Page 59 of Same Time Next Summer

“About twenty.”

“Cute.” He puts it down and goes back to his spaghetti.

“I really love it,” I say.

“What?”

“The invitation with the paint across our names. Mymom did them in a bunch of different colors. I actually love all of them.”

“Sam, it’s a cute idea but there’s no way. We agreed on the invitations because we wanted something monochrome. What did the stationery lady call it? ‘Traditional tones’?”

“Maybe we need to move beyond monochrome.” There’s too much weight to my words. I wanted to say it lightly, like with a question mark at the end. But it comes out like a declaration, which I guess is how I mean it. I really need some color in my life.

“Oh God, Sam. You’ve spent too much time this summer with your parents.” He laughs at this and goes back to his spaghetti.

I look down at my plate and try to manage the anger that’s creeping up. I don’t like his tone about my parents, and I actually want to spend more time out there, not less. “It was good for me, I think, being out there more than once this summer. It’s nice, how they sort of get loose. They’re happy.”

“They probably are, but it’s a little nuts. Like they’re kids.” He holds up the invitation for emphasis.

“They’re artists, not kids.” We’re quiet for a second. Jack eats his spaghetti and I watch. Finally I say, “When I was a kid in the summer I used to wake up in the morning and just follow the day wherever it took me. I didn’t wear shoes, ever. I just moved in and out of the ocean, making up games and digging in the sand.” There, that’s who I am.

Jack smiles at my memory. “Idyllic,” he says. “But you can’t keep doing that the rest of your life.” He gestures with his fork. “Our kids are going to take tennis lessons.”

Tennis lessons. There is absolutely nothing wrong with tennis lessons. I picture little children in clean white clothes with little white sneakers, double tied, learning to hit the ball within the confines of that rectangle. Over and over again. It feels like waltzing as I see it in my mind.

It’s ninety-five degreesoutside, but I’m wearing a sweater in my cubicle. Everything feels unnatural. It’s the day after Labor Day and it feels like the first day back at school, everyone seated in straight lines and in hard shoes. Eleanor has a new assignment for me. I’m hoping it’s in Central Park.

“Come in,” she says, lowering her reading glasses. “How was the weekend?”

“Good.”

“Wedding plans coming along?”

“Sort of.”

“Good. Now, I have a new assignment for you once you’ve finished up that health care thing. It’s perfect because it can all be done from here, just you and the data.” Scold me, punish me, but do it once. I do not need her to keep bringing this up.

“What’s the assignment?”

“An insurance company wants to unload twenty percent of its sales force. They have sales data and time logs, you just need to identify who needs to go. They’d like to fire them on Friday, so maybe get started this afternoon.” Ah, the old Friday firing. She hands me a file.

“Are you cold in here?” I ask.

“No.”

It’s crazy that we’d have to open a window to warm up. Crazier still that the windows don’t open. I’m pacing the tiny space between the guest chairs and her desk.

“Are you sick?” Eleanor asks.

It’s a great question, really. I check in with my body. My chest feels tight and my lungs don’t seem to be able to take in a full breath. I try to remember the signs of a woman having a heart attack.

“I’m fine, I think. I just, I don’t know. I need some air.” I turn to leave.

“Fine, get some air, but we need this midday Friday,” she says. And I can’t quite imagine it, not one more minute of sitting in that cubicle making decisions about people I don’t know based on random criteria. Making a spreadsheet and sorting it high to low and then sending a wrecking ball into the bottom twenty percent’s lives, no questions asked. This isn’t who I want to be anymore, and it’s certainly not who I am. Before I know it, I am in bare feet with my good work shoes in my hands. My body has decided.

“Thank you, Eleanor, for everything you’ve done for me, but I really need to get out of here. I’m not coming back.”

I step outof the building with eyes closed because I want to feel the heat of the day on my skin. I changed into the flip-flops I kept in my desk for lunchtime pedicures and left my work shoes in their place. It’s a decision I’ll probably regret, but walking away from them right now feels great. I walk into the park, and the old oaks on the Poet’s Walkapplaud me with their darkest green leaves. I am so relieved and joyful, as if I’ve just gotten some great news. I sit down on a bench to text Jack. I can’t quite get the words out: I quit my job. I should tell him in person tonight. I can’t text Wyatt. I don’t feel like engaging with my parents. I text Travis: I quit my job.

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