Isha, Unscripted, page 19
“You coming again?”
“Not if I can help it . . . but I don’t think that I’ll be able to win this fight as long as I live at home.”
“I think you’re right. Don’t stress, though, okay? Things will always work out. Hey, what are you doing the rest of the evening?”
“Evening?” I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was seven already. The program had been so long and my family always got here so early, dragging me with them. “Take Rogue out and sleep. I still have a throbbing headache. I might sleep all day tomorrow, too, and then look for more work. Guess my parents will finally be happy with me.”
“Do not give up.”
From across the room of dispersed groups, my mom called me over with a jerk of her chin. I told Rohan, “I better go. Talk to you later.”
“Yep.”
We parted ways as I walked toward my parents. Three aunts and two uncles from my mom’s side, a handful of older cousins, a few aunties and uncles from mandir-led classes, and oh yes, the most respected of our elders, the ones who took care of the mandir and delegated duties and approved whatever happened here.
I . . . was not expecting this to happen here and now.
My steps faltered as the covert conversation came back to memory in full. My parents last night, discussing an intervention. In a matter of minutes, everyone would know about my “wild” ways and become a united front in dealing with me.
My stomach tied into knots and my cupcake was about to come up.
What in the world? Was I a teenager again, needing reprimanding like a child? Did my parents think so little of me that they were willing to open up the floodgates like this? To let everyone in, all in an effort to put up a wall of unified voices and arguments and pressure to subdue me into submission?
My breathing turned ragged and hot as anxiety bubbled over my thoughts.
This wasn’t loving or helping, but did they see so little in me that they thought this was?
My skin turned chilly and Mummie’s impassive expression turned into concern. She met me partway when my legs went numb. I couldn’t move. I was a frozen disaster.
“Beta, are you okay?” Mummie asked, her brows creasing with worry.
My lips moved, but not a single word emerged. I wanted to ask what all this was about, if she truly deemed it necessary to put me through something that was easily going to traumatize and isolate me. Because if a few upturned chins and gossiping folks could make me leave this place and never want to return, then how would a group of my elders telling me to get my sorry excuse of a life together make me feel? If the former made me doubt my self-worth and curl into myself every time I came across someone from this community, then how much would this intervention crush me?
I blinked for several seconds, unable to speak, unable to respond to my mother, who gently touched my arm, asking me, “What’s wrong?”
Maybe I didn’t want to cause a scene. Maybe I didn’t have it in me to stand up for myself when over a dozen people waited to descend upon me like vultures preying on my faults. Maybe I didn’t have the guts to speak up to my elders, to even reason my way through confrontation. Maybe I was simply at a loss for words and actions. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter.
Because I stepped backward, away from her, away from them, away from confrontation.
“Are you sick?” she asked, touching her hand to my forehead.
“Yeah, I am . . .” I was severely sick to my stomach.
“Oh, beta, you’re burning up.”
I finally looked at her, at the motherly concern in her eyes. She really just wanted me to be my best, didn’t she? But what was my best if it wasn’t what made me happy?
“I’m . . . going to go home,” I said, my voice drifting away.
Before she could say something, or maybe she had—I didn’t register anything—I turned from her and left.
Chapter 18
My headache, and my hangover, had eased by Monday, helped by liver-pounding amounts of ibuprofen and depression-style hours of heavy sleep. It was all very much needed, and I vowed to never drink that much ever again. There was no reason to. I didn’t have a particularly excellent time drunk, and the consequences weren’t something I’d want to go through again. Days of feeling exhausted and sick, my skin crawling, my insides spasming, my bones aching, my head rioting . . . no thank you.
I awoke to Rogue’s butt on my shoulder, her feet in my face, when she unleashed a sulfuric fart and woke herself up. She immediately startled and went to the other side of the bed, looking at me from over her shoulder with the biggest, saddest eyes, like she’d done something wrong.
“It’s okay. Come here,” I told her, even as I swatted away the smell.
She gingerly returned and I petted her before sitting up.
I vaguely recalled Mummie checking in on me as I slept. But she must’ve, because there was a full bottle of water on my bedside next to a temporal thermometer. It was difficult to be upset with my parents when they still took care of me. She’d even left a text mentioning that there was soup in the fridge. Because she knew soup always made me feel better when I was sick.
My parents, much like myself, weren’t perfect, but they were good.
At least my parents were at work and I didn’t have to talk to them just yet. I had some time to gather myself and figure out what to do. Not just with them, but with my future in general.
Blinking away tears and shoving past lingering anxiety about the state of my life, I whipped my hair into a high bun and glanced around my room. It had yet to be cleaned. Was it time to finish my drunken, ragey train of thought from Saturday night and finish throwing away the rest of the sticky notes, pack up all these books, and wipe down the dry-erase board for a final farewell?
