Page 68 of Heartfelt Pain
“But that’s not how you make money.”
“How do you want to live, Ren? Working seven days a week until your body falls apart?”
I shake my head. “My body isn’t falling apart.”
Russ bites down on her lip. “You told me you were having back pain?”
“Who doesn’t have back pain?” I ask. It’s a part of getting old.
“You’re only in your twenties,” she chides.
“So what? I go to the chiropractor and you guys will back off?”
They have the audacity to share a look.
“Adding balance to your life isn’t bad,” Russet says. “You could finally read one of our book club picks. Taking breaks leaves you feeling more refreshed.”
“You guys are acting like I’m a zombie of some sorts.” My head aches as I listen to them. “I like my life. I’m not complaining about it. And I’m not sick for wanting to grow my business as much as I can.”
Next, they’ll start pestering me about children and my biological clock. I won’t take it.
“I’m not a robot,” I tell them. “I go to book club, I pick songs on the jukebox, I hang out with my friends. Why are you guys saying all of this now?”
“Because going through the motions isn’t the same as living,” Abe says, “and I don’t think you’ve lived since Cliff.”
I blink,my nose tingling.
I killed my cousin. I didn’t know him very well, but I killed him all the same. Rising from the ashes is hard work, but I did it. I fucking did it.
And now they’re telling me I’m wrong to have worked so hard. To have built up my business.
Russ looks down at her shoes.
There’s a knock on the door. A small voice says, “Guys, it’s me.”
Russ lets Lennie in. She’s wearing sneakers and they represent my failure to understand the dress code.
She takes a look around. “What’s wrong?” Her feet nervously shuffle. “You guys already talked to her.”
It’s a bullet to the chest.
Of course, Len would be a part of their intervention prep talks.
My voice is hoarse. “It’s probably pretty weird to have four people in a bathroom with Trevino right outside. I’m going to go.”
“Ren.” Russ reaches for my arm.
I don’t meet her eye. “I’m going to go.”
Trevino hasn’t moved an inch from where I left him. “I’ll order the car back.”
“Thanks.”
“I can get a separate one for your friends.”
It’s spoken plainly, but it’s Trevino’s version of kindness. I blink, pushing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
The bathroom door opens again, and hopefully, Abe overhears so he knows he’s getting a separate ride.
