Page 41 of All's Well that Friends Well
It’s delicious, and I need to eat the whole thing. But despite my pep talk, those old anxieties are turning my stomach sour with an almost compulsive need to run.
I want to believe that this is a fluke, that tomorrow I’ll feel normal again—about food, about work, about myself. But I know that my situation right now is a breeding ground for the lies my brain tells.
Because I’m ashamed of myself for how I’ve been treating Luca. My life feels lost and wandering, out of my control. I’m torn between caring what other people think of me and not caring at all, and I’m also frightened of what the future might or might not hold.
In these circumstances, my mind can’t decide if it wants to barrel recklessly forward or freeze in place, until it somehow decides to do neither and takes a swan dive instead.
I squeeze my eyes shut, taking myself through the exercises my old therapist taught me. Reminding myself that no matter what I’ve done, I deserve to take care of myself in the most basic ways. Food, water, rest. I think about the things my food does for my body, the ways it makes me strong, the ways it actually gives me more control because it allows me to participate fully in life rather than wasting away.
And although there are parts of my brain that don’t believe what I’m saying—the parts of my brain that might struggle forever—most of my mind is able to accept the logic I’m feeding it. So I pick up the bread and eat it, bite by bite, even though I have to chew my anxiety too. Three minutes later, all that’s left on my brown paper bag is a few crumbs.
Good job, Juliet.I pat myself on the back—physically reach over my shoulder and pat myself—because I think everyone should. Some of the hardest decisions I ever make happen when no one is watching. Things people would be so proud of me for—but no one ever sees, because I’m too scared to let them.
So I pat myself on the back. “You did good,” I murmur, swallowing down the lump in my throat, feeling the soft fabric of my blouse. My eyes still sting, and I’m not even sure it’s because of Luca now. “You did good. I’m proud of you.”
And then, because I want to be brave, I tell myself one more thing:I’ll take the assessment tonight.
The restof Friday drags by with no more glimpses of Luca, which is probably for the best. Little sparks of excitement rush through me every time I hear his name, though, which means that I’m a sparky, jumbled mess by the end of the day. The office is buzzing with excitement about the breakfast Luca is hosting; as much as the employees complain and seem scared of him, they’re also clearly intrigued.
Now that Luca has given me permission to bring over my peach breakfast bars, I’m getting even more excited, too.
I’ll just need to make sure I can hobble around the kitchen well enough to bake.
Because everything hurts.Everything. My back hurts, my neck hurts, my arms hurt. I’m hoping I’ll get used to it soon; I have at least made peace with the dull monotony this job entails.
Since I’m not allowed to listen to headphones while I’m cleaning, for the last hour of work on Friday I retreat into my head and spend my time psyching myself up for what I’ll be doing tonight.
Whether you’re happy with the results or not, it will be good to know,I tell myself as the thought of the career assessment crosses my mind yet again.And there’s no rule that says you have to do what the test suggests. It will be fine.
But by the time I clock out, it’s pointless telling myselfanything at all. I’ve reached the point where I can’t think about it anymore; I just have to go take the assessment.
It’s so stupid to be this nervous. Because I really do know that I’m not obligated to make any decisions based on the suggestions the assessment offers. I can chuck all the results out the window if I want.
But despite knowing these things, my insides flutter with anxiety anyway.
The fluttering worsens as I drive home, and while I adore my sisters, I’ve never been so grateful to find the house empty. When I get upstairs to the room India and I share, I close the door and lock it.
Is there any reason to lock it? No. But I do it anyway. Then I slump on my bed, make myself comfortable, and find the link Cyrus sent.
Then, with trembling fingers—trembling everything, really—I take the test.
It’s seventy questions, which seems like a lot, but I work through them in half an hour, my anxiety growing more with every click of theNextbutton. Some of the questions I expect—Do you prefer working alone or with people? Which subjects do you gravitate toward?—but some of them seem irrelevant to me. I answer honestly anyway, and when I finally reach the end of question seventy, my hand hovers over theSubmitbutton for a full ten seconds before I’m able to press it.
My hands clench in my lap as the screen changes, and I fight the temptation to slam the computer shut. I’m being stupid; I just need to get this over with and find out what it says. So when the results pop up, instead of closing my eyes or throwing the laptop across the room—a very appealingoption on some level—I glance at the screen to find my answers.
And there they are. They’re impossible to miss, written in capital letters, bold, right at the top.Primary: SOCIAL WORK. Written beneath that is another heading.Secondary: PSYCHOLOGICAL SERVICES.
I stare at the words for a solid five seconds, my mind churning. Then, a little frown pulling at my lips, I let out the thought racing through my brain: “What the heck?”
“I took the assessment.”
Cyrus stares at me from his open door, one eyebrow cocked. “Why did you knock?” he says. “Why didn’t you just come in?”
“I’m a vampire today,” I say, pushing past him. “I need to be invited.”
He mutters under his breath as I stalk down the hallway, passing into the living room and throwing myself down on his little couch.
“Hi,” I say to Poppy, who’s already there, curled up with what looks like a textbook. She’s just finishing up her master’s degree, so she reads a lot.