With the dry eraser in my hand lifted to clear off the remnants of the storyboards of my heart, of this latest project and ideas for the next and a niggling of yet another, I couldn’t quite commit. Or otherwise, what? Redraw all of this?
The velvety side of the dry eraser hovered centimeters over the colorful drawings and scribblings. It hurt my heart to be this close to ending things. It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, because years of college and a decade of writing and years of submitting and rejections . . . dug a hollow, rotting core in the pit of my creativity. The darkness swelled and touched the last figments of patience and faith and endurance.
I let out a sigh. The board was half-gone anyway. I swallowed and commenced to finishing off the job, wincing as my dreams faded into white. Front and back of the two-sided board. I hadn’t seen it this clean since I first bought it, which felt like a lifetime ago.
I moved on to clean up the ripped-apart Post-its, torn notebooks, and shredded textbooks, salvaging only what I could. Which, aside from the textbooks, wasn’t a whole lot. Sheesh. Ragey me sure had gone at it in the worst possible way.
Behind me, on the bed, my phone pinged. I leaned over and read the screen.
Rohan: How’s it going?
I bit my cheek. If he knew what I was doing, he’d lecture me. How was my younger cousin always lecturing me? Did he get tired of supporting me with nothing to show for it, nothing produced to conclude it was all worth the time and energy? Did he ever think of calling it a day and agreeing that it was time to move on?
Maybe. All I knew was that I’d been frustrated now and then trying to get him on his feet when he was going through his worst times, when he’d been depressed and stuck in eerily dark days for nearly a year. Getting him to get out of bed and shower was an entire ordeal. But after my selfish moments breaking with impatience, I always returned to him and continued to be whatever sort of crutch he needed for support. And eventually he walked again. He was motivated, joyful, himself again. I’d never considered one of those seconds wasted. So maybe he didn’t consider any of these times with me wasted.
I responded that I was okay, which was the truth. Not great, not wretched, but okay. And since he was at work, there wasn’t a lot of back and forth and probing.
I set the phone down as another text came through.
Thirst-Trap: Did you lose a folder and thumb drive?
My heart skipped a beat. Had the messenger bag guy seen the error of his ways and returned my proposal to the pub? My information was on the front page, and maybe the messenger bag guy had chickened out in texting me himself, as if I didn’t know my own folder.
Thirst-Trap: Let me know what you’d like to do.
Tarik didn’t text after that, and it was for the best.
I gingerly picked up the phone, as if touching it would activate a video call that I wasn’t ready for. Since the text came up on screen and I hadn’t actually tapped on my messages, it wouldn’t have shown a “read” message. At least, I was pretty sure that was how it worked.
I then noticed a notification on LinkedIn. Everyone had good news, it seemed. Lots of jobs out there, I supposed, just none that were working out for me. Sheesh, this mass migration of Californians into Austin had really saturated the job market, and I just wasn’t competitive enough. Maybe I should return to school.
I stared at the profiles of my former classmates, the ones who had been with me on numerous projects and who had gone on to exciting internships and successful careers across various media formats.
Veronica’s post was front and center on my news feed. She’d just announced her huge promotion from production assistant to assistant writer! A huge leap indeed! The post had already garnered three hundred twenty likes.
Maybe when she was out with our former classmates on Friday night, she had been celebrating her newest accomplishment.
I took a deep breath and congratulated Veronica on her promotion. The woman was killing it, and I was glad for her. I added, in a private DM, that we should get together soon.
She immediately responded with a “thanks.”
I smiled, sliding the app off my screen, and tucked my phone into my purse. Not quite the response I was hoping for . . .
Ping!
Hmm? I retrieved my phone. A message. From Veronica!
I grinned. Just hearing from her made me so happy. I wanted every detail.
Veronica: Hey, girl! Thanks for the congrats! Thought texting would be faster, lol! How’s it going? And yeah, let’s meet up. I’m free the Sat after next if you want to get coffee and catch up? I was actually just thinking about you. It’s been a couple of months since we chatted.
Isha: I love hearing from you! And YES to coffee that day. Things are . . . okay . . . on my end. Still trying to sell, ya know? Still loving your company?
Veronica: More than ever! Promotion helps, ha! Working as an assistant doing grunt work all that time really paid off thanks to the mentorship program I got into at work.
Isha: I’m so happy for you!! <3
Veronica: Thank you! Sorry to hear about your script. Hey. Are you still doing the freelance editing?
Isha: Yep!
Veronica: Getting a lot of work?
Isha: No. Trying to expand.
I added an arbitrary laughing emoji even as I frowned.
Veronica: The reason I was just thinking about you is because we have an opening for a copyeditor at my company. So . . . if you want, you can send me your resume or apply directly, and I’ll tell my hiring manager to keep an eye out for your material.
Isha: Seriously? Would they even consider me?
Veronica: Yes! I already mentioned you to my boss, and he thought your background of copyediting and scriptwriting could be a good fit. And ya knooowwww . . . we are a film production company. So you could play the long haul like I did, and get your foot in the door. Let me know! Here’s the link!
