It’s not lost on me that she has the luxury of deciding if she even wants a promotion at work—my parents would be proud of her if she told them she was selling weed to teenagers. Claire can do no wrong. But me … I’m still trying to prove myself to them. And every time they gush over Claire instead of me, the jealous monster inside me rears its head.
They’ll see. Once the arts centre is built, they’ll see what I am capable of, how hard I’ve worked to get where I am today. It will all come to fruition eventually. I resolve to do the best possible job I can, regardless of whatever tension there is between Hudson and me. I’m a professional, and I know how to get shit done.
Despite my new sense of determination, my breathing still hasn’t evened out, and I take a gulp of air to try and relieve the pressure in my chest.
“Are you okay? You just went super pale.” Claire’s is assessing me from across the table. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” I squeak out. “My chest is just feeling a little tight. Can we move these candles?” I point at the row of tea lights my mom has lit as a centrepiece. They must be made of cheap wax or something.
“Is this the first time this has happened, Wren?” Claire’s brow is furrowed as she watches me try to slow my breathing. I squint back at her, trying to figure out if the tone in her voice is sincere or to put on a show of concern for Mom and Dad.
“No, it’s okay. It happens sometimes,” I lie. It happens a lot. But it’s been going on for a long time, and usually I need some fresh air. “It’s just the candles.”
“It could be asthma, or some type of allergic reaction,” she notes. The suggestions cause my mom to interject as she returns from taking the candles back to the kitchen.
“Claire-bear, did you bring your stethoscope?”
I shake my head no. The last thing I want is for this situation to turn intoClaire-bearsaving the day, and me looking weak in front of my parents.
“It’s fine, really.” I plaster on a smile.
“Let your sister listen to you. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
“I’m okay. I promise. I’m going to go upstairs and lie down,” I say, and my mom frowns, a matching one appearing on my sister’s face at the same time. I excuse myself from the table. A silence stretches on until I reach the top of the stairs, and then my family moves on to a different topic, seemingly having forgotten I couldn’t breathe a moment ago.
I shut the door to my bedroom behind me, and although the quiet haven of my childhood calms my nerves, there’s still an antsy, jitteriness lingering in my limbs.
This room hasn’t changed since I was ten—the walls are the same obnoxious hue of purple that I remember, and stacks of books and records are piled in every open space along the walls.
I find my purse and reach around until my fingers grip the smooth, spongy ball I keep on hand. It’s a stress ball I got at a work conference, and I’ve kept it in my bag ever since. It comes in handy for moments like these, when I need something for my hands to do while I wait for it to pass.
I lie back and sink into the mattress of my old twin bed, staring up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars are all still there, forming random shapes and constellations. I focus my attention on the feeling of squeezing and releasing the ball with my fingers.
Eventually, my mind starts to wander, and thedistraction takes my thoughts away from the tightness in my chest, whatever that was.
My body is starting to relax when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Wren?” My sister says from the other side, her voice laced with concern. Whether it’s genuine or because my mother sent her up here to check on me, I can’t be certain. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I screw my eyes shut and turn over on my bed, facing the wall. The door handle squeaks as Claire lets herself in, standing in the doorway. To her, I must look like I’ve fallen asleep, and it clearly satisfies her because she closes the door softly and leaves.
A few moments later, I do fall asleep.
I can’t tell how long I’ve slept for, but it was at least a few hours because when I wake up, my room is dark and the rest of the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
It’s been years since I’ve napped, and as I sit up on my bed and look around the room, I realize why. I’m refreshed, rejuvenated, and clear-headed. And it’s ten o’clock. There’s no way I’m going to sleep tonight.
I get up and pad over to the desk below my bedroom window and sit down in the creaky wooden chair. I used to sit here for hours at a time while I drew in my sketchbook.
I open my laptop and review the contract I had Shelley sign. Then, I pull up the documents she sent over with the current plans. There’s not a whole lot here. In fact, what she’s sent me is more of a concept for an arts centre, rather than any sort of concrete building plans or design. I wonder if taking on this project will be worth it in the end,for how much work and turmoil I’m going to have to endure.
My eyes flick down my screen to the blue envelope at the bottom, and the little red dot in the corner indicating I have an unread e-mail.
Clicking it open, my stomach does a sort of flip flop when I see Hudson Landry’s name on my screen, twice. It’s nausea. The sickening dread at the very real reminder that I’ll be working with him all summer. This is just the beginning.
The first e-mail is a response to Shelley, and when I read the thread, my heart clenches. I really do want everything to be okay with her mom, and I hope whatever is going on isn’t serious. At the same time, I also need Shelley to be a buffer between Hudson and me—an impartial party and someone to oversee the work, to keep Hudson on his best behaviour.
Hudson’s reply is obviously empathetic, and I soften when I read his words.Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Hudson has always been thoughtful, I can’t deny that. I just wish he had thought about my feelings a little more when he dumped me. Where was his kind and considerate nature then?
