Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“Mr. Rambis is Gary to me now,” I say flatly. “We worked it out.”

“That’s nice.” She watches me walk into the kitchen and get out a glass. “Neely?”

I don’t look at her yet. I’m afraid I’ll cry. If that happens, she’ll probably panic, and her panicking won’t help anything.

“I have some great news,” I tell her. Ice clinks into the glass before I fill it with water.

“Great news is usually accompanied by a little more enthusiasm than I’m getting from you,” she notes. “Are you sure ‘great’ is the right word?”

On any given day, this news is great. Life-changing, even. It’s what I’ve worked my whole life for. It’s not that the word is wrong by any means. It’s that I’m having a hard time making peace with it.

I take a sip of the water. The cold rush slips down my throat. Instead of shocking me back to reality, instead of waking me up from the fog I feel like I’m walking around in, it chills me to the bone.

“I got two job offers today.” I lead with facts and numbers. I learned to do that in a random college class that I took just to finish my generals. People have a hard time arguing numbers, and if you start a conversation with hard data, they’re typically more engaged in your words. You sound smarter. And God knows I need all the wisdom I can get.

“Two?” She lifts a brow. “That’s amazing.”

“Aerial asked me to take over the gym today. I think that’s amazing.”

Mom’s eyes light up. “I actually think that’s wonderful.” She turns to the stove and puts on her oven mitts. She pulls two perfectly baked pies out and sets them on a cooling rack. “You’re so good with kids, honey. And the fact that Aerial trusts you to take over her namesake really says a lot about your reputation.” She plops the gloves down and turns to me. “I’m quite proud of you. You know that?”

I nod. I try to smile. I attempt at finding a twig of excitement somewhere in my system as I make my second declaration. “I also got a call from Frank Selleck.”

“He’s from your old company, right?”

“Right. He is Mark’s boss. I worked with him a few times on special projects and in developing the new magazine.”

She stills, watching me. It just makes me more nervous.

“Frank basically said they screwed up and want me back. Now. Ten percent more money than the job I applied for plus all creative control, more or less.” I wait for a surge of adrenaline that doesn’t come. “This isn’t just my dream job, Mom—it’s the next level. This is the stuff that happens to other people.”

I haven’t said it out loud until now. I stand by the refrigerator, which is covered in gaudy magnets and old pictures, and hope something I’ve just spouted off will hit me like a ton of bricks. That maybe this will start to feel less like a move to dread and more like something to feel energized about.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Nothing.

I try again.

“This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Mom goes to the sink and rinses off her hands. “I know it is, and I’m happy they realized what they lost.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely. I want you to have what you deserve. You deserve this. You’ve worked very hard for this opportunity, and if it’s what you want, then I’m thrilled for you, honey.”

I wait for her to continue. When she doesn’t, I look at the ceiling. “But . . .”

“But do you think, possibly, you deserve more than they’re offering you?”

“They’re giving me a huge raise, Mom.”

She smiles faintly. “I don’t mean financially.”

The kettle is in her hand when I open my eyes. She begins to fill it at the sink, then sets it on a hot burner. My chest squeezes so tight I don’t know whether to yelp from the constriction or cry from the agony. I just know this isn’t what it’s supposed to feel like.

“You keep telling yourself all the things you’ll gain from this new job,” she says. “You list them out like it’ll hit critical mass at some point and you’ll finally be convinced it’s the right choice.”

“I don’t have to be convinced. It is the right choice.”

“Fine,” she says. She stands on her tiptoes and pulls a box of tea bags out of the cabinet next to the spice rack. “It’s the right choice. But what does this job not give you? What do you have to give up to take it? That’s what I was saying when I said what if you deserve more.”

My fingernail goes to my mouth, but I stop my finger midair. I turn it over and look at the nail as my heart sinks to my stomach. What will I give up? I cringe at the pain that settles in my chest.