Page 82 of Pick-Up
It’s like whiplash.
One minute, she’s pressed up against me, her tongue finally down my throat, the next she’s searching out the lantern and trudging up the beach like nothing happened.
Like we’re acquaintances. Like we didn’t just have a night for the books.
I’m trying to keep up, but Sasha’s head is like a rickety roller-coaster ride—crazy fun but also has me praying for solid ground. Hoping that I make it out alive.
She obviously freaked out. So I’ll just keep retreating. Keep giving her space.
I’m not going to try to convince her. She’s got to want this.
In the meantime, I am tossing and turning. There is no comfortable position, no way to close my eyes and see anything but her.
I’m doomed anyway. Work starts early tomorrow. It’s a pivotal day. And I drank too much. I can already feel throbbing in my head.
I should get some sleep. But all I can think about is the small groan that escaped her lips when the kiss got real. I think about it till dawn.
TO-DO
Keep your eye on the prize. Mind on work.
See which way the wind blows.
32 | Go Blue!KAITLIN
It turns out that the absence of Sasha is more annoying than her presence. No Sasha at drop-off. No Sasha at pick-up. It’s as if seeing her gave me an outlet for my dissatisfaction. In a twisted way, it was something to which I could look forward. That deep irritation.
I have that feeling I remember from elementary and middle school, when having a crush makes you excited to go to class and then that drops away. Only it’s not a crush I have. It’s something else.
Now I am left to sit in it. My phone tells me my screen time is at an all-time high. I turn off the tracking.
Lisa says Sasha is on a work trip. So she probably is. Lisa does get all the good dirt.
Today was unseasonably cold, the wind slapping us as a reminder that winter is close behind. A wake-up call.Snap out of it!But to what end? I know what’s coming will be brutal, snow, ice and gray, but it’s part of the life I chose. Back when New York’s extra effort seemed like a fair trade-off. Not like my sister, who absconded to California and is always trying to convince me to move West too. She has an orange orchard and goats. She treats earthquakes like sneezes.
I don’t mind the cold, usually. I’m used to it. I went to college in Michigan in search of convention and football players.Go Blue!Currently, I am wearing a Wolverines hat and scarf and working the sign-up booth for our winter book-drive outside. Some other PTA folks said they’d deal with it, Lisa included, but I have a few things to handle in the administrative office, anyway. Some fliers to printfor the book fair. Also, if I’m honest, this is my time out of the house today and I need some air.
In early motherhood, my part-time work for the market research firm that once employed me full-time was ideal, flexible and rarely demanding. But, lately, the home demands are fewer, too, by half at least. And I am numb as I slog my way through rote emails, half listening on never-ending Zooms. I spend more time catching up onReal Housewivesreruns than I do logging work hours. My world has shrunk until it no longer fits. Kind of like my favorite jeans (only they didn’t shrink; I grew). The quiet desperation might explain some of my more questionable choices over the last year or two. But why dwell on that? Especially when you can dwell on more interesting things.
Celeste comes to school every day, twice a day now. She looks like she’s being pummeled. I’ve never seen her this frequently, and I think maybe her beauty dulls a bit with oversaturation. Regardless, she is a poor substitute for Sasha, as she is less likely to act out. It’s harder to mock or disdain her. She does not wear her emotions on her sleeve. Rather, she keeps them in her tote. But she will have to do.
At drop-off today, Celeste has not showered. Her outfit is not cute. Her cool-kid Joan Jett T-shirt, which peaks out from beneath her camel-colored cashmere trench, has a red stain down the front and looks slept in.
She ushers the children inside, waves goodbye with a smile plastered on her face, then heaves a sigh of relief once they’re out of view. Or maybe it’s not relief. Maybe that sigh is something else. Something more defeated. She looks up the block like it’s the rest of her day. Like it will be endless—an uphill battle. Like she’s Sisyphus.
But she can’t be Sisyphus. Because I am. And her legs are too long.
She begins her trudge toward home and, when she passes me, she actually turns and offers a small wave. “Hi, Kaitlin,” she says.
She knows my name?
“Hi,” I respond a moment late, like a robot. I am that shocked by her acknowledgment.
I almost feel guilty. But then I don’t.
33 | Wake-Up CallSASHA
The morning is a double rum punch to the gut. In every way.
