Sugar and Spice

Recovery Time: Mallory

The drive home was a blur of orange streetlights and the rhythmic thump of my tires rolling over the bridge. Usually, this was the time I used to mentally reconcile my bank, double-checking the math, and preparing my “closing argument” for my father.

But tonight, the numbers felt secondary.

Every time I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, I felt him again. Jay’s arm around my waist had been firm and certain, and it wasn’t a “straight line.” It had been a sudden, chaotic intervention that shifted my entire center of gravity. When he’d caught me, the world didn’t just stop, it had reset.

I reached up and touched the back of my neck where the humid air of the restaurant had made my hair damp. I could still hear his voice in my ear, steady amidst the shattered glass and the shouting tourists. I’ve got you.

It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever heard.

I pulled into the driveway, the headlights sweeping across the perfectly manicured lawn. The white columns of the house felt more like a museum than a home. I looked at my server book sitting on the passenger seat. I had exceeded the goal. I had the “velocity.” By all accounts, I was winning.

But as I stepped out into the quiet night, the scent of the marsh reminded me of the salt water on Jay’s skin this morning.

“Meet me at the beach at dawn. I’ll teach you how to fall.”

I walked into the house, my footsteps echoing in the marble foyer. The light in my father’s study was still on, a sliver of yellow cutting across the dark hallway. I knew the routine. I was supposed to walk in there, present my notepad, and receive his nod of clinical approval.

I stood outside the door for a very long time, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Mallory?” his voice called out, sharp and expectant.

I pushed the door open. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a red pen in his hand, and a stack of blueprints spread out before him. He didn’t look up immediately. “Log your totals for the day on the spreadsheet. I assume spring break provided another adequate sample size?”

“I’m ahead of schedule, dad,” I said, my voice sounding more certain than I felt. I laid the notepad on his desk. “I’ll have the full deposit for the first semester by Thursday evening.”

He finally looked up, his eyes scanning the numbers. He did the math in