Monday morning. I drag myself into the office intending to tell my boss, which procedurally seems like the right place to start, but when it comes to it, I simply can’t say the words. Frank is the least sympathetic of anyone I know, so hardly the best choice for first disclosure.
“Spit it out, Jennifer,” he says.
“Um . . .” I’m literally trying to spit it out. His expression is making me so nervous I want to turn on my heels, come back through his door, and start again; find my usual confidence. Instead I’m rooted to the spot, my mouth dry, my tongue having forgotten its purpose. “I . . . I don’t want to worry you . . . but I’ve been quite tired recently, unusually tired in fact.”
He throws me a classic Frank scowl that says We’re all tired. Get over it.
It freezes me. I’m having an out-of-body experience, looking down on my own performance, and hearing myself going off-script. “I . . . I think I’m in need of a holiday, Frank.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Well, book it in. You know the procedure—you wrote it.”
“Yeah . . . but . . . no! You’re right. I’ll book it in. I just thought I ought to warn you.”
I scuttle out of his office feeling sick and hopeless. I had no idea I was such a coward.
I wonder whether to break myself in more gently and tell Pattie, my best workmate. We joined the company on the same day sixteen years ago, which feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. Pattie’s divorced, too, only she has a son at university. We’ve spent many an evening together, ostensibly to discuss company grievances that, after a bottle of wine or two, would segue into our personal relationship woes. We’re definitely work buddies, but like wine, sometimes things spill over.
I pass her office and hover momentarily outside her door, noticing she’s on the phone. She catches my look and waves me in, signing tea? But there’s an invisible barrier holding me back and I can’t move. Instead, I check my watch somewhat overemphatically. Later, I mouth.
Back in my office, I pace the floor and decide I’m not a coward as far as Pattie’s concerned. It was the right thing not to tell her. She can’t bear the weight of my secret alone. It would be too hard for her to keep it to herself (everyone has to share a secret with someone, it’s human nature), and if word got out, particularly before I’d told Frank, it would be wrong. For now, while I don’t have any obvious signs, I might as well keep the news under wraps. And maybe if I behave normally, I’ll believe I’m normal and stave off my symptoms simply by snubbing them.
I sit at my desk, staring at my computer screen, wondering what normal is now. I try to think about what would usually concern me.
“Jennifer?”
I look up, snapped out of my daze. “Deborah. Sorry! Miles away.”
Standing in my doorway is Deborah Peevor, Ethan from IT’s assistant. Been with us for two and a half years. Straight from university. Nottingham. An undergraduate degree in sociology. Broken engagement, to Paul, childhood sweetheart, but to be honest she was too young anyway. At least my mind is still working, I think, even though I’m embarrassed I can retain this stuff. It runs through my head like the news ticker on a TV screen. Then again, it’s quite an asset if you’re in HR.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she asks. “I mean, I know we haven’t scheduled a meet, but would it be okay if I come in?” The poor girl’s face is bright red, and her shoulders seem to be hugging her neck. “It’s a personal emergency.”
“Of course,” I say, a touch too brusquely. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She hesitates. “Are you okay? I mean, if it’s the wrong moment . . .”
I realize that it’s going to be the wrong moment for the rest of my time here, so I might as well find out what her personal emergency is and hopefully put one of us out of our misery. “It’s fine, Deborah. I was immersed in a document. Tell me all.”
She comes in, sits down in front of me, then bursts into tears.
“Take your time,” I say. I push my box of tissues toward her. She grabs one and her face dives into it. I want to hug her—I can’t bear to see anyone cry—but it wouldn’t be appropriate. My job denies you the ability to respond in the way you would if it were a friend. I have to stay in my seat, swallow my feelings, and respect company rules because in my job you can never afford to be compromised.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobs.
“Don’t apologize.”
She looks at me with a downturned mouth. “I want to lodge an official complaint against Ethan. He totally lost it with me. Became abusive.” She shudders.
Seriously? Ethan Webber? Been with us seven years. Three promotions. Quiet type. Geek. Head of Chess Club. Wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. “Can you describe abusive, Deborah?” I’m taking notes. “Physical?”
“Verbal.”
