Page 45 of The Accidental Text

Maggie:I’m not into cars all that much.

Chase:You should just keep that to yourself. Especially at the party tomorrow.

Maggie:Yes, I’m fully prepared to talk about torque, camber, horsepower, and all that other car mumbo jumbo.

Chase:I am so turned on right now.

Maggie:Shut up

I laugh out loud, then look up and realize where I am, seeing the epoxy floors of my office, and the walls filled with pictures of my family and some of the adventures we’ve had. It’s weird when I’m texting Chase. It’s like I’m transferred to another place.

My phone beeps and I look down at it. But then I hear a sort of choking, strangled noise, and I look up to find a raging Chelsea standing in the doorway of my office.

“ARE YOU FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?”

The messy bun on top of her head has flopped over to the side, and her face looks as if it could catch on fire at any moment. Very Miss Trunchbull.

The panic attack has officially begun.

“I was just texting Hannah,” I say. I set my phone on my desk, feeling like I’m about to be put in the Chokey.

I’m not about to tell her who I’m really texting. I don’t think I’ll ever tell her about Chase and how that all came to be.

She inhales slowly and calculatedly, her face reddening even more. “I can’t do this; it’s too much. I have mom brain, and I’m so tired, and no one is helping me, and nothing is working out. And once this is done, I still have Drives for Dreams, and I can’t do it all.” This comes out through gritted teeth. My ears appreciate the lower decibel, but it feels a bit more sinister.

“Chels, it’s going to be fine,” I say, trying to calm her.

At those words, Chelsea bursts into tears.

I walk over to her and guide her into my office, shutting the door behind her so anyone that might still be here can’t hear the breakdown happening right now. I walk her over to my chair and help her sit down.

“It’s not fine,” she says through her tears. “It’s a big dumpster fire.”

“What’s going on?”

She takes a few moments to gather herself, the tears streaming down her face. “The caterer we hired had to change one of the sandwich orders from beef to chicken.”

This sets off more tears. She’s basically now blubbering in my office chair, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

I know it’s not the chicken that’s the problem. The sandwiches are just the finger food that surpassed Chelsea’s limit. This is a new thing, and I’m assuming a side effect from losing our mom. While high strung, Chelsea was always a champ with knowing where her limits lie. Since our mom died, I think she forgot where to draw the line.

I rub the upper part of her back in slow circles. “Chels, I think you need to go home and get some rest.”

The crying stops instantly and she pulls her face away from her hands and looks at me. “Are you on drugs? I can’t rest—I have so much to do!”

That was clearly not the right thing to say. I’m for sure getting put in the Chokey.

“Okay,” I say softly, like I’m trying to calm a raging monster. “What’s left to do?”

“I don’t even know,” she says, starting up the blubbering again.

“Is there a list or something? What needs to be done?”

She sniffs. “Can we find another caterer to do the beef sandwiches?”

“Probably not,” I say.

I see the moment when she resigns herself to it. She does a full-body slouch in my black faux-leather office chair.

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