Page 72 of Caught A Vibe

“You’re right. It sucks that we can’t eat here tonight. But we can eat. And that’s something. Here, I have an idea. Give me your keys.”

I let Dash lead me back to the car. He opens the passenger door, and I drop heavily in the seat, hunting in my center console for takeout napkins to dry my face and coming up empty. Right. I haven’t stopped for fast food in months.

What a disaster! Nothing is going right. It’s my job to make good decisions, and every call I make these days seems to be the wrong one. My plan is in pieces on the floor and I don’t even know if it’s worth figuring out a new one. Hell, I can’t even pick a good place for dinner!

As I sit alone in the car waiting for Dash to get in, the weight of the world presses me into the seat. Tears fall with abandon. I whip off my mask so that I don’t accidentally waterboard myself.Pity party for one.This doesn’t just feel like another mistake. It feels like I am a failure. Like I can’t even feed the person I care for. Like I’ve lost every gain I’ve made since moving out on my own. Who am I if I’m not the girl who made it?

It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize Dash hasn’t just not gotten in the car yet. He left.

Where the hell did he go? Is he just letting me cry it out in the car by myself? Is that a kindness or have I scared him?

I scan the parking garage for any sign of my lover but he’s vanished. More negative thoughts swarm my overwrought brain and each prick from the sharp edge of failure sends another tear down my cheek. I have a deep affection for this man, and it scares me. I want to celebrate him and keep him around, but I am terrified that if he sees the mess of a woman behind the curtain, he’ll run just like everyone else. Every disappointment, every mistake, every loss looms large in my mind’s eye. And I break.

The dam holding back my emotions lies in rubble. Tears run unchecked down my cheeks. Sobs rack my chest. Anger forces its way out of my throat in raw screams of frustration. A full-on nuclear meltdown.

I hate this feeling, which was why I do my very best to avoid it. Failure.

Growing up, trying to please my parents into paying attention to me, I pushed myself hoping they’d notice or care. Grades, science club, looks, student council—I always reached for excellence and often found it, even if I never did quite find that love and acceptance I craved.

My father worked all the time to avoid my mother, and my mother drank to avoid reality. Neither had time or attention for the little girl they’d created between them.

But my teachers and coaches did. Little Penny soaked up their approval and praise like a dry sponge. I learned that if I succeeded I would be praised. It was well-reinforced that people would only like me if I didn’t push them away with mistakes. Soon I had a reputation to uphold. And my drive to achieve took me to the places I wanted to go. Valedictorian. Summa cum laude. CEO of my own company before thirty.

But I still don’t know how to exist in an imperfect world. How to be human and fallible and not beat myself up for it. Every imperfection is like a grain of sand under my skin that I work away at under the surface, trying to turn it into a pearl. I have no idea how to relax and just be the clam.

Lack of parental support? I turned it into a stunning work ethic and a praise kink.

Have a partner give an amazing orgasm and then ghost? I built a revolutionary toy to recreate it for everyone.

Get laughed out of the room by the bank manager when I asked for a loan to start a company and share that toy? I start the company on a shoestring and aim higher to venture capital funding based on a proven sales record.

I am well versed in taking shit and making it shine, but I cannot keep it up forever. The overload of a pandemic on top of my regular shitty stressors is just too much to bear. I’m so tired and afraid all the time. And I can’t risk Dash seeing it and deciding I’m too much. That would break me. With focused effort, I wrangle my emotions back under tight control.

By the time Dash returns and sets a bag in the back seat, the choking has ceased and my nose has quit running, but evidence of an ugly cry is still all over my face, from the puffy eyes to the red splotchy cheeks.

“Sorry, that took longer than— Oh my God! Are you okay?” Dash asks, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Penny, talk to me.”

“I’m fine. Just overwhelmed, and not being able to treat you to your favorite meal on your special day pushed me over the edge.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

“What?”

“Nope, you just have to wait and see. It’s my turn to surprise you.”

Dash pulls out of the parking garage and onto the road. Without much interest in the lighter than usual LA traffic, I gaze vacantly out the window, letting my mind drift.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

I shake my head. I really don’t want to lance the wound again with an audience. This sweet man has already witnessed more than I’m comfortable with.

“Penny, look at me.”

I do, and he is looking me straight in the eye, serious and sincere. “It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to get messy and make mistakes. I’m here.”

How do I tell him that’s what I’m afraid of? He’s here watching me fall apart. No one wants to see this side of me. At least, no one ever has before. My parents’ reaction to my big emotions was disdain and distance. Lovers never stayed lovers long enough to let them in.

Even Nicola figured out that I could use a friend more than a girlfriend after I fell apart over stress in college. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful she’s in my life in any capacity. But the sum total of my experience tells me love doesn’t stay when things get messy. People don’t love me when I’m out of control.

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