The Rule Book (Rule Breakers #1)(36)
She grabbed the takeout menu for Greasy Guy’s from the coffee table and raised a brow. “Ready to destroy our girlish figures and ingest a few gut bombs?”
“Always.” The Taylor metabolism hadn’t failed me yet, and I was going to use it to its full advantage for as long as possible.
“I bookmarked a few movies on Netflix that I thought would be good,” she said, pulling up the number for the restaurant on her phone.
I lay my head on Mom’s shoulder and everything else seemed to dissipate. “Sounds perfect.”
The food came forty minutes later, and while I demolished the entire half-pound burger with caramelized onions and enough pickles to be classified as a biohazard, she’d barely taken three bites of hers.
“You okay?” I asked, piling another fry into my mouth.
She frowned down at the burger. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.”
She was looking a little queasy, most likely from the new chemo treatment. A wave of unease settled in my gut, and I pushed the remainder of my food across the coffee table, out of reach, no longer in the mood to carbo-load. My hope was that after a few more months of this new medication, Mom would be on the mend and getting back to normal life. I pushed back the what-ifs and focused on what I could control—spending time with her right now, because that was all I really could do.
Just as Mom cued up a movie on the TV, my phone buzzed, jumping along the wood of the coffee table. I ignored it and snuggled closer into her, the blanket pulled over my arms and chest. The transition into a carb coma was well underway, and I was ready to hibernate on the couch until Sunday evening.
My phone vibrated again, then two more times before I decided to pick it up.
Jackson’s nickname flashed across the screen, and the primal urge to Hulk-smash the phone coursed strong through my soy-latte-run-hating veins. During the weekends, I’d maybe inferred to Jackson that my apartment had horrible cell service just to get a few hours to myself. And if it were any other weekend, I’d claim just that, but we’d happened to have been working on one of Jonathan Gizzara’s clients’ accounts this week, and I had a sinking feeling that the texts were directly related to this. The last thing I wanted was something to go wrong with an account that I’d personally worked on.
Grinch: Can you come in this weekend?
The proper response to this: Screw off, tiny dictator.
But, since I valued my job, I replied: What’s going on?
Grinch: It’s the Gizzara account. Brogan wants us to share our findings in the presentation on Monday. You can help me present.
Shut the front door. I stared at the text and read it five times just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Jackson was willing to work with me on a project and share credit in a meeting? This was huge. I could finally contribute something essential to the team and solidify myself as a functioning member of this company. Maybe this would lead to a different position. Okay, I was getting a little ahead of myself, but this was a huge step forward. A Bigfoot-size step.
I glanced at my mom who was flipping through Netflix to find a show, and my heart sank. To give up this opportunity would set me back at least a month, because who knew when I’d have another chance to work on such a high-profile client case.
Lainey: I’m in Portland. Can I work from here and send you slides?
The second the text sent, my guilt-meter teetered in crappy daughter zone. To analyze the data we’d discussed in meetings this week—that would take me at least ten hours of work, if not more. I mentally calculated, and with traveling back to Seattle at a reasonable time, there was no possible way to watch all the movies Mom wanted to catch up on and get this presentation finished in time, too.
Grinch: Yes. Send me your data on Tegan Jackson and Elliot Hurr.
Lainey: Thanks, Jackson. I’ll have it to you by tomorrow night.
Grinch: Whatever. Don’t screw up.
I sighed and chucked my phone on the couch cushion next to me.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
I took a steadying, self-loathing breath. “Work.”
She frowned. “On the weekend? Is this why you’ve been so tired?”
“It’s one of our multi-million dollar clients. He needs projections for next year by Monday.” That phrase felt foreign and douchey coming out of my mouth. It went right along with “I drive a Lincoln,” and “I only buy T-shirts that cost more than a laptop.” Coming from a Portland girl with chickens in her backyard, who preferred Oktoberfest to a wine tour in Sonoma, it was unexpected, to say the least.
“Do what you need to do. I’ll be right here.” She gave a weak smile and the stab of letting her down speared through me.
“You’re sure?” The hollowness of my question made me want to punch myself in the face. “I can wait until I get back home.”
“No. This sounds really important.” She gave a reassuring pat to my thigh.
I pulled my laptop out of my bag and cued it up, while Mom watched a movie. Her mood shifted from jovial to something I’d describe as Mommy Faking It mode. Ever since I was old enough to really read my mom’s emotions, or anyone’s really, she’d get this look on her face—her smile a little tighter, her eyes taking on a harsher edge, a faint sigh that she thought no one could hear, maybe even an utterance of for f*ck’s sake when she thought I wasn’t in the room.