Page 43 of Fighting Words

I put in a call to work yesterday when I went into town to pick up a few provisions with Nate. My supervisor, Joy, answered the phone with a reluctant sigh. I love Joy because she’s approachable and easygoing. She’s the kind of boss who reads books on being an effective leader and wants me to be able to talk to her about anything. In short, I love her.

“I’m sorry we’re doing this to you,” she told me.

“No, it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to be here—”

“I just checked the weather. It’s like below freezing there. I’ll call Liz and let her know that you tried but—”

“Joy—”

“—you just can’t get through to him.”

“JOY.”

She hesitated, listening.

“We’re plotting.”

“Shut up.”

I laughed. “I’m serious. I’m not making any promises, but…we’re at leasttalkingabout book three.”

“Holy shit. I have to let Liz know.”

“Wait. Could you hold off on alerting anyone else? I’m worried this won’t last, and I don’t want to speak out of turn. For all I know, he’ll be back to stacking rocks in the shed when we get back to the cottage.”

“Stacking rocks in the shed?What?”

I shook my head. “Just…give me a few more days. I’ll update when I can, but this is good news. This is progress.”

“Summer!” She paused and regrouped, lowering her tone, reining in her enthusiasm. When she spoke again, she did so with her best managerial tone—no frills, just business. “Thank you for the update, and I look forward to hearing more from you soon.”

“I’ll try to call again by the end of the week.”

“I’m appreciative of the work you’re doing over there, but remember, you can throw in the towel at any time. I sent you into a losing battle. No one expects you to actually succeed, okay? Don’t kill yourself trying to make this happen.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Good, okay. Keep me posted.”

The tea kettle whistles with steam, and the shrill of it shreds my last bit of patience. I grit my teeth and drop my head in my hands, trying to get us back on track.

“So the crew will establish a base on Kepler-452b and begin…what?”

“They’ll have to terraform and adapt the planet for human habitation. Do you think Orange Sunrise or Lemon Ginger sounds better?” he asks, holding up the two tea bags.

“Neither!” I snap. Then I compose myself. “Orange Sunrise.”

He’s not the least bit bothered by my outburst. We’ve been losing it on each other for the better part of five days. Since beginning these morning meetings on Saturday, I’ve kept a mental tally going: Nate has stormed out of the cottage three times, I’ve cussed up a storm twice, we’ve eaten through all five of my chocolate bars, and I’ve only held up my hands, pretending to strangle him once. So I think we should call that a win!

He holds the Orange Sunrise tea bag up to the light looking for what…ORANGES?!

It’s 12:57 p.m. now and yup, that’s it. I don’t care that I’m technically clocking out three minutes early. I’ll be here, ready to go, three minutes early tomorrow morning.

I scoot my chair back and shoot to stand. “I’m calling it. I need to do laundry.”

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