Page 1 of Let's Call a Truce
Chapter 1
I was goingto die in a goddamn public bathroom.
My purse fumbled around in my hands as they shook, sending the bag’s contents to the floor. I followed, scrambling for the lavender oil my therapist suggested I carry with me. The delicate floral scent flooded the stall as I popped off the top, and I inhaled deeply to regulate my shallow breathing.
Four seconds in. Hold for seven. Eight seconds out.
You’ve lived through this before. It’s not too much for you.
I played the mantra in my head on repeat, reminding myself that the pain in my chest wasn’t a heart attack. The dizziness would pass if I could get a breath in.
I was in control of my life, no matter how I felt in the moment.
As the tunnel vision faded, I registered where I actually was: not just sprawled out in any bathroom stall, but the one at my new job, the first I’d had in seven years.
Fuck my life.
It’d been nine months since my life blew up. Nine months of panic attacks and sleepless nights. Nine months of trying to adjust to my new life and hiding my pain to help my kids through theirs. I swore I would get it under control before I returned to work.
I gripped a cool surface to steady myself, before realizing it was the toilet seat.
“Ew, ew, ew.” My disgusted squeal echoed off the tile as I wiped my hand on my blazer.
I inched down to look under the stall, praying I didn’t see anyone else. I let myself hope I’d escape undetected, until I spotted another pair of feet in the last stall.
“Is everything alright?” The timid voice was a mixture of concern and caution.
I swallowed a curse.
It was my first day. If I could get out without being seen, no one would know I lost it on the floor of the office bathroom. But my voice could still give me away, so I disguised it. “Yep. I’m fine.”
Whatever signals my brain sent to my vocal cords translated to a bizarre combination of faux-masculine and weirdly squeaky—not to mention obviously fake.
I couldn’t keep hiding. My new boss—well, old boss turned new again—was sitting in my office. God only knew what she was thinking after I got up and left the room, but who wouldn’t freak out about having to introduce themselves at the all-staff meeting? Did I even get a coherent “I have to go to the bathroom” out, or did I just turn and sprint?
Christina hired me right out of college when I had a degree in human resources but no actual experience. She taught me how to do the job and do it well, and I owed her every professional success I had. The hardest part of deciding to stay home when my first daughter came along was seeing the disappointment on her face. I wondered if she was as equally disappointed in how pathetic I’d become since we last worked together.
But that was a problem for another time. Right now my priority was getting out of this bathroom without being seen.Do I make a break for it or wait out the concerned bystander in stall number four?
I ran for it, breathing a sigh of relief when the other stall’s door creaked open only after I’d made my escape. I thanked theuniverse for this one small act of kindness as I dug out the hand sanitizer from my purse.
Christina turned the corner as I slipped the bottle into my bag, and I let her lead me back to my office.Keep your head in the game, Juliana. You can’t afford to lose it again. Literally.
When Christina heard I was looking for work, she snatched me up for KMG—officially Keller, Muñoz, and Griffin, though it was never called that since the K and G got bought out by the M. It pushed me back to an entry-level position, but something was better than nothing. I’d taken the last nine months to grieve the loss of my husband and get things in order for my girls, not an easy feat with a seven- and a five-year-old who don’t understand why Daddy isn’t coming home. But Clara and Sophie had to figure it out alongside me. I couldn’t put off work any longer or we wouldn’t have a roof over our heads. Plus, KMG’s architectural and interior-design departments had created some of my favorite spaces in Orlando. I was excited to help build their teams.
Christina settled into a chair across from me. I fought the urge to fidget, while she watched me with a tilted head. “How are you doing?”
I’m a hot mess. I don’t know if I can do the work after so long away. My kids are making me feel guilty, and I slept three hours last night because I was so nervous. I miss Jason, I want everything back the way it was, and if I get through the day without crying, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.
“Great!” I threw her a megawatt smile.
Christina was clearly unconvinced. Her eyes roamed my face, like an X-ray scanning for every broken piece inside me. It was assessing but not unkind. A doctor looking for the issues so she could make a diagnosis. By the time she was done, I was sure she saw every fear and insecurity floating in my head.
I was back to metrics and deadlines after seven years as a stay-at-home mom, where there was no supervisor to judge orguide you. That life has its own sort of stress. Most nights I went to bed wondering if I had done what my kids needed. It always seemed like I had achieved nothing and yet never stopped moving all day. My wardrobe had consisted of stretched out T-shirts covered in some sort of bodily fluid, and my hair was rarely, if ever, done. I loved it, but in the dead of night, when my insomnia kept me up well past when I’d gotten my daughters back to sleep, I’d wished for a bit of my old life.
Now I had it, and I was terrified. How was I supposed to do this, to be enough for Christina and my girls, all without a partner to help?
Christina sighed and nodded, like she’d finished her assessment and knew the best course of treatment. “As moms, we’re expected to keep too many balls in the air, while everyone else applauds our skill without offering to catch a few for us. I want this job to work for your family. I trust you to not take advantage of the flexibility I’m giving you, and in exchange, I’ll help make sure none of your important balls hit the ground.”
