Page 65 of Business Casual
“All right.” I blow out a deep breath and stretch my neck. No use making my bad mood worse by reflecting on it. “What else do you have for me?”
Selene stacks some folders, color coded with various Post-it notes, and drops them neatly in the complex organizational structure I keep behind my desk. I really should give the woman a raise. She keeps the show running.
“I have some advice.”
I drop my head to my keyboard and bang it there twice. “No, thank you.”
“You need to cut your father off.”
I groan louder. “I know that.”
It’s silent on the other end of the computer. I lean up and rest my chin on the trackpad. The only part of me visible on the computer screen is the top of my hair and thank god for it. Selene doesn’t need to see a car crash in real time.
Selene blinks at me. “I expected more of a fight, to be honest.”
“I know he’s causing problems, but I—” I have trouble with confrontation. I’m confident until I’m not, and I’d much rather do a bunch of extra work than talk to my father directly about what a pain in the ass he’s being. I’m a people pleaser, through and through, and it doesn’t matter that the person I’m trying to please is an asshole. All my brain recognizes is the itchy, uncomfortable feeling of disappointment. “That’s exactly what he wants,” I finally say.
“He wants you to cut him off?”
“No. He wants me to call him and give him the attention he’s craving. He pokes and prods me until he gets it. He’s a narcissist.” Among other things. If I don’t cave to his whims, he’ll keep escalating until I do.
“So, what are you going to do?”
I press my fingertips to the base of my skull, trying to ease the tension headache I can feel brewing. My arms and back are tired from the fieldwork yesterday, and I’m just…I’m tired.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Selene raises both of her eyebrows. “When will you take care of it?”
God. She’s been working with me for too long. She knows all of my avoidance mechanisms. “This week. I’ll take care of it this week.”
“Would you like me to pencil it in your calendar?”
A half-hearted smile curls the edge of my mouth. “What will it say?”
“It will be a blanket ‘Do Not Disturb’ titled ‘Standing Up for Ourselves.’ I’ll schedule the call, an hour before to panic, and an hour after to decompress.”
I snort. “That would be great. Thank you.” I think for a second and drag my hands through my hair again. “Could you color code it blue?”
?I spend therest of my morning buried in email hell, the notification on my calendar to call my father an ominous countdown in myperiphery. I don’t know if I can have it hanging over my head for the rest of the week, that blue block of pressure.
“Fuck.” I sigh and pick up my phone, dialing the number I refuse to keep saved but know by heart anyway.
He lets it go to voice mail, because of course he does. I finally give in to him, and he keeps tugging me along.
“You’ve reached Brian Milford, independent financial consultant.” I groan out loud. He shouldn’t consult anyone about anything. “Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you.”
The phone beeps. Words come tumbling out.
“This is Charlie Milford, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop with the independent financial consulting. If you need attention, here it is. Call me back.”
I place my phone on the table gently, even though I’d like nothing more than to hurl it out the window. I don’t like getting angry. I don’t like losing control of myself. I hate the rolling, roiling tension in my head and in my chest. My thoughts pick up speed until I can’t pluck out a single one, just a constant stream of stressors and reminders and pieces of conversation. It’s like shoving my head underwater at a concert, everything muffled with endless, indistinguishable sound.
You’re missing things, my mind whispers.Focus.You’re falling behind. People are depending on you and you’re falling apart. Again.
I breathe in deep through my nose.
Out again.
