Angie’s still talking as I watch the floor numbers tick by.

Floor 4.

“We’ve actually kind of been working on this one together since the start. She’s had it in the works since her freshman year, and she would always run her ideas past me whenever she hit a sticky part. The lore is pretty complex so…”

“Oh?”

Floor 3.

I should say something else.

Lore is always one of the most “uphill battles” to work through with new writers. 

I feel my posture melting.

“Lore is definitely pretty tricky,” I say casually.

“Yeah, I’m just glad she kept at it,” Angie purses her lips, and she’s suddenly serious. 

I know I should say something that shows I notice her expression and feel something human and sympathetic. 

But fortunately, she keeps talking, whether I lie to her or not.

“She got pretty frustrated during her senior year because nothing was turning out. She’s been pitching to companies for 6 years now, and it took so much of her time just to get nowhere, that she was just planning to stop writing altogether and focus on college.”

Angie gets quiet as the elevator doors open, following me silently through the lobby, and out the front door before she finishes her thought.

“I told her she shouldn’t quit, though.”

Is that so?

What else am I supposed to say?

I can’t relate.

“We’ve been dreaming about this forever. You know what it’s like when you’re kids and all the crazy stuff you’ll talk about doing.”

Note to self, buy eye drops.

My headache seems to push back my cognitive thought more forcefully than ever as Angie keeps on rambling the way Beth does.

I wonder if her sister, this new up-and-coming author, ever gets tired of it.

But probably not. 

Other people are probably grateful to have people who want to be around them - probably want to have conversations, at least occasionally.

I never remember talking a lot about anything with Beth, but she could carry on a conversation with a brick wall if she wanted to, and I was almost as good company for her random trains of thought.

“Hey Essence, what’s your favorite number? If you could have a lifetime supply of one thing, what would you choose? If you could make any TV show have an infinite amount of episodes, which one?”

And every possible question you could ask about romance and boys.

“Hey, Essence, what's your ideal type? Which prince do you think is the most handsome? What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever watched? What’s your favorite romance novel?”

By the time Angie heads to her car and I reach my own, I feel like I’ve been back-fisted by fatigue.

I lean my face against the steering wheel and let the cold seep into my forehead. 

Just five minutes, then I’ll move again. 

I won’t doze off this time.

I move my hand to my blazer pocket in slow motion and slip out my cell with two fingers.

What’s next? 

At this point, the world itself seems to be moving in time with my pulse.

To-do list. I have cleaning and I know I have Shaun’s novel…

But before I can pull up the list the cell starts to ring.

Mom…?

As usual.

“Hi Ma,” I say as enthusiastically as I can, “What’s-?”

“I text messaged you the shopping list, Essie,” she interrupts. “Make sure you get the right ice cream this time. It’s the one without the chips in the chocolate in the quart-sized container. I don’t like the way the frozen chips feel against my dentures.”

Mhm.

I raise my eyebrows like that could help me hear better, and the migraine ebbs.

I need to sleep.

I probably shouldn’t be driving.

When she’s done, I breathe slowly, trying to keep my voice calm and even, “Beth was supposed to be doing the shopping this week, Ma. I’m scheduled for next week-”

“That girl’s not picking up her phone again,” Mom interjects for the second time. I hear her frowning. “I can’t be waiting around for food and soap until she decides to answer my calls. The house is in shambles, and my scalp is driving me crazy.”

“Alright. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I nod, though she can’t see me, and hang up without waiting for a reply, because I know she’s not going to thank me.

The second the call is over, I put my face back on the steering wheel and try to let the coolness ease the ache.

I can do this. 

Mom needs food. And someone to help her comb and braid her hair.

I’m gonna move.

I just need…

I sigh this time, but it doesn’t relieve the pressure.

Taking a deep breath, I stick my keys into the ignition and shift out of 'park,' repeating my to-do list with a ‘just’ before each item. 

JUST gotta go to get Mom’s groceries and fix her some dinner. Then I JUST gotta help her braid her hair. JUST gotta clean her bathroom. Then I JUST gotta get home and do all those same things for myself. Just gotta go over Miss Lay’s manuscript, and then Shaun’s manuscript, and then sleep.

God. Why is the grocery store so packed on a Tuesday night?

The other customers and shopping carts seem to fade in and out around me. It takes two attempts to bring the letters on my phone screen into focus.

Juice. Bread. Oranges. Lettuce. Apples. Soy Cheese. Tea.

Then, I waste 30 minutes waiting in line, paying for mom’s groceries, weaving my way out of the crowded store and parking lot, and over to the car. 

The worst tasks are the ones that you can’t get done any quicker just by pushing through.

I force myself not to shove the pedal to the floor. I don’t need a ticket. Don’t need to be pulled over.

I JUST need to get to Mom’s house and help her out so I can get back home and-

The ice cream.

Crap.

I purse my lips as the exhaustion washes over me again, but I just want to stop. Stop moving altogether. Sleep. How long have I been awake today?

I really don’t have it in me to go back to the store right now. Especially not with perishables in the car. Glancing to the left, I scan the row of businesses for a convenience store that might carry ice cream. Fortunately, I can count on Mom to eat the most generic brands of everything. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for one of these to carry her favorite, right?

