Page 90 of The Do-Over

“Hmm,” I said, still recovering from the kiss. “Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I mean, another kiss might convince me…”

He grinned and did just that.

“You are almost unbearable,” Stella said one Saturday morning. “Like, disgustingly happy all the time. It’s giving me a headache.”

I grinned. “Thank you very much.”

She rolled her eyes and stomped into her office but left the door open. I followed her and sat in the wobbly chair across from her.

“Stop smiling,” she grumbled without looking up from her clipboard. “And sit down.”

Between Nate, my job at the daycare, and even my plans for the anniversary party, it felt like my life was falling into place at last; like I’d spent most of my life trying to be an edge piece in a puzzle and I’d realized I was an inside piece the whole time.

I was the girl after. The one who starts out frumpy and broken and finds everything she ever wanted by growing her hair out, changing her wardrobe, and becoming a new, vibrant person.

Sure, my mom and I didn’t talk to each other, it was more at each other. And my sister was marrying a jerk, and Bria was MIA again. And I’d lied more than I ever had before in my life during the last few months, but life was good. Right?

I plopped into the lone wobbly chair in Stella’s office.

“I gotta talk fast. Bria is here. She just found out about the internship.”

“She got it?” I asked, excitement buzzing through me.

“No, she did not. The interview went very badly.” She shuffled some papers on her desk. “It went so badly, the guy from the oil company called me after to let me know. She bombed it. Arrived ten minutes late, wore shorts and a tank top, and refused to answer half the questions.”

My smile retreated. “What? We practiced. She was ready. Why would she do that?”

“I think you’ll have to ask her that yourself.” Stella chewed her lip, her dark eyes serious. “Just remember, it takes a lot for a person to change what they’ve always thought about themselves. She’s angry at herself, but that’s not who she’s going to take the anger out on.”

With a sigh, I stood and walked to the rec room. Bria was slumped on an ugly beige couch, a pillow held to her stomach. She flipped through the TV channels mindlessly before pausing on a cooking show.

“Hey,” I sat opposite her on the couch. A rock of concern laced with a dollop of guilt settled in my stomach. “How’s it going?”

She flipped through more channels and stopped at a wrestling match.

My hands twisted in my lap. “I heard about the interview. You want to talk about it?”

Nothing, but her breathing changed, became rougher.

“Or not. We don’t have to.”

The television clicked off. We both stared at the black screen.

I touched her arm. “I’m sorry, Bria. I wish I could do something to make it better.”

The remote flew across the room and hit the wall, plastic raining down. Bria stood and turned the full force of her anger at me then, her eyes burning.

“You know what? I’m tired of you trying to make things better for me. I’m not a stray you find on the street and clean up and hope that solves all its problems.”

Her words made me flinch and that feeling in my stomach turned sour. “I-I’m not trying to solve all your problems.”

Bria snorted. “Aren’t you? I’m a failure. I’m always gonna be a failure. Ain’t nothing gonna change that. I don’t need you or your help anymore.”

Her words hurt, but it was the look on her face that made my insides twist. “That’s not true. It’s not.”