“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, Mom,” I wailed. “Everything!”
I knew it was narcissistic to make Louisa’s death about me, but I couldn’t help but see her sudden passing as, if not a sign my career was over, at least a metaphor for the dead end that was my life. I didn’t get a four-year college degree to put on a dumb polo shirt every day like a glorified golf caddy and extol the wonders of the world that didn’t want me.
“Honey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” I cried. “That’s the problem!”
“Are you driving?”
“Yes. I just got off work.”
“Maybe you should pull over.” Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.
“OK.”
I pulled into a loading zone, then blew my nose in a napkin I found in the cup holder.
“You OK, honey?”
“No! Today was the worst day ever.”
“You mean because of Jordan?” And that caught me off guard.
“How do you know about Jordan?”
“He called me. To ask my permission.” And suddenly I felt even worse. Because I knew my mom adored him and would have been thrilled for me to marry a wholesome doctor. Now I had let them both down.
“I can’t marry him,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I don’t have those kind of feelings for him.” I didn’t add that I’d just met someone I did have “those feelings” for, because that someone had just dissed me and I was already struggling to keep it together.
“Well, you can’t force it,” she said. “Jordan deserves someone who is head over heels for him. If that’s not you, then you were right to let him go.”
“I can’t let someone go who was never mine to begin with!” OK, I was definitely getting defensive now. Because of course he could have been mine, if I had said yes.
“Ashley, honey,” Mom said, in that voice she used when I did something stupid, like dented the car or forgot to report my credit card stolen, “maybe it’s time we talk about you coming home.”
And there it was. My number one cheerleader and the one person in my life who had always believed in me, telling me it was time to throw in the towel.
My heart broke wide open, like it had been impaled by a sword. I muted the phone so she wouldn’t hear me sobbing. Because of course she was right. I’d had seven years to make something of myself—seven whole years!—and all I had to show for it was a few lousy day player credits and a wrinkle between my brows.
“Ashley? Are you still there?”
I forced myself to stop crying, then unmuted the phone. “I’m here,” I squeaked.
“I know you’re upset,” my mom said. “We can talk about it later. I just want you to know that you always have a home here in Wisconsin. Your brothers and I would be thrilled to have you back. We love you.”
And she hung up. A second later the phone rang again. I thought for a second it was Mom calling me back to tell me my old room was ready or to give me a list of moving companies, but the caller ID said “Unknown Caller.” There really wasn’t any worse news I could get, so I kept the car in park and answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ashley Brooks?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Please hold for Simon Redding.” Who?
I heard a few seconds of hold music—“The Blue Danube” waltz, I think? And then a man picked up the line.
“Ashley Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“This is Simon Redding. I’m the trust attorney for Louisa Lake George.” His voice was polished marble, with a highbrow British accent, like you hear on The Crown. “I presume you know Ms. George has passed?”
“Yes, I just heard.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “The reason I’m calling is because you’re named in Ms. George’s will.” Say what?
“I’m sorry, but I think there must be a mistake; I only just met her,” I said, because why on earth would Louisa name me in her will?
He ignored my comment. “The family has requested the reading be tomorrow. Are you available at eleven o’clock?”
“No, I can’t make it at eleven,” I said. I had to work the day shift—again. I would have loved to blow it off, but with my entire life in shambles, I couldn’t risk adding “getting fired” to my list of catastrophes.