I pull into a parking space on the left side of a very small, orangely lit shop, and I’m almost through the front door before I realize I forgot to lock the car.

Focus, Essence. 

I march-walk into the store and straight to the freezer, pretending not to notice the weird way the short guy behind the counter squints at me as I do. I’m not sure whether it’s because of my speed walking, my hair, my complexion, or my height, but I force myself to move at an easier pace, just in case it’s something I CAN do something about.

I run my finger across the air in front of the frozens' case, mouthing the name of the brand back to myself so I don’t forget what I’m here for.

“Cocoalicious Chocolate, Cocoa…,” finding the pink and white container, I swing the door open and I double check the label, as the cool air trounces my headache.

Chocolate chip-free, thank heaven. 

The soft click of the freezer locks the cold relief away from me again. I let my shoulders drop in a silent sigh that seems to jolt my whole body.

My heartbeat is in the back of my neck.

Alright, ice cream and the rest of the groceries are in the car…

I run back over the list on my phone for good measure as I wander my way toward the front counter. 

This time, I’m almost positive I got everything, but there’s a good chance I just keep skimming over the same word a dozen times every time my brain starts going to sleep without the rest of me. I shake the fog off and make myself stand up straighter to try and compensate for the growing unsteadiness. The floor turns to the deck of a boat.

When I lift my head, I’m at eye level with everything on the top shelves. On the right, there's a row of commercial spice mixes and hot sauces. On the left, there’s a small shelf of books, not even an arm’s reach between the freezers and the counter.

One cover sticks out to me from amongst the rest as I slip my phone back into my pocket.

“‘Honey Bea?’” I mumble under my breath, slipping the yellow-covered rom-com off the shelf and running my fingertips over the textured cover image of a woman's mouth licking a honey dipper.

I could have sworn they’d settled on a different cover. But maybe it’s a new edition.

“That one’s hilarious,” a male voice says.

I look away from the book quickly and then down, noticing for the first time that the man from behind the counter is now standing next to me.

“Is it?” 

Why is this guy talking to me?

I try to think of something to say in response and end up smiling crookedly, “I don’t really care for romances myself.”

He squints up at me a little curiously, with an odd smile twisted into the turn of his mouth, as he admits with a short chuckle, “Well, there are a lot I don’t care for either, but this one was really funny and sweet.”

I can’t tell if that was supposed to be a pun or just a coincidence. I play it safe and try to look slightly amused, as I put the book back where it belongs.

“I’ve already read it. Just found it a little bit corny.”

“Corny?” He raises one eyebrow now, and his expression seems to be daring me and laughing at me at the same time. 

“I mean, flowers, chocolates, dancing…,” I say as if I have to explain myself. “It's kind of silly that the female lead got so starry-eyed about everything the male lead did when he didn’t do a single thing that a thousand guys haven’t done before.”

“Most people just get starry-eyed over the person,” the guy laughs, crossing his arms over his sweatshirt, “the gifts usually don’t matter that much.”

I’ve run out of words, so I just shrug again, trying to figure out how to politely move on with my day...

Remember what Mom says.

I could try to be a little less distasteful. I look back at the guy and force a smile.

“Maybe it’s just because I’ve read so many romances. I have a hard time finding anything really unique that impresses me…”

I should have tacked on a ‘much’ at the end…

“Do you think I could impress you?” He asks suddenly.

What? 

I look at him blankly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he kind of laughs and smiles uncomfortably at the same time. “The second you walked in here, I knew I had to try to get your number because you’re just so striking…”

My brain seems to lag again between forcing a smile and forcing whatever reaction I should have to a ‘compliment’ like that.

Is "striking" even a compliment? 

I’m not sure if I should pretend to be happy or annoyed. I keep my expression somewhere in between and wish there was someone else behind the counter.

Mom’s ice cream is melting.

But the look on his face seems to say it was meant as a compliment, and since he’s still staring at me after 0.5 seconds, I guess he wasn’t kidding.

I hesitate.

But it wouldn’t kill me to give the guy my number if he wants it that bad.

Out of the things I’ve had to do today, it’s among the least unappealing, though as I put my number into his phone, I feel a tangible weight settling on my shoulders.

Ignore it until later.

I keep faking the smile.

This is going to put so much extra stuff on my schedule, and I barely have time for my own life right now.

But I’m supposed to try to make people happy.

My posture starts sinking again, but I try to look brighter when he glances up at me, remembering to pretend.

No one will ever want to be around me if I don’t try to be agreeable.

And maybe someday, I’ll want that, and regret that I didn’t.

So, I’ll just keep saying ‘yes’ to everything and keep everyone ‘happy’ with me for as long as I possibly can, as if maybe someday something good will come of it when nothing ever has in 27 years.

A brilliant smile spreads across his face as I hand him back the phone with my number in tow and he beams up at me, “My name's Dominic Giang, by the way.”

“Essence Walker.”

It’s with the number. I didn’t have to say that. I start looking toward the counter but stop myself. 

Shrug for the millionth time and smile.

This is…I’m doing this right.

And yet, I wonder if I should feel something…maybe guilt?

For faking a smile when he smiles so genuinely back at me.