Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,70
something I should be sending to you or not. They seem to be complimentary, yet not so complimentary. And it seems like he might . . . know you?”
I roll my eyes. “Let me see one,” I say, walking over to her computer.
“Well, I haven’t gotten many, but this one came in today.” She turns her screen toward me.
From: [email protected]
Subject: That Suit
Your hair was on point today. I only watched the news report for 2 secs, but I wanted to make sure I wrote in to tell you. But that suit! Good hell, woman! Can you please get something with less shoulder padding? You look like you’re about to invade Russia. Vive Napoléon!
—Thomas
P.S. You’re still a settler of Catan.
Thomas. I shake my head at the screen and chuckle despite not wanting to find that butthead even a little funny.
I reach up and touch my shoulders, feeling the pads of the royal blue suit coat I’m wearing. I didn’t think they looked all that big. The color looks good under studio lighting, and it also brings out my eyes. Stupid Thomas.
“You can forward his emails to me,” I say. “He’s a friend. For now.” Clearly Thomas thought it would be funny to send emails to my work address and not just text me like he usually does. Probably to test and see if they would get through.
On Monday at Hester’s I had told my friends about what happened with the emails, and I even opened up about Grace Is Amazing. We laughed a lot. It was the best therapy and made me wonder why I hadn’t told them before. I could have saved myself a lot of agony.
“Thanks, Jess.” I turn to go but then pivot back. “How goes the Grace Is Amazing emails?” I’ve been curious if the old hag has still been sending me emails on a consistent basis.
“Sorry, who?” Jess asks.
I forgot that she has to go through so many people’s emails. “Grace Is Amazing—she writes me every day to tell me how much she hates something about me.”
Jess clicks in the search bar and types in Grace’s name, and nothing comes up.
“That’s weird,” I say. “Maybe search by her email address?” I give it to Jess since I unfortunately have it memorized. So many times, I hit reply on those emails, wrote something out, but never sent it.
“Nothing,” Jess says, when her search once again garners no emails.
“That’s so strange,” I say. “I wonder what happened to her.” Where could she have gone? Maybe she’s been actually eaten by cats after all. I only jokingly wished that upon her.
~*~
I’m grateful to have some time in the garage working on the curio cabinet, even if it is a Friday night and on paper it sounds super lame. This is my happy place, though. Plus, all my friends have other plans tonight, so here I am.
The cabinet is coming along nicely, although there’s still so much to do on the outside, that feeling of wanting to give up washes over me once again. I fight it, though. I need to see this one through. I won’t settle. I won’t prove Thomas right. Although, as the room is currently getting full of pieces I quit working on, it wouldn’t take much.
The inside of this cabinet is so lovely, it needs hardly any work. I just need the outside to match the interior and then it will be perfect. It’s like a metaphor for me . . . good insides, not so great outsides. Actually, I’m not even sure my insides are so good right now. I just don’t feel like myself. Like I’m standing at a precipice, needing to decide to take that jump.
But I can finish this cabinet. That’s something I can do. I can’t let this piece go the way of some of the other furniture in the garage. Plus, I’ll make a pretty penny off this one . . . if I sell it. Part of me wants to hang on to it. To put it in my apartment as a reminder of that one time I stuck it out when it got hard. Or maybe by the time I’m done, I’ll be so sick of it, I’ll just want it out of my face. Time will tell.
I start working on the left side of the piece, sanding down the corner where I fixed some rotted wood.
The door swings open, and my insides tighten, waiting for my mom to walk through the door, a new diet