Rock Bottom Girl(130)

They turned me over to a chipper HR assistant who gave me the grand tour. Everything was open work spaces and primary colors. There was an espresso station and a yoga room. They were a start-up that was growing like gangbusters.

It was exactly what I was looking for. I’d be busy. There was room for growth. There were benefits and a casual dress code.

And I couldn’t for the life of me get excited about it.

They took me out for lunch, and I pushed my chicken salad around on my plate. Someone asked me about my coaching experience, and I told them about the girls on the team. Told them about our season, leaving out the devastating end.

After lunch, they showed me my potential office. A glorified cubicle but with a view of the river. They were growing, they assured me. Rapidly. They needed a data mining team in place as soon as possible. And within a year, I could be heading it.

All I could think about was how I had ten to fifteen years of life experience on the team. How would I be a better fit here than my own hometown?

They liked me. I could tell. Like I said, I was practically an interview professional. But did I like them? Did I want to be the team elder? Did I want to spend my working hours explaining what CDs were and who Dan Aykroyd was?

Why did everything I’d always wanted feel so damn wrong?

They promised to call me after the holiday. I shook hands all around, threw in some fist bumps for the knuckle-preferring crowd, and returned to my car in the parking garage.

I got behind the wheel and thumped my forehead against it. What the hell was I doing with my life?





Me: I had my interview.





Vicky: Oh, you’re emerging from your self-loathing to talk to me again? Goodie.





Me: I deserve that.





Vicky: Stop it. It’s no fun when you act like a kicked puppy.





Me: Arf arf.





Vicky: How did it go? Did they offer you a million dollars and stock options?





Me: I think they’re going to offer me the job.





Vicky: Are you going to take it?





Me: I don’t feel like I’m in the position to make any life-altering decisions. I really let our girls down. I don’t know how to make it better.





Vicky: Swing by my house. We’ll get loaded and write apology notes.





Me: I’ll be there in four hours.





78





Marley





Thanksgiving was depressing. I was depressing. Every damn thing in this house was depressing. We were supposed to be celebrating with the Westons in Jake’s house with his nice roomy kitchen and big dining table. His sweet, doofy dog.

Instead, we were asses to elbows falling over each other in Mom and Dad’s cramped kitchen, scrambling to prepare a feast that we hadn’t planned for.

All because I was a chickenshit dumbass.

The turkey and broccoli casserole were smashed into the oven while Zinnia did her best to steam more healthy vegetable sides in the microwave and on the stovetop.

The kids were running through the house, screaming and shouting, waggling zombies and giant insects at each other. Mom and Dad were sneaking wine in the garage, pretending to look for Christmas decorations. It was Cicero family tradition for the Christmas decor to go missing for at least a week or two after Thanksgiving.

And here I was alone, scraping gelled cranberry sauce out of the can.

I’d gone to Vicky’s last night, and with the help of a bottle of bourbon, I’d written heartfelt cards to every girl on my team. Then, since we were wasted, we’d paid Vicky’s motherin-law twenty dollars to drive us around to every girl’s house so we could stuff the note in the mailbox and then scream “Go, go, go!”

In the light of morning, I was hungover and still miserable. But I’d woken up to over a dozen heart emoji messages from the team.

Jake was probably having a great day. Hell, he’d probably found a new girlfriend since we’d broken up. She was probably helping him in the kitchen, wearing an apron, and letting him kiss her on the neck while she whisked corn starch into the gravy. I squeezed the cranberry sauce can so hard it dented on both sides.

The timer on the oven beeped shrilly, and I wrestled the door open, knocking over a kitchen chair in the process. Smoke billowed out.

“Fuck!” I waved a dish towel at the smoking mess. The turkey looked extra crispy and not in the delicious KFC way.

The smoke detector wailed to life, and all three kids came running, hands clamped over their ears. “MOMMY!”

“That’s it,” Zinnia said calmly. “I give up. I give up on everything.” She neatly folded her tea towel on the counter and stormed out the back door.

My mom rushed in and pulled a chair under the smoke detector. She climbed up and ripped it off the ceiling. “There! That’s better,” she said cheerfully. She had a red wine mustache.

“Mom, can you take care of this?” I asked, gesturing at the blackened bird and the rapidly blackening broccoli casserole.

“Sure, sweetie. Ned! I need wine STAT,” she called.

I headed out the front, stopping at the coat closet to grab my jacket and Zinnia’s cashmere wool trench. It was cool and crisp outside, not smoky and hot like our indoor inferno. I let myself into the backyard through the gate.