“Can you tell me what he said?”
She gives an agonized growl. “He called me something unrepeatable.”
“You need to tell me what he said Deborah.”
“I can’t.”
“Can you spell it?”
She takes a deep breath and her mouth stretches around the letters with distaste. “C-U—”
“Got it!” I say. Wow! Ethan. What were you thinking?
Okay. So when I said I’m in HR your eyes probably glazed over, but truthfully it’s quite an interesting job. You get involved in people’s lives, you get an insight into their psychology. You see the good and the bad. And you need to be strategic. It’s more complex than you’d imagine. Plus, when the situation allows, you get to fight for justice. That’s the bit that matters to me most. Justice in a world of unfair.
And now I care about justice for Deborah. I care that her feelings have been hurt because hopefully that’s all this amounts to.
“Listen, Deborah. I’m not absolving his insult, but it’s so unlike him. Do you have any idea why he might have said that to you?”
She coughs. “Yes.”
I wait.
She gulps down some tea, coy now. “I deleted an important file and then I panicked and blamed it on him. I mean . . . it’s retrievable, for God’s sake. We only need to get one of the specialist techies down.”
“I understand, Deborah, really I do. It didn’t warrant that kind of reaction,” I say sympathetically. Then I explain the various ramifications of lodging an official complaint. It’s not something you do blithely—not under any circumstances.
She listens, throws in a few buts, casts me a doleful look, and shrugs. “Yeah. Sorry, Jennifer. I guess I just needed to blow off steam. It was either the ladies’ washrooms or you. You won.” She cracks a smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So . . . I guess I should let it lie?”
“No! Not at all,” I say. “We absolutely need to deal with this. Letting it lie is not what I had in mind. No, I’ll have a word with Ethan.”
“That’s so embarrassing.”
“Trust me, it’s going to be a lot less embarrassing than lodging an official complaint. You deserve an apology. I’ll deal with it. And maybe, if you feel this is the way forward, I can get the two of you in a room together to talk it out. So that he can make his apology official. To be honest, I’m sure he’s already feeling remorseful, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have words with him.”
She sighs. “Okay then. If you think that’s best.”
“I do. Now, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll speak to Ethan. Then both of you can sleep on it and we’ll get it settled tomorrow. I’m assuming he’s never spoken to you like that before?”
“Never.”
“It’s going to be fine. Go home.”
“You’re right. Thanks.” She presses her hands on her thighs and stands up. “And I’ll be happy to see him tomorrow. I’m sorry I provoked him. I guess I must be tired.”
“Honestly, Deborah, I totally understand.”
“Yeah,” she says, oblivious to the irony. “And thanks for talking this through, Jennifer. I know how busy you are. I really appreciate it.”
I watch her leave and think how “cunt” doesn’t sound quite so bad compared to “rare blood disease.” I wonder whether everyone else’s traumas will seem trivial to me now. Still, for a short moment, immersed in Deborah’s problems, I’ve forgotten about my own and it occurs to me I should work for as long as is physically possible. I need to try and forget about me. But it’s hard, I think.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say out loud.
I recoil. Oh God! I’m talking to myself. I’m going mad. I have to tell someone. There’s no way I can keep this to myself any longer. I need to exorcize this darkest possible of secrets.
Poor Olivia. What a thing to do to your closest friend. I’m so sorry.
I text her before giving it any further contemplation, so that there’s no turning back.
Had some tricky news. Have you got time to pop round tonight?
I pace. Constantly checking my phone screen. Making sure my phone isn’t on silent. Ten minutes feels like ten hours.
Ping!
Sure. How tricky? Should I bring cake?
Yeah ☹
Ohhhh. Got a meeting which should finish at 6:30 then I’ll be straight by. Cheesecake?
To be honest, cake is the last thing I want, but I reckon Olivia might need it.
Nice
I can’t get out of it now.
Back home, I stare at my reflection in my bedroom mirror as if I’m checking this is really me. The same person I saw yesterday and the day before and the day before that stares back. But I am not the same. Everything has changed. The truth is I still don’t accept it. I’m clinging to denial because it’s safe. Who can blame me? But I have to open up to someone, and at the end of the day, when you’re single, that’s what a best friend signs up for: for better or worse, in sickness and in health.
