“Mami, I don’t want to talk about Matt. Yes, he’s trash, but he doesn’t matter anymore. This year is about me, no romance, no distractions. Nada.” I sliced the air with my hand as if she could see me. “I’m focusing on my job, which I actually love, and trying to build a life here. Esta bien, Mami? Can you guys support me in that?”

That was a low blow, because my mom, all of my family really, was nothing but supportive.

“Mija. I just worry. It’s so hot in that place.”

Oh no, not the heat again. I was never going to get to that meeting.

“It’s so dry. Mariita told me when she went there her hands cracked. Did you get the lotion I sent you?”

My mother was convinced the regular drugstore hand lotions from New York City were somehow more effective than the ones in Dallas and sent me so many tubes I could probably stay moisturized through a zombie apocalypse.

“You know I did. Don’t send me any more, Mami. I only have two hands, and you sent me enough to keep my skin supple for decades.”

“Muchachita.” Her voice had that familiar mix of love and exasperation that defined our relationship. “Okay, bye, but remember to drink lots of water, mija. Our people are not built for that dry heat.” I ended the call after agreeing to do everything she said, including walking around with the jug with a straw she’d sent me.

I realized I’d accidentally had my mother on speaker—she was so loud I could no longer tell the difference—when I heard what sounded very much like someone trying not to choke from trying not to laugh.

Awesome.

It had to be about my call. My mother’s voice carried for miles. But I didn’t look up to find out who was laughing their ass off at my expense and focused on the text I had from my boss. I could be mortified in a minute.

Are you on your way??

I quickly typed a response as I stepped up to the elevator that would take me up to the “executive” floor.

Going up to you now.

I fired that message off and kept my attention on the elevator door, trying not to read into Gail’s unusual urgency. Pushy was not her style and she’d sent four messages in ten minutes. My boss usually channeled a Super Soul Sunday vibe in her texts. The double question mark was not a good sign, and the fact she was keeping strictly to the point was definitely concerning.

Something was up.

I stepped into the elevator and shoved my phone into the pocket of my dress, took a moment to send a prayer to the employee discount that let me buy bomb clothes on a nonprofit worker budget, and did some mental math of what could be going on.