Page 37 of Playing the Backbeat

Maybe I’m not as good at what I do as I thought. Maybe pursuing what I considered the safe, smart business career was playing it too safe, and now I have nothing to show for it.

Dylan watches me, taking his time before saying anything. “Did you ever think that maybe being a little lost at sea might lead you somewhere better? Maybe it doesn’t need to be scripted all the time. I’m honestly shocked to hear you’d want it that way. Spontaneity is kind of a Dee trademark.”

“In play? Sure, but at work? I want to feel like I accomplished something.”

“You did. Now, you’re onto the nextsomething. Don’t discredit what you’ve already done, just because that chapter ended. It’s still something to be proud of.”

“But I don’t know what that next something is.” I slump lower onto the couch. “What do you think I should do next? Give me a lead. Inspire me, oh wise one.”

“I don’t think you should decide that today. I don’t think you should even think about it.”

“Earth to Dylan…I have bills to pay. I need a job.”

“Have no fear.” He levels me with a look. “Daddy’s here.”

“Oh my god, gross. I used to like it, but now you’ve gone and ruined a good thing.” We both laugh. He returns to cooking and I sit, fiddling with the drawstrings on my sweatshirt.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks a few minutes later, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.

“I swear, if you try to flip this on me, using a weak moment to tease me, I’m going to come over there and shove a slice of that pepper up your nose.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just threaten me…with a pepper. Did youlikeyour last job? I meanreallyenjoy it?”

“You can poke fun all you want, with your fun, hotshot concert hall job, but I really loved what I did. I loved taking something chaotic and making sense of it. Giving it meaning and purpose and allowing people to act on it. The company wasn’t the best, but they weren’t the worst. Clearly, they got in over their heads, but they treated their employees decently, they donated to worthy causes. Yeah, the culture was kind of a boy’s club. But you know I have no problem speaking my mind where that’s concerned.”

“Naturally. So if the problem wasn’t the work, maybe it was the team. You were at Keller’s a long time, but they won’t all be like that.”

I shrug. “Maybe this is the inevitable fallout after living in a world that’s constantly demanding that I achieve more, be my best self, transform my life into this picture-perfect aesthetic, God forbid anything stain the sunset on the beaches ofhappily ever after.”

I wanted to be perfect, but ended up perfectly confused.

“No one is expecting you to find your happily ever after before you turn twenty-nine. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I guess, after years of pushing so hard, I’m left feeling like my best isn’t enough. When I signed on for my internship, I had to push to prove myself.”

I kept climbing higher and higher, taking on bigger projects, managing a heavier workload at the same pay, all to play the game. Get more opportunities to do more of the same, more work for the same pay.

“It was competitive,” I say. “It’d be nice, I guess, to work somewhere that was more collaborative than that. Somewhere that valued teamwork over pinning us against each other just to capitalize on our drive to prove ourselves.”

My shoulders drop and my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. I glance at Dylan, uncomfortable with how easily he drew this out of me. The girls and I haven’t even talked about this.

They probably assume I’m fine since that’s what I show them. Why can’t Dylan accept that answer too?

“What about that interview that fell through with your old coworker. Did they ever reschedule?” he asks.

“Not yet, but the hiring manager emailed me,” I say, lacking any real enthusiasm.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s not that. I mean, maybe it is.” I shrug. “Phil was fine, but I know it’s going to be more of the same. And I’m tired of having to prove myself. Tired of having to work three times as hard to get the same amount of respect. Tired of not being respected by the people I’m working with.” I shake my head. “Enough of my drama. What about you?”

“What about me?” He returns his focus to cooking the meal in front of him, but I don’t miss the tightening of his shoulders and the tension returning in his jaw.

“Well, you’ve managed the Bridge for how long now? Is that where you want to be?”

He shrugs, not lifting his gaze.

“All advice, no introspection,” I muse. “Only I have to spill my guts on the floor? Join me in the word vomit soup, would you?”