Olivia stands in my doorway, breathing sharply, as though she’s run all the way from the office. Her dark red hair is tied back loosely, showing her flushed cheeks. She’s dressed in silk khaki trousers with red trim down the sides accentuating her long slim legs, a white untucked shirt, and an open trench coat. Olivia works in fashion, which had always been useful because I got to go with her to all the trade sales. So even though I’m stuck wearing office suits, at least they were beautiful ones. Note I’m already using the past tense.
She hands over a ribbon-tied box. “Cheesecake,” she says. “What’s wrong? You look like shit. No offense.”
“None taken. Do you want a drink?
“Yeah. Tea. Builders, please.”
“I mean a real drink.”
“With cheesecake?”
“I’m having one.”
She appraises me with suspicion. “This is not a cheesecake moment, is it?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing too awful.” I lie because her anxiety is instantly palpable. I’m not sure if I am properly prepared for this revelation. But then maybe I never will be. “Whiskey?”
“Shit, darling! We don’t drink whiskey! What’s going on, Jennifer? Have you been fired?”
“First the drink,” I say. “But I haven’t been fired.”
We move with our inch of single malt from the kitchen into the sitting room and sit down next to each other.
She’s staring at me, bug-eyed. “Do we chat about the weather or can we dive straight in?”
I feel my cheeks spasm. My lips won’t move. I sip the whiskey for Dutch courage. What on earth does that mean? Dutch courage? My mind lingers over the definition.
“Jennifer?”
“Sorry. Sorry. Let’s dive straight in.” And here I go. Diving from the highest board, my heart fluttering, stomach full of butterflies. I’m in free fall, waiting to feel the smack of water.
“You remember I went to the doctor the other day.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, I got the results of my blood tests. I thought he was going to tell me I was iron deficient or something like that but turns out I have an unusual blood disorder.”
Olivia draws her chin into her long neck. “Oh,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
“And it’s terminal.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I wish I was.”
She stares and waits. I can’t think how to react. Is there some kind of etiquette for helping friends through this moment?
“Oh my God, Jen! You are serious!” She grips my hand and we look at each other in a stunned silence, like someone’s hit the pause button. Then someone presses play. “I’m so sorry, Jennifer. I’m not sure I know what to say.”
“I’m not sure I do either.” I say. I let go of her hand and pick up my drink for want of something less awkward to do.
“You need a second opinion,” she says, straightening her back, like she’s preparing for battle. “We need to find you the best blood specialist in the country. In the world!”
“Honestly, I’d do that but Dr. Mackenzie has looked into it extensively. It’s incredibly rare. And if it’s any reassurance, my mother called him our ‘gold dust’; the best diagnostician you could hope for and you never doubted my mother. Besides, I’m not sure there’s time.”
She scowls. “Of course there is. How long are we talking here? Has that even been discussed?”
“It’s months, Liv. Three. At best.”
She clamps her hand to her mouth. “NO! Seriously? But this is from nowhere.”
“From nowhere. Well . . . I was tired.”
Her forehead furrows and she presses her lips together. “Jennifer . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“Have you . . . cried?”
I point at my eye bags. “The whole weekend. I think I’m all cried out. I’m so over crying.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Why did you do this on your own?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was frozen in panic. You think you’d do that—you know—reach out to your best friend. Pick up the phone . . . But you don’t. At least, I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
She finally gives way to a body-racking sob. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Ohhh, Jennifer. What will I do without you? I shouldn’t be crying, not with you being so brave and—”
“Liv?” Her name comes out of my mouth in a choked whisper. “You know I said I was over crying . . .”
She shoots me a damp, question mark face.
“Well, I lied. Will you hold me, please?”
She gives a tacit nod, shuffles her bottom toward me, opens her arms, and draws me in. Finally, I am wrapped in love and I let it all go. We cry together, me into her perfumed neck, her into my stale grief-stricken hair, shaking and shivering as one. “Life is so unfair,” she says. “I’m not going to lose you. I’m not going to allow this to happen.”