I blinked a few dozen times. Was this really happening? Veronica had been the elite student in our 400-level classes. She was perceptive and skilled. She’d already worked the bottom of the ladder at a film company and moved up to assistant after she graduated. When she said working the long haul to get to the position she now had, she meant it.
Veronica was Filipina, so we commiserated over some common points. Her parents had also seen her creative endeavors as a waste when both of her parents and all of her siblings were nurses with high-paying jobs. They’d given her a hard time, but now she had the income and official title to prove them wrong. Not that those things were the only things that mattered. She never gave up, and for her, that meant living on her own as a poor college graduate with her boyfriend in a tiny apartment, scrimping and saving.
She was, in the bluntest words, an inspiration.
I immediately clicked on the link, reviewed the job posting, and applied. Then texted Veronica. Aside from a thumbs-up, she didn’t reply.
Eh. This was probably just another shot in the dark, according to my luck, but an internal referral could help.
With a yawn and a sudden wave of exhaustion, I eventually lay down with Rogue. She cuddled up to my side. It didn’t matter if I’d slept three hours last night or ten, nap time was the best time.
* * *
—
My phone, muffled between blanket folds, rang in my ear. Ugh. What time was it?
My eyelids were heavy, and dragging myself out of sleep seemed like a battle to the death. It felt as if I’d slept for hours, but the blinds were open and daylight snaked in.
I lifted my phone to mute the caller, except I accidentally answered.
Maybe if I stayed still and quiet, they’d hang up.
“Hello?” a familiar, throaty voice spoke.
Rogue had her chin buried in the blankets, but her eyes were visible enough for me to see that she was curiously watching me. Her ears perked up at the sound of Tarik’s deep voice. She even lifted her head. Yeah? Liked his voice? Apparently, so did my lady parts and the sudden drop in my gut. How did he sound so damn sexy on the phone? His voice was hoarse and gritty, what I imagined his voice sounded like when he first woke up.
“Isha? You there?”
Oh, right. He knew my name.
“Hi,” I said, breathy . . . for some reason.
There was a brief pause before he went on. “This is Thirst-Trap.”
“Oh my lord,” I muttered, shoving my face into the pillow.
He chuckled. “You know, I overheard you call me that so many times, I can’t even count.”
I smiled into the phone and adjusted myself so that I lay on my stomach on the edge of the bed because of course my little six-pound dog took up three-quarters of the bed.
“Did you get my texts earlier?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. How did you get my proposal?”
“One of the waitresses found it underneath the bench seating when she was cleaning up after closing the other day. She left it in my office with a sticky note that said ‘lost and found’ and I didn’t get a chance to look at it until this afternoon.”
Huh. So that guy really hadn’t taken my proposal? “No worries. You can just toss it out.”
“Are you sure? Looks important. The flash drive, too?”
“Nothing terribly important,” I replied, deflated.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.
“Suppose that’s relative.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Are you . . . bartending me over the phone?”
“I guess so. What’s up? What happened? And does it have anything to do with you two ending up at the security office?”
Well, at least he didn’t mention the vomiting. “Don’t really feel like talking about it, to be honest.”
“Are you sure? I’m an excellent listener.”
“Apparently! With your superhuman hearing.”
He laughed. “You were actually pretty loud.”
“Oh . . .” Heat rose to my face.
“If you don’t want to talk about why you sound so down, do you want to talk about something else?”
“Like what?” I rolled onto my side and petted Rogue.
“This folder. I’d rather give it to you and let you dispose of it if you really don’t want it, rather than trash it myself. I wouldn’t feel right.”
“Oh, now, see? I think you’re just trying to get me to go to the pub again. I’m done with drinks for a while. Saturday was much too rough.”
“I make nonalcoholic drinks, too.”
“So . . . you are confessing to trying to get me to go there again.”
“You caught me. I could meet you somewhere else, if you want.”
Was he asking me out on a date, or was I reading too much into this? “Are you at work right now?”
“I’m in my office. Taking a break,” he replied.
“I owe you a shirt, don’t I?”
“Ah, yes. I only gave you a pub shirt to ensure that you’d have to come back to return it. They’re very pricey and rare, you know?”
I smiled. “I’m sure they are.”
“How about you come down to return the shirt? If you’re not going to come just to pick up your folder, that is.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“You want that shirt back?” I asked, arching a brow.
“Did you toss it out?” he asked, sounding as offended as if I’d thrown out a kitten.
“No. Actually, it’s washed and neatly folded.”
“So . . . see you at four?”
I sighed. How had we gotten into this situation? “Persuasive, aren’t you?”
“Yes. That was a nice shirt!”
“Won’t you get into trouble?”
“With who?”
“Your boss? Interrupting your work. Again.”
“Nah. I work for a real cool guy, thought you knew.”
I smiled. “You sure do.”
