Page 43 of Rock Bottom Girl
“Why ever would that be? Because I showed up on her doorstop unemployed, single, and homeless?” I took a big bite of salad. It tasted bitter on my tongue.
“Actually, she was worried before that.”
“When I was gainfully employed and in a steady, monogamous relationship?” I clarified.
“She sensed you weren’t happy.”
I sighed. This was very much like my optimistic, everything-has-a-silver-lining mother. She didn’t want to have the conversations that could upset someone. She’d just enlist a stranger to do it.
“I’m fine. I was fine then. I’m fine now. I’ll be fine at the end of the semester.”
“Is that what you want out of life? To feel fine?” Andrea asked innocently. She nibbled at the edge of her sandwich and stared at my salad.
I was suddenly tired of all the things I never said. All the things I told myself to stop feeling.
“Has she told you about my sister?”
“Zinnia? Yes, of course.”
“Can you imagine what it’s like to grow up being average when your sister is blazing a trail toward being the best at everything she does while you’re busy dealing with puberty and trying to be, at the very best, average?”
I took another bite of salad. Andrea watched the fork on its way to my mouth. “Do you want some of this?” I asked.
“Normally, I’d pretend to be polite and say no. But I was running late this morning and accidentally packed myself a mayonnaise and lettuce sandwich. So yes, I will be your friend for life if you share that delicious-looking salad with me.”
She threw the soggy sad mess of sandwich in the trash, and I scooped half of my salad onto her foil. She pulled a plastic fork out of her bottom drawer and dug in. “Okay, this is delicious. Who knew salad could taste good?” she moaned.
“It’s a pretty simple recipe.”
“I’m going to come back to this salad thing because I have an idea. But first, let’s finish the thought on your sister,” Andrea said, taking care to layer tuna, egg, and black olive on her fork.
“It’s not really anything. My sister is great at everything. I’m not.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“I don’t know? Fine? It’s not like I can hate her for being so great. She’s also annoyingly nice.”
“It would be easier if she were an ass about being so great,” Andrea guessed.
“Exactly. But she’s all humble and ‘I feel blessed, now let’s talk about you.’ So really, there’s no thing. I’m me. She’s Zinnia.”
“You feel like you’re not as good because your sister is an extraordinary person.”
“And I’m just ordinary. Only I can’t even seem to get that right.” I credited Andrea’s innocent fairy princess sweetness as the reason I was hurling my entire childhood worth of insecurities at her. “I’ve lost every job I’ve ever had. I’ve never had strong feelings for any of the guys I’ve dated. I can’t seem to do what everyone else does. It’s like I’m missing an important piece of my DNA or I missed an entire semester of school when they taught everyone how to adult.”
Andrea leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Excellent work.”
“On the salad?”
“Yes, but also on the deep dive of where you feel you are in life. I have a proposition.”
“This is going to involve salads, isn’t it?”
“I propose we meet for lunch once a week. You provide the delicious meal, and I’ll provide free therapy. Have you ever talked to a therapist before?”
“You think I need therapy?” More likemy motherthought I needed therapy.
“I think we could all use an independent third party to talk to, to say the things you can’t say to people with a vested interest in your life,” Andrea said diplomatically. “And I could use some actual food to get me through the workday.”