“And I love you for that, Liv,” I say, staring into her watery gaze. “But let’s face it, there’s no such thing as fair or unfair. Death is not discerning. My parents were good people who had horrible drawn-out deaths. At least mine will be quick.”
“Oh, Jennifer! That’s awful. You mustn’t say that! You can’t just roll over.”
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. It’s not a question of rolling over. Trust me, I’ve thought long and hard about this one. There may be treatment, but Dr. Mackenzie said it’s not a cure. It just delays the inevitable . . . for what? To be sick for longer? To be given a few extra months of feeling lousy? No. That’s not going to be my path. I’d rather enjoy what little time I have left.”
“Of course. But—”
“And I don’t want to squander it on a hunt for some alternative nonsense that will give me false hope . . . like Andy Kaufman in that film we saw. Don’t you remember what we said afterward? We thought it was so sad.”
“But that was a film. That was some guy we didn’t know. This is YOU!”
“Yes! And that’s why I need to do what’s right for me.” I take a deep breath. “This is my choice. I don’t know how bad I’m going to be or how quickly it’s going to take hold, but for as long as I can, I want to play normal.”
“God, that’s so brave. What the heck is normal now?”
“Beats me. I guess we’ll find out. But while I can manage, I don’t want to be covered in morphine patches and pumped full of the drugs Dr. Mackenzie’s prescribed me either. I’m going to stay positive for as long as possible without chemicals. And you need to help me. No more crying. Okay?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,” she snuffles.
“No, no! I’m glad you did. I’m glad we can cry together. But now we have to agree to a deal. Stiff upper lip.”
She shudders. “Okay. It’s your call. We do exactly what you want.”
“Thank you. More?” I hold up my empty glass.
“Under the circumstances, yes,” she says. “Even though it’s disgusting.”
“True. But it’s numbing. I think that’s why it was invented.”
I bring the bottle in from the kitchen and top us up.
“So what do you want to do?” she says, sweeping blindly at the trail of mascara staining her cheeks.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you want to spend these three months?” She shakes her head with a judder of her shoulders, slugging some whiskey. “I can’t believe I’m even saying that. Shut me up if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh no, Liv. I need to get out of my head and talk.”
“Okay, but you’ll tell me if I’m pushing a boundary, won’t you? This is uncharted territory.”
“Sure.”
“So . . . what then?”
“Well, I’m going to work for as long as I can.”
“Seriously? I mean, I get that you want to play normal, but you can’t spend the end of your days working. That’s like requesting beans on toast for your last supper.”
“I love beans on toast.”
She half laughs. “Come on. I’m not going to let you get away with this. Isn’t there anywhere you’ve always wanted to go?”
I pause for reflection. “Cuba, Vietnam,” I say. “Cambodia, Kyoto, Venice, Argentina. How long have you got? But I don’t want to travel. I need to stay close to home. To a hospital. I’d be scared to get on a plane and risk being one of those poor bastards the captain has to make an announcement for. ‘Is there a doctor on board?’”
She nods. “Yeah. I think I’d be the same.”
“I should have a plan though, shouldn’t I?”
“Other than work. I think that would be wise.”
I nod. “I should try to do something significant. Worthwhile.” Why haven’t I thought about this? Was I seriously thinking I’d simply carry on working, hoping it would all go away? “Okay. So, I’ll give up work. When I’m ready.”
“Have you told them?”
“No. Not yet. You’re the first. I tried telling Frank today and then Pattie, but I couldn’t. The words got stuck in my throat. Probably just as well. I obviously needed to cry and I couldn’t have done that in a professional space.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to expect you to be professional now.”
“Well, I want to be. I don’t want people’s pity. I don’t want to become that person they don’t know how to talk to anymore, who they avoid because they don’t know how to behave around me.”
“People might surprise you.”
“I work in HR. Nothing surprises me.”
“So . . . what have you always wanted to do?”
I think for a moment but I’m stumped. I search for a reply. “I’ve never had a bucket list. I always thought they were for pessimists.”
She smiles. “Anything you regret not doing then?”
