Reggie is another reason to reduce my hours. I should talk to Mr. Evans and explain to him I can do my job from home, just as well as I do it at the office. Reggie needs me. I need me.

My phone buzzes as I walk toward the laundry room, aka the closet next to the bathroom. I see an incoming text from D. Evans flashing across the screen.

“Devon Evans doesn’t know the meaning of vacation, does he?” I ask no one in particular. “He doesn’t think we have lives outside of the office. He believes my mission in life is to serve him.”

Only a few seconds after the second buzz, the phone rings. This time, it’s my mom’s ringtone.

“Seriously, universe. Is this some kind of test?” I look around my apartment. “My patience is running thin.”

“Mom?” I say, trying to sound excited.

“Did you pack your passport?” she asks without greeting me.

Setting my clean clothes on the coffee table, I go looking for my passport. Why did I forget to look for it yesterday?

Thankfully, it doesn’t take me long to find it. It’s right next to my lucky ankle bracelet.

“Of course, Mom,” I say, fanning myself with it. “I have everything almost ready.”

“Don’t lie to me, Claire Aurelia Solis!”

Great, I’m pissing her off, and it’s not even … I check the time. Shit, it’s almost 7:00 a.m.

“What can I do for you, Mom?” I ask, rushing through the house, cramming my clothes in my luggage.

“Dad and I wanted to make sure you don’t need the international plan.”

“Thanks for the offer, Mom, but I’ll be fine. If there’s an emergency, Courtney has one set up,” I lie.

In fact, I have my own international plan. I’m just not turning on my phone for the next seven days. I’m disconnecting from work and my family.

“Let me change you to speaker, Mom,” I say.

Right after I do it, I sit down on top of my luggage to close it, but I don’t get my finger out in time, and the pressure feels like my thumb is being ripped off of my hand.

“Ouch, fuck!” I yell, standing up immediately.

My finger throbs but it doesn’t seem broken and it’s not bleeding.

“Claire, language!”

“Sorry, Mom,” I apologize, rolling my eyes. “I’m trying to close my bag.”

“I thought you said you were done packing,” she argues, and I bet there’s a frown on her forehead.

Yep, Claire can’t be trusted. She doesn’t have her shit together. I’m giving her another reason why I shouldn’t be going out of the country on my own—at twenty-eight.

There’s a clicking sound coming from my phone. I check and it’s Darth Vader texting.

D. Evans: Where are the templates for the Stewart project?