“I’m just really eager to get started traveling,” I mumble. It’s true, even if it isn’t the full truth. “Let’s talk later. I’m going to go run on my mom’s treadmill.” I’m already on my feet, itching to get my body moving. If I sit here with my thoughts for one more minute, I’m going to explode, and I definitely don’t want to take out my anxiety on Bea.

“Willow…,” Bea says, disapproval etched on her forehead.

“Excuse me, Willow?” The voice comes from directly above me, and I startle, blinking into the sun. It’s my mom’s assistant, Phoebe, a relatively new recruit handled to hire the burgeoning social media side of Mary Haverford Events. Like most of my mom’s employees, she’s adopted my mother’s daily uniform of crisp white blouse, tailored pants, and minimal jewelry. My mother doesn’t just hire employees, she hires devotees. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Her voice has an air of urgency that makes my heart sink.

This is another part of my LA life I’d love to leave behind. I am regularly summoned.

“Got to run, Bea. Talk to you soon?”

“Very soon.” Bea gives me one last concerned look before blowing a kiss and hanging up.

I make my way to my feet. I’m still dripping, my arms and legs lined with goose bumps. “Hi, Phoebe. What’s up?” I ask, doing my best to hide the fact that I’m speaking around a lump in my throat.

“So sorry to interrupt you, Willow, but we just finished our staff meeting, and your mom would like a word. Inside.” She hesitates. “And, ah, it needs to happen right away.”

The last two words are heavy with meaning. Of course. My mom probably wants to follow up on last night’s conversation. A stupidly optimistic part of me had hoped that she’d let things go, let the issue marinate a bit before we dished it up again. But my mom is not one to let things go. She is ferocious and relentless and very, very in charge. In the words of her favorite poem, my mother never goes gentle into that good night.

She probably wants to make sure I’m not getting any more wild ideas.

Phoebe is blinking more than her usual amount. “Are you okay, Willow?”

My vision is tunneling again, anxiety filtering through my body at full speed. I’m a balloon. I’m a tumbleweed, uprooted and ready to go flying into the unknown. Luckily, I have a trick for this.