“Oh, definitely. Lots of regrets. I regret not eating more pancakes with maple syrup, and more chicken burritos. I regret saving my nicest clothes for that special occasion. Like I was expecting some knight in shining armor to show up and I’d throw on my best designer frock and he’d take me away from all this, even though I like all this. How stupid is that?”
“Not stupid. Very familiar. What else?”
“Well . . . I regret not helping Mrs. Mumford with her shopping.”
“Who?”
“This woman in my neighborhood. She’s lived here forever. She must be well into her eighties now. Occasionally I’ll see her shuffling along, struggling with one of those old lady trolleys full of shopping and I’ll tell myself, I should go out and help her but I’m on the phone or about to leave for a meeting and it’s never the right time. Only now I realize there is no such thing as the right time. I should have made time. I should have gotten her shopping for her. But I never did.”
Olivia laughs. “Oh my God, Jennifer! That thought wouldn’t even occur to me. That’s so considerate, you shouldn’t feel bad. You meant well.”
“What good did that do her? And now there’s no point in starting what I can’t finish. Oh, Olivia!” I tut. “You don’t need to hear my moans. Please make me shut up.”
“Absolutely not! You need to talk about this stuff. If anything, I need to hear more.”
I scoff. “Oh, there’s plenty more. I’ve been looking back, and there are so many things I wish I’d handled better.”
“Like?”
“Well . . . for starters, I wish I’d told Andy what I really thought when he announced he was leaving me that awful Saturday. You know, when he confessed to cheating on me with Elizabeth.”
“I always said you were too nice.”
“But he was crying. It made me feel terrible.”
“That was exactly what he wanted. So that you’d let him off the hook without a fight.”
“You think he was just being manipulative?”
“Of course!”
“No,” I say, decisively. “You’re wrong. Andy couldn’t summon up crocodile tears if he was desperate. He was genuinely remorseful. But I shouldn’t have let him go without making him think a bit harder about what he was leaving behind. I should have told him I thought we had a decent marriage worth fighting for and it deserved another chance, that even though I felt hurt and betrayed, I still didn’t want to lose him. Instead, I stayed silent and listened.”
“Then you need to tell him this! Now!”
“Don’t be silly. It’s so long ago. He’s been married to Elizabeth longer than he was ever married to me. Only now I guess I’m angry at myself for holding back. I wonder if I’d told him how I felt at the time, he might have stayed. And then I’d have someone to go through this with.”
“I’m here for you,” she says, looking somber.
“Yes, you are, Liv.” I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. But you have Dan. I would have liked to have someone here twenty-four seven. Who knows me so well he doesn’t have to ask how I’m feeling. Who can look at me and tell.”
“Was Andy like that?”
“No!” I hoot. “But he might have been if he’d given our marriage a chance. And then there’s Harry. I always felt we would get back together and now there’s no hope. I’ve never stopped wondering about him, whether I could have handled things better. If I was too hasty to judge him.”
“Seriously, Jen! After he behaved so badly?”
“But did he? Maybe I should have believed him when he said he and Melissa were just friends.”
“You saw him on camera with her!”
“With his arm around her. It was hardly intimate.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Okay, fine. But was it a deal breaker? Who’s to say we couldn’t have gotten back on track? I know you never liked him, but he was smart and sophisticated and he was good for me. He gave me my confidence back.”
“You mean, before he took it away again.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway, I wish I’d given him more of a chance.” I throw my hands in the air. “Oh, listen to me! I’m hopeless. My life has been one big round of repeat behaviors. I’ve never learned a single lesson.”
“That’s so not true.”
“It is true. I’m a coward. Never daring to confront people.” I nod my head in disappointment. “And I think I must be lousy in bed. All men cheat on me.”
“That’s because all men are cheats.”
“You think Dan is a cheat?”
“NO!” she says, affronted.
“I rest my case.”
“Anyway,” she rebuffs. You’re not a coward. Look at how you’re dealing with this news. You’re brave and fabulous. You’re witty and kind. You’re the most genuine person I know.”
“Stop it!”
“No. Take it!”
“Thank you . . .” I ponder a moment. “Admit it, though. I have been a bit of a coward. I’ve never fought for the things I wanted most.”
She brushes some nonexistent creases from her trousers then takes my face in her hands and looks me in the eye.
