.

I want to put on a podcast. Play a game on my phone. Go to the store and see if Willa will put me to work again. This is exactly why I ignored Tilly’s advice when she advised me to slow down and relax. Because I knew I couldn’t bear being alone with my thoughts.

Now I have no choice.

I ease myself out of bed, as if it’s my body that’s sore instead of my heart.

Then I go downstairs, looking for a chore, something to occupy my hands while I think.

Unfortunately, my dad must have emptied the dishwasher before he left for work this morning.

The counters are sparkling. There’s even coffee in the pot for me, still warm.

I pour it into a mug and sip it while I try to plan what I’m going to do next. I canceled my therapy session this week, claiming a packed schedule spending time with my parents. I’m trying to figure out whether I should ask for a makeup when I hear the front door open.

“Hey,” I call out.

“Hi in there,” my mom calls back. A few years ago, she cut her work hours in half, preretirement, and she’s probably just getting back from her morning walk. She comes into the kitchen, her cheeks rosy from exertion. “You’re up early! I thought you might sleep in, after the party last night.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t end up staying that late.”

“Oh.” She’s dumped the dregs of her coffee from her thermos, soaped it, and rinsed it clean. Now she turns around to look at me. “I don’t want to bug you, but—is something going on, Cassidy? You seem a little”—she looks me over, searching for the right word—“lost.”

I almost laugh. Lost is exactly what I am. And after all of the time I’ve spent hiding, it’s a relief for someone to find me, to see me so perfectly clearly. “Yeah.”

My mom nods and opens the fridge. “Well, I was about to start marinating some chicken for dinner tonight. Want to help me prep it and tell me what’s going on?”

It occurs to me that I come by my keep busy ethic honestly. “That sounds nice.”

“Excellent. Chop four cloves of garlic, please.”

“You got it.” I grab a head from the hanging basket over the sink and a chef’s knife from the block. Its weight feels good in my hand. Stabilizing. I shake the reminder of Leon’s perfectly chopped garlic out of my head.

“So.”

I’m too exhausted to do anything but tell the truth. “I know I said this sabbatical was a reward. But the truth is, I’ve been really unhappy at work. Like, really, really unhappy. And I think I might quit my job when I get home.”

My mom has pulled like fifteen different ingredients from a cabinet: sesame oil, soy sauce, fish sauce. I can’t even see what else. “Okay. Go on.”

“And I have no idea what I’m going to do next. And also—I’ve been seeing someone while I was here. Or was. But he was—we were—” I pause. Take a deep breath. “It fell apart last night. And it’s just like... am I going to be this broken forever?”

“Oh, baby.” She abandons her marinade to come give me a hug. “Do you really feel broken?”

I grab a paper towel to wipe my eyes. “I don’t know. Kind of. Yes.”

“I don’t think you’re broken. I think you’re brave.”

God, that fucking word. “Well, I disagree.”

“I know you do, sweetie. But consider: You are very close to your own life. And sometimes it’s easier for other people to see things like that.”

I shake my head at her. “Don’t you ever get tired of having to support me?”

I’m half joking, but she’s completely serious when she responds.

“No. I wish you would let me support you more. For a while, I thought maybe you were talking to your friends about this sort of thing and that that was enough. Then I hoped your therapist was breaking through. But over the last few years, I’ve started to wonder if you’ve just decided this is yours and yours alone to face. ”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I go back to the garlic.

“I’m serious, Cassidy. Very few people have seen, up close, what you went through. And how hard you’ve worked ever since. To be okay. To help other people. To—I don’t know. Make up for it, I guess. I’m not surprised that you’re tired and overwhelmed. It’s a lot to take on every day.”

It’s exactly what I want someone to tell me, and that somehow makes it hard to hear. It makes me feel like I’ve tricked her.

But I know what Tilly would say about that. So I take a deep breath. In, out. “Thank you.”

“Also, for the record, if you do decide to leave your job, you’re always welcome here. The house is so quiet with just me and your dad.”

In the wake of the scandal, I refused to move home. It felt too much like admitting defeat. I have that same instinct now: to refuse her offer. Insist on asserting my independence. But I’ve been doing that, and I can’t say it’s served me in the ways I’d imagined.

I’m not ready to say yes yet. But I let the idea of having it as a backup plan take root in my mind. It’s nice to know that there’s something—someone—who will catch me if I fall again.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

When the chicken is back in the fridge, we decide to go out to lunch together, and she heads upstairs to shower. I get ready, and then I make myself sit still for five whole minutes.

The inside of my head is so . Loud . I wonder how the store is doing. I think about whether I can get out of my lease in DC. I consider if I even want to do that. I ask myself if I could ever come back here.

And then the timer on my phone goes off. I have not meditated. I have not achieved nirvana or inner peace. But I have been alone with myself, even just briefly. A teeny, tiny little victory.

I take it anyway.