Page 24 of Lovely War
“You don’t make lasagna for fun.”
“I was craving pasta.”
“You only make lasagna when something iswrong.”
Well. Yes, that’s mostly true. Sometimes I get this feeling like I’m the little ball in that screensaver, the one that bounces off the four sides of the screen again and again for all of eternity. When that happens, I make lasagna from scratch. The noodles, the Bolognese sauce, the béchamel, all the cranking and stirring and layering. It settles me.
Eric appears behind me. “You made lasagna? Why, what’s going on?”
I groan. “Nothing is going on. I wanted lasagna, so I made it.”
Eric pauses to consider. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Like I said, you’re welcome to have some. But only because it’s delicious, and not for any weird emotional reasons.” I drop it in the microwave carelessly, so it lands with a clatter, and stab at the buttons.
Kat is watching us expectantly when we file back into the living room with plates of lasagna no one said they wanted.
“I think she’s doing well,” she says brightly.
I set my plate on the coffee table and flop onto the couch. “You guys let me know when you’re done assessing my well-being. I’ll wait.”
“What? You are. You’ve been different, in a good way.Honestly, you’re kind of glowing. I can tell you’re excited about work.”
It’s an echo of what Kat said at lunch. A seed of agitation burrows into my gut. “Um, no. I glow because ofSelena Gomez.Rare Beauty highlighter.”
“Not every facet of the job, obviously. But the way you talk about what you’re doing? And the videos themselves, you can see it. You like your work.”
“I didn’t realize you were already drunk.”
“So you don’t like work?” Cassie leans forward. Lawyers.
“I didn’t say that.” I hack at my lasagna with my fork, taking a big sloppy bite. “Work is fine. But it’s not making me glow.”
Later, when we say good night to Eric and Cassie, the kneading, insistent nub of unease in my stomach is still there. All of it bothers me: Cassie’s concern, Kat’s eagerness to draw rosy conclusions. Everyone trying to push me toward deciding whether I’m satisfied or dissatisfied and what to do about it, like my life is a problem to be hashed out and solved in a group project. Yes, making videos about basketball is nice, but so was the cafeteria at my last job, and the technology budget at the one before that. It’s not as straightforward as they make it seem. If the work makes me glow (which it doesn’t), it makes my decision to stay far away from here for the last eight years pretty fucking tragic (which it wasn’t). And it’ll make it hurt a lot more if I’m not invited back next year.
Kat and I clomp down the stairs in impractical boots to find our Lyft. The driver misses the building and waits for us a block up the street. The buildings are shadows and floatingyellow squares, and the sky is open, and we’re going somewhere warm to be surrounded by new people. Only then does the bad feeling loosen and slip away into the blue-black night. I’m left with the taste of wine, wide breaths of cold air, and the sharp giddy sound of Kat cackling in the dark.
EIGHT
A few weeks later, Istand in the office kitchen, surveying the options. Chocolate-covered pretzels. Chocolate-covered strawberries. Chocolate-covered almonds.
Figure out the first shot of the video, and the rest will fall into place.
I chew my lip. Weren’t there muffins here an hour ago? The platter is still there, but it’s clean except for a few telltale crumbs. It’s almost Christmas, which means daily deliveries of gifts to Coach Thomas from friends and supporters. Gold, frankincense, and Harry & David pears.
What about starting with the empty court…Meh, uninspired.
Maybe a pretzel? But it’s only nine fifteen in the morning, and I’ve already eaten three.
What if…No, too similar to last week’s video. How about…Not practical. It’ll never be done in time.
I mosey over to the bathroom and examine my eyebrows in the mirror. Is the one on the left thicker than the one on the right? I’ve never noticed before.
Maybe I’m going about it all wrong. Maybe I shouldendwith a shot of the empty court.
Hm. Better.
I meander back toward my office, stopping in the hallway to chat with Betsy from Compliance about her son’s wisdom tooth surgery. Eric appears as soon as Betsy walks away. “Hey, Annie, is that video for the recruits ready yet? I want to send it out tonight.”
