“I’m not quitting, I’m just . . . leaving.” I gesture up at the house, where an audience is building. “They’re all waiting for the big boss.”
He gives up on me. “Must be nice to just leave when things get hard. Some of us don’t have that luxury.” He walks back to the house, where he’s surrounded by guys, all needing things done, answered, signed, sorted.
I rewind my memory. Cheap drinks. Bar. Enjoy this project. Is that really enough to derail an entire house renovation? I thought I was doing something good, but now shame is burning inside me, hot and sick.
It overrides everything; even the flush of pleasure in knowing I’m affecting him is tainted. It’s not something that he wants. The worst part about all of this? Jamie was right. I’m disrupting Tom so much he can’t do his job or enjoy his new challenge as boss. He’s completely tormented.
I pick up the envelope with my passport application in it. I’ll go mail this, then take my moldy old heart out for some day drinking. Who was I kidding? I’m not physically capable of the labor, or mentally fit to be a boss.
I have five names in my new phone’s contact list: Mom, Dad, Tom, Jamie, Truly. The only five who matter, and at this rate I might lose Tom altogether. My idiot thumb still thinks it is a twin, because it chooses Jamie first. I scroll again and dial Truly. She picks up on the first ring.
“Could you come pick me up? My car is blocked in by about a hundred trucks.” I look in the mirror. I am a hot mess. A gleaming, pink-faced mess, with smudgy eyes. Sexy? Tom’s been marooned on this desert island a little too long.
When Truly speaks, I know she’s got some sewing pins in her mouth. “Sure, I can be there soon. What’s happening?”
“The usual. My heart nearly blew up, I died of malnutrition, I invited the crew out to drinks, and then Tom’s head exploded.” I don’t hide my heart stuff from Truly, because she doesn’t lecture me about it.
I hear the sound of a sewing machine on the other end. “Drinks? Already? Aren’t they there for months?”
“Yes, but I was trying to bring a little fun into this.”
The whirring stops and starts. “You’d be making them all think this whole project is going to be easy and fun, when it’s not. They wouldn’t take it as seriously.”
“I want to create a team vibe.”
“You can probably think of ways for everyone to feel happy to be on this project without plying them with drinks. That’s kind of your default setting.”
“I’m a bartender.” This is not going how I thought it would.
“You don’t need to be on twenty-four/seven bartender mode when you’re not on shift. Just . . . be yourself for once. The real you. You know what I do when I make a mistake when sewing?”
“You have a complete mental and emotional breakdown. No wait, that’s me.” I sit on the edge of my bed and heave a sigh. “Jamie would love it if I quit.”
“When I make a mistake, I unpick it and I keep on sewing. And hey, Darce? You’re not a bartender. You’re a photographer. I wish you’d believe it again.”
I dolefully look up at the flash mob forming around Tom. “I keep trying to help, but it always ends badly. I’m beginning to think the best way might be to just stay off-site as much as I can.”
Truly sighs. “I’m on your side. Always and forever. But this job is about you actually staying for something big and finishing it. I love you, but that’s not what you’re generally known for.”
I’m stung. “I did weddings for how many years? I always showed up for them.”
“But you need to start looking at the bigger picture. Where’s your business now? You pressed the button and imploded that, just because you screwed up one time and that bride trashed you online.” More sewing noises. “You broke your own heart on that, and you need to forgive yourself for it.”
I chew my thumbnail and stubbornly say nothing.
“Just go and unpick your mistake and keep on sewing. He is not coping, Darce, that much is painfully obvious. Find out what you can do for him and do it.”
I pull open the sliding door and the sound causes half of the crew to look around. Fuck it. Let’s see if I can unpick this.
“Hey, guys, a quick word.” I try to not notice how Tom’s arms have crossed, his face taking on a careful, neutral expression. He’s expecting a blaze of glory right now.
“So I jumped the gun earlier. Apparently, you have the end-of-job party at the end of the job.” There’s laughter. “My bad. I’ll order pizza for everyone tomorrow. Eating it here with no alcohol whatsoever. Then we all resume working our asses off. That’s my best offer.”
There’s no grumbling. In fact, they cheer, a big a-heeeeey!
That’s because pizza is a precious natural resource. It can heal tiredness, bad mood, falling morale, and a fading will to live. Pizza realigns the heart chakras. It can make Tom’s arms loosen and drop to his sides. It can make his eyes spark with humor. He smiles and shakes his head.
It makes him look at me like he loves me again, and that’s why pizza is the greatest.