And there it is. That’s the extent of Greg’s advice. Then he’s pushing his way through the swinging door into the kitchen again, and I’m still standing there, only now I’m outright sobbing. I turn and see the pitying faces of Ari Ocampo and Andrew Kim-Prescott. And I promptly dart toward the bathroom.

Last Christmas, it felt like the pieces of my life were finally clicking into place.

This year, I’m watching them shatter.

Chapter Three

Crying in a bathroom is nothing new for me. I’ve cried in a lot of bathrooms. Hell, I’ve cried in this bathroom more than once. It’s just—I don’t usually let anyone see me cry. Usually, I wait until I’m safely ensconced in a stall, hunched over on a toilet seat, before I let the anxious tears fall.

I drop my head into my hands.

This isn’t terrible, I attempt to reason through the all-consuming dread in my stomach. This is exactly what I thought would happen. This is all very Greg of Greg. He hadn’t been willing to work with my schedule when I got offered a second job in a restaurant kitchen, and since they could only offer twenty hours a week, I hadn’t been able to take advantage of that particular “side hustle.” I shouldn’t be surprised he’s passing me over for this promotion while still expecting me to produce cute latte art for Roastlandia’s Instagram.

I take a deep breath and try to think about this logically instead of emotionally. I’m sure there is a way to pay my rent and my mother’s expenses and my exorbitant student loan debt. I just haven’t thought of it yet.

Without a car, my options are fairly limited in the gig economy. I tried walking dogs for Rover a while back but quit when a woman’s Tibetan mastiff dragged me through Laurelhurst Park. Greg threatened to fire me when he saw the gravel burn on my face. I tried cleaning houses through Handy but quit when a creepy old man tried to coerce me into giving him a bath. I delivered groceries through Instacart for people in walking distance of the Fred Meyer, and when that fell apart, I got a job at Fred Meyer unloading pallets from trucks at night. Except it turned out my mental health couldn’t endure the lack of sleep, and during a particularly rough bout of depression, I got fired from that job, too.

Perhaps I should admit total failure and move back to Ohio, but it’s not like there’s anyone back in Ohio waiting for me anymore.