Poppy

Mondays always suck. Maybe it’s the letdown from running around free and loose on the weekends, or maybe it’s one of those unspoken laws of the universe things, but nothing good happens on a Monday. If I’d been smart, I would have stayed in bed. At least then I could have pulled a pillow over my head, made a blanket fortress, and pretended none of this was happening.

Instead, six days after Gator drops me off at my house, I’m sitting in my loaner lab space at the university wearing uncomfortable dry clean only clothes that include pants with buttons while I re-read the email that just hit my inbox. People should only get fired on Fridays. Or possibly Wednesdays because then maybe you can pretend your weekend’s just come early. But Mondays? That’s cruel.

Dear Dr. Burkhart-Jones. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you…

Yes, it’s all downhill from there.

I didn’t even get the two weeks they promised me.

My research is a bust, not delivering on early promise. Well fuck them very much, right? Probably there’s a coffee bar in need of a barista, and I can learn how to operate the space-age machinery that pumps out endless variations of coffee drinks. Probably. Or I can look into housecleaning or office work or getting my teaching credential so I can teach high school students about the joys of biology.

I try to think happy, positive, upbeat thoughts while I pack up my stuff and do the walk of shame out of the lab. Everyone knows. It’s no secret that I suck, that the funding plug has been pulled, and now the only sound is the glug, glug, glug of my career spiraling down the drain.

Monday does not improve once I’ve left the lab behind me, either. The dishwasher explodes all over my place, and my bank account reminds me that it’s only one step from starving because I haven’t paid my bills yet. Before I can stop myself or overthink it, I text Gator. I tell him about my shitty day.

Today sucked.

As soon as I hit send, I want to take the words back. When he put his number in my phone, he sort of implied it was for dire emergencies. Not sure this qualifies. Sure, my job’s gone and the prospects for reestablishing my academic career look dim, but I’m not dead. Or dying. Or even stranded by the roadside with the mother of all flat tires and a gang of desperate criminals advancing on me. And he hasn’t texted me once since he dropped me off. Or called or done any other kind of reach-out-and-touch-someone shit. He’s clearly done, and I should be, too.

I’m a grown-up.

I can handle my own life, rescue my own shit.

Nathan came galloping to my rescue (in a BMW rather than on a white horse, but details), and that didn’t work out well in the end. And Nathan and I had had sex. Gator and I may have fooled around, and he may have given me a downright unforgettable orgasm (hello, treasured memory), but he’s the kind of guy who works and lives alone. His place in the middle of nowhere is a clue I shouldn’t ignore. Gator’s all lone wolf, and sometimes I like a little people contact.

I set my phone down on the bed (tossing it would be way more satisfying, but I officially can’t afford to replace it). Flopping back, I contemplate my ceiling. Really, I should enjoy the view, since my next bedroom may be the backseat of my car or a cardboard box. Yes, I’m having a pity party for one. Tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up and figure out a path forward. I can’t even blame this one on Nathan because it’s squarely on me. I let myself get distracted by Gator, and I took my eye off the prize.

On the other hand, he did help me comb the bayou for signs of wolves. He definitely made an awesome research assistant. When my phone buzzes, I grab it, grateful for the distraction.

Come over. I’ll make you feel better.

That’s not even an invitation, is it? It’s more of a royal command, and there are so many logistical issues that I don’t know where to start. For one thing, I’m not currently in possession of a boat, and swimming to his place isn’t happening. And secondly, I’m busy feeling sorry for myself and my shit day. The last thing I want is to haul my butt off this bed and go traipsing through the dark and the wet to Gator’s. And since no one’s gotten around to inventing teleporters and I’m light in the private helicopter department, I’m out of luck. Again.

Just to set a good example, I pop open a new browser tab and hit up the Evite site. Unfortunately pity party autocorrects to pet party, which leaves me looking at puppy dogs in party hats and a weiner wearing an inner tube. It’s like the happy staffers there have never had a bad day or something. Or maybe upper management frowns on it? Shortsighted in my opinion. I improvise and settle for creating my own invite. A few stock images of Ben and Jerry’s, teardrops, and a bad stick drawing of my own middle finger later, I’m in business.

I hit send. Take that, Mr. Lone-Wolf-You-Come-To-Me. Mohammed’s gonna have to come to this mountain or spend the night alone.

Step one in this super wonderful plan of mine is stripping off anything that requires dry cleaning, buttons, or a diet. And as soon as I’m pantless and my bra hits the floor, I drag on an old T-shirt and my favorite panties. Sexyville I’m not. My panties are bright green like the Emerald City and all stretchy from going through the wash a million times. But they’re super soft and cover my pooch, which puts them firmly in my keeper column. Nathan hated these panties and banished them.

Or so he thought.

Heh.

I make a quick trip to my kitchen to load up on all things carb and sugar, and then I crawl into bed. I might just stay here for the rest of the week. Or all the days that end in “y.”