Page 13 of Don't Go Faking My Heart
"Well, that's lovely." I wipe my chin and face with the back of my hand. "Good thing I'm not looking for a date. Not that anyone in this town would be interested after we went up in flames."
Rusty's eyebrows tug together, and I shake off my tired stupor and my dark thoughts. Well, I try to, at least. Neither are going anywhere anytime soon. Shoot, I've hurt Rusty's feelings by lumping him in with me, by saying we went up in flames, when he didn't do anything wrong.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You were great up there, but I couldn't convince a dying man to drink my water." I grimace just thinking about how disinterested everyone was. We’ve worked on this proposal for weeks, and our delivery was solid. The energy in the room wasn’t what I expected, though, and that threw me off. I thought I worked around it.
But it wasn't enough.
Why can't I be like Lou, who can dismantle any argument or like our friend Jane, who can sweep anyone up into her vision? My material was good! What did I do wrong that made them not like it?
Or was it just me they didn't like?
"You could convince a man who lives on the beach to get a swimming pool," Rusty says. "You were great up there. You were vibrant. Engaging. Bill's always carried a lot of weight in town, and he threw every ounce of it to convince people not to listen to you, yet you still got them to wait."
"I was scattered."
"You weren't either. Teddy and Bill are in cahoots, I guarantee it. And even together, they couldn't best you," he says. Rusty has a great voice. It's not Johnny Cash low, but it's silky and magnetic. And almost, but not quite, persuasive.
"That's nice of you to say. But I have my McLadyPants on. I can take this," I lie.
I can't take this, especially when I’m running on zero sleep.
Members of the chamber of commerce start to come over to us. At first, I'm confused why they'd vote against our proposal and then come over to chat afterwards. My head is foggy from the brief nap. But then my memory catches up with me.
Crap on a cracker.
"I don't know what you think you can do for a fishing supply store on the interwebs," Chick Parkinson says. He’s older than the hills but tougher than them, too, "But if you're looking to do free work, you may as well come in and stock shelves for me." He hoots.
Free work? I internalize my groan. Did I really promise to do a two-week social media campaign to increase tourism? For all of them?
Nearly every business owner in this room is lining up to talk to me.
What have I gotten myself into?
I don't have this kind of time! No one has this kind of time! If I never had to sleep or work my day job again, maybe I could do it.
That's what I'll have to do—stop sleeping.
Stop working on anything else.
Stop talking.
Stop doing anything else except blitzing my butt off for the next fourteen days.
How stupid am I?
Rusty mercifully takes all their names and numbers, even answering questions for me, as my brain is caught in a loop. This is a big ask. He has his own job! But I'm too grateful to stop him or to insist I can do it myself. Besides, he grew up here. It's not the same as being an outsider. A female outsider. With a streak of blue hair for fun.
Stop, I tell myself. So many people here have opened their arms to you.
Just not enough of the people in this room.
I am such a mess. This presentation should have been a slam dunk. Maybe if I were more like my friends, this wouldn't have happened. I look nice today. My blouse is crisp and my cigarette pants are professional, but even if I were neurotypical, I would still dance to the beat of my own drum. I match my streak of hair to my glasses, pants, and shoes, for Pete’s sake. I love it, but a lot of people don’t.
I usually don’t care, but then, I usually haven’t had multiple sleepless nights over a period of a couple of weeks, leading up to a crushing defeat.
Being neurodivergent has been a blessing in so many ways. Beyond my creativity—my favorite trait about myself—it’s helped me find my squad. My friends are all put together and gorgeous, yet they make me feel like I bring something unique that they love and value to the table.
And then there are the people who don’t see me that way. The ones who make me feel like I put the “atypical” in neuroatypical. Like my ex. Like my own dad.
