Done Adulting Vol. 1 Ch. 18 (Patreon)

“Hey, Cheryl? Wanna talk for a minute,” Ashley asked.

“Sure. What’s up,” Cheryl answered, sitting down in Ash’s office. Ash stood up from behind her desk and closed the door. Cheryl didn’t like that – what did Ashley have to say that had to be said behind a closed door?

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing, how you’re feeling,” Ash said as she sat down in the chair next to Cheryl’s, rather than back behind her desk.

“Uh, fine I guess.”

“Okay. I’m glad to hear that. I’ve just noticed you’ve seemed a bit detached lately.”

“Is there something wrong with my work?”

“No. Not at all. You just … maybe I’m overstepping. I want to be just a person right now, not your boss. Are you okay with that?” She continued after Cheryl nodded. “I haven’t seen you smile much lately. You’ve seemed quiet, the last few months.”

It felt good to know Ash cared about her. Whether as a person, friend, or employer, she cared enough to notice and say something. It’s always easier not to say anything. People only do it when they care.

“I … thank you. I’m just … I guess I’ve been a little down.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

Yes! She wanted to unburden herself. She got too close to a client and missed him terribly. She didn’t have any emotional energy left to be more than professionally caring toward her latest clients, and every insincere smile she forced just to be polite was one more stick in her eye. Cheryl didn’t want to be happy, she didn’t want to appear to be happy, and she didn’t want to deal with anyone else’s emotional needs. Not until her own were met.

“Thanks for asking, but I’ll be fine. Everything will sort itself out.”

“My door is always open, whether you need me to be a boss or a friend.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to me that you cared enough to ask.”

Cheryl left the office and pulled up her calendar. She couldn’t remember these days what was on her plate or when. She was finding out – or rather, recalling – that she had commitments just an hour, or sometimes even less, before they began.

Scrolling forward for no particular reason, she zoomed out from the day to the month, and as she had at least once a week, she then scrolled backwards. First a week, the first time. And now seven weeks. There on her calendar, blocking the whole day: “Eric’s Departure.” The healthy thing to do would have been to delete the entry, but she couldn’t and didn’t want to.