Page 23 of The Game Is Afoot

I don’t wish my journey on anyone. But I am so humbled and grateful that I did walk that road, so I can recognize women on the same path and help them find the peace and protection they need to live healthy, happy, and well-balanced lives…when they’re ready.

Some people are just not ready…but are you?

Comment “READY” below, and I’ll send you a link to my 30-Day Oxygen Mask Challenge so you can start today!

Seven

After I say those words,the incessant, maddening beat is instantly replaced by an eerie silence. I hear nothing as I scramble from the conference room, grab the picture of Pearl dressed as Tiana off my desk, and take off to my car. I have no idea if Rose or Nelson or anyone else calls after me. Maybe they’re as shocked as I am by what I just said, what I justdid. But it’s like that moment immediately after an explosion when your ears are too stunned to take in any more sound. There’s only endless quiet.

Which feels appropriate, because oh my god oh my god I just blew up my life.

My body goes into autopilot as I drive home, or at least I hope it does because it’s like I blink and then I’m pulling up to the curb with no memory, at least, of any major traffic violations along the way. My chest and shoulders loosen slightly with the realization that it’s still midmorning, so I won’t have to face Pearl just yet. I still have hours until pickup to get it together. Corey’s supposed to get her anyway, so really I have until dinnertime to figure out how I’m going to explain that I quit my job of almost eight yearswith no backup plan…to everyone else and also to myself. Dinnertime, yeah, that feelstotallypossible. I may have to dodge my dad, but didn’t he say last night he had another interview for his podcast? That’s another thing I need to figure out, what the hell is going on with this podcast. But not right now. Right now I’m going to face-plant into my bed and put on someHousewivesand remind myself that my life is bad but notthatbad.

That immediate game plan goes out the window, though, when I step out of the car and see Corey standing on our path. His arms are full with a toolbox, a plastic Home Depot bag, and a canvas tote, and he looks just as surprised as I am.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him before he has a chance to ask me the same question.

“Well, good morning to you, too.” He pauses to look meaningfully at the picture frame tucked under my arm, tilts his head so I know he saw it and is letting it go…for now, then continues, “I’m here to help Ms. Joyce with a project.” He gestures to my neighbor’s house across the street, and I see her front curtains twitch, as if in response. “But I thought I would install a chain on y’all’s front door first since I’m already here.”

I narrow my eyes, and he adds quickly, “I texted your dad this morning to make sure it was okay.”

“Didheask you to do that?”

“No, but I just want to make sure y’all are safe. Because, you know…on Friday.”

A flash of annoyance burns in my chest, but it’s almost immediately extinguished because it isn’t theworstidea. Not that I leave my keys in the door every night, but when I do…

Still, “I could do that myself.”

“I know you can,” he says, voice dripping with syrupy patience that makes me feel immediately guilty for being the difficult one. “But you have a lot going on. I just wanted to help.”

He just wanted to help. That’s been his excuse for all the things he’s been doing to annoy me lately. Because it implies that weneedhelp, and we don’t. We’re fine—have beenfine.

I mean, I get that it might not look that way to the outside world when I’m leaving our front door open to burglars and pulling in sweaty and exhausted to the late bell. But I have my own way of doing things, and I don’t need some new, more efficient way. Because the new, more efficient way implies that my way is wrong, andthattriggers my instinct to take off my earrings and fight someone. A particular someone.

Like this fucking laundry app he loaded on my phone. I have this totally normal habit of forgetting to move the loads to the dryer, which sometimes—rarely—leads to me having to wash the clothes again, and of course Pearl, my sweet little narc, informed him of this. Tell me why a few days later, I started getting notifications on my phone saying, “Damp laundry has been sitting in the washer for ten minutes.” When they first popped up, I was confused, like,Is my washer texting me?And he was so proud to show me what he set up to help me remember. I swear my whole body burst into flames, and the inferno only grew when those notifications started stacking on my home screen, taunting me: “Damp laundry has been sitting in the washer for thirty minutes, one hour…ten days.”

But this is how Corey showed love when we were married. My gas tank was always full, the trash cans were always brought to the curb. He’s not doing anything wrong. It’s nice. Which makes me feel like an asshole for complaining now…and then. I didn’t have the words to explain back then that I needed something else from him, somethingdifferent. And now apparently I just make snotty faces and comments while he tiptoes around me, waiting to see which step is going to trip the alarm today.

“How is Pearl doing?” he asks, and I soften with the reminderof our common love, the reason I have to get it together and keep the peace.

“She cried again this morning. It was…hard. It doesn’t make any sense to her, this happening, and it’s hard to help her through it because deathdoesn’tmake sense. It’s not fair.”

“Is that why you’re home? Are you picking her up early? I can tell Ms. Joyce that I need to reschedule for another day, if you want some backup.”

That douses the flames in my chest even more, because it would be a relief to have someone there, to not have to always be the lead, the person with all the answers. But then a rogue spark ignites another fiery blaze because he candecidewhen to give this, when I haven’t had a choice for years. God, I wish I could just snap my fingers and be grown and permanently on the high road. I’m trying.

Thankfully, before I have to answer, Polly’s muffled barks sound from the front window. And because she only barks at old people and babies, I don’t have to even turn to know who’s approaching right now.

“Mmm-mmm chile, you better get in line! I reserved Corey’s services last week.”

Ms. Joyce steps in between us. She’s wearing a floral-printed caftan with a matching scarf tied around her fro. Her voice is like honey, but her stern face and the hand on her hip show she means business.

I hold my hands up. “Don’t worry, you can have him, Ms. Joyce!” I lean down to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and she pats my shoulder, satisfied.

“What kind of project do you got for him? He’s real good at scrubbing stains out of grout, or—cleaning hair out of shower drains. Yeah, hereallylikes to do that.”

I flutter my eyelashes and smirk at Corey, but Ms. Joycedoesn’t even seem to notice, because she’s beaming at Corey, too, like he’s her knight in shining armor.

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