“And that’s why you need to tell those guys all the things you wish you’d said at the time. They need to hear that stuff. For their own sake as well as for yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I’m only telling you to get it off my chest.”
“Why is it ridiculous? What better catharsis? If you’re going to face this illness head-on, you need to finish your unfinished business. You need to be at peace with yourself.”
“Listen to you! You’re going all Anna Maria on me.” Anna Maria is the third point of our friendship triangle. The third Musketeer, if you like, only she’s quite different from Olivia and me. She’s into all things alternative. She wasn’t always that way, used to be a bit of a party girl, until one day she woke up with a man she didn’t recognize, in a bed she didn’t recall getting into. Finding herself alive, and subsequently not pregnant, was the moment Anna Maria found her spiritual side.
To be honest, I think we preferred her when she was a party girl. Since Olivia and I were the school nerds, having a wild friend made us feel that a part of us must be a bit wild, too. It probably worked in reverse for Anna Maria. But I’m not sure what a friend who’s into reiki and chakras and Tibetan singing bowls says about us, which explains why we don’t see her quite as much. Once in a while is fun; too often, and you start wanting to chew your sleeves. But, like family, there are some friends with whom you have an umbilical bond, and Anna Maria is one of them.
“Well, sometimes she has a point.”
“She’s taken ayahuasca. She’s done rebirthing. Three times. She’s mad!”
Olivia laughs. “I’ve been telling you that for years. So . . . who else would you like to take issue with?”
Her face has changed. She’s animated. I decide to go along for the ride. I consider mentioning my oldest friend, Emily, whom I’ve known practically since birth. She lived on my street. I saw her all the time. She was like family. But when we moved up to secondary school and I started hanging out with Olivia and Anna Maria, she never quite fit. She drifted around us a bit, but mostly she and I would see each other outside of school. Then a few years ago, Emily dropped all contact. I said something that upset her and she did not want to give me the chance to explain. She is the only friend I’ve ever fallen out with and right now, drowning in nostalgia, I really miss her. But it goes too deep to dredge her up and besides, Olivia was never keen on her. “The doctor for a start,” I say.
She looks surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. He was awful. He gave me this terrible news then told me off.” I repeat Dr. Mackenzie’s reprimand. “‘I wish you had come in sooner.’ As if it was all my fault that I didn’t connect feeling a bit tired with something going horribly wrong with my blood.”
“I can’t blame you for wanting to shoot the messenger.”
“And Elizabeth.” I’m on a roll now. “After all, it wasn’t just Andy who had the affair. She was complicit, and yet she treated me was as though I was the guilty party. She’s so uptight and vindictive, she drove a wedge between Andy and me when we were trying hard to be amicable. She needs to be told she’s an evil bitch.” I smile. “Merely saying that feels good.”
“Way to go! You see!” She goes to high-five me then thinks the better of it, diverting her palm toward a stray strand of hair, which she sweeps behind her ear.. “So . . . Andy, Elizabeth, Harry, and the doctor. Anyone else?”
“Isabelle.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah. She may be my sister and I love her—most of the time—but she can be pretty hurtful. And for whatever reason, I’ve always let her get away with it.”
“Well, if we’re being confessional here, let’s say it never went unnoticed. Even at school, I thought she was mean. Some of the things you’ve told me over the years, I’m amazed you’ve never had a falling-out.”
I shrug. “It’s always been like that. My parents never said a word against her either. What does it say that I never told her about the miscarriages because I thought she’d make me feel even more of a failure? My sister! She should have been my closest confidante. I had to swear my parents to secrecy. I’m so lucky to have you.” I squeeze her hand. “So now you know everything about my dark side and I’m drained.”
She puts her arm around my shoulder, allowing my head to rest into her neck. “Better to get it out into the light, though, isn’t it?”
I nod. I can even feel a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“So how are you going to tell them all this then?”
I pull back and catch her look. “Come on, Liv. I told you. I’m not actually going to tell them.”
She frowns, genuinely shocked. “Why not?”
“Because, it’s crazy.”
She fixes me with a steely gaze. “Jennifer. What are you waiting for? Isn’t it time for a little bit of crazy?”