Page 1 of Tap Left
Prologue
Lola
To quoteAugusten Burroughs- I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. I am the product of every failed therapy session I’ve sat through and every self-help book I’ve ever read. To this day, I still can’t figure out how to win friends or influence people. I’m an introvert with daddy issues, and a sickness called people pleasing.
My problems have always been easy to identify. Fixing them? Not so much. For the first twenty-nine years of my life, I’ve been a shining example of the hot mess express that men in their right minds would run- not walk- away from. But that’s all about to change.
I have a milestone birthday coming up, and I’m determined that my next thirty years are going to be the best of my life. That’s why Melissa is currently standing in the threshold of my office, tapping her ballpoint pen against the yellow legal pad in her hand.
"Are you ready?" she asks.
Melissa- AKA Mellie- has been my BFF since college when she was in the unfortunate position of being saddled with me as a dormmate. It was a time in my life when I was still learning how to conform to normal societal standards by utilizing basic conversation skills and eye contact. Neither of which I handled well. And yet by some miracle, here she is eleven years later, still in my life.
“Should we do coffee first?” I stare at my Keurig in hopes that she’ll say yes so I have something to do with my hands.
“Caffeine will just make you nervous.”
She strides across the room and sits in my office chair, draping one long leg over another before she leans back and pops the cap off her pen with delicate fingers. I hate that pen and everything it represents, but Mellie can’t help it.
Even off duty, she looks like a therapist. Her soft blue cardigan compliments her navy trousers, and there isn’t a wrinkle or piece of lint to be found under even the most intense scrutiny. The color choice is purposeful, and so is the shiny brown hair loosely held in place by a pencil on the top of her head. Everything about her exudes calm. She is the ocean, and I am a hurricane.
I prop myself against the wall cabinet and snag a Twizzler from my desk. Number nine today, but who’s counting? Mellie smirks and rocks back in the chair.
“It’s okay, we’ll make this fun.”
I inhale my Twizzler and reach for another. “So much fun.”
Mellie moves the Twizzlers out of my reach and looks up at me. “Don’t be a baby, Lola. Overcoming obstacles is hard work, but that’s the point. You can still have fun doing it. Just don’t take it so seriously.”
I gnaw on my fingernail since she took my candy away. “Have you ever considered the Army? You’d make an excellent drill instructor.”
She ignores my diversion tactics and dives straight into the scribbled mess she calls notes. Meanwhile, all I can think about is adding glitter to that ugly yellow legal pad.
“Scenario one,” she reads out. “You have an enormous workload here at the shop. Inventory needs to be done, bills must be paid, and the deep cleaning hasn’t been done in over a month. You are struggling for time as it is when you get a phone call from your neighbor, Carly. She’s practically in tears and tells you her sitter just quit, and she needs to go to work, but she has nobody to watch over little Abby this week. What do you do?”
I bite my lip and stare at my desk drawer. “You know, I have some rhinestones in there. I could spruce that notepad right up for you in a matter of a few seconds.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Her expression doesn’t falter, and if I can’t soften her with glitter, then I’ve got nothing.
My fingers snap the spare hair tie secured around my wrist, using the sting as a distraction. “I could have Abby come to the shop with me. It really wouldn’t be that big of a hassle.”
“She’s one,” Mellie argues. “She needs constant care, Lola.”
The rubber band snaps when I pull back too hard, and Mellie frowns. I hate these stupid scenarios. Mostly because they have all happened before and I can’t get rid of the crushing guilt in my chest when I think about what I need to say.
“Think of your business,” she says, and this time her voice is a little softer. “Tell me how your body feels at the prospect of adding one more item to your plate.”
“Stressed,” I answer. “It stresses me out.”
“Okay, now imagine that you told her you couldn’t. Imagine that she asked someone else or called a daycare to help her out instead. Then how would you feel?”
My shoulders fall, and I let out a deep breath. “Relieved.”
“Then the answer should be simple, Lola. We’ve been through this a hundred times. Pretend that I’m her. Practice saying it.”
The words don’t come easily for me. They never have. But breaking the cycle requires constant practice. I straighten my shoulders and play my part.
“I’m sorry, Carly, I’d love to, but I just can’t right now. I have too much going on at the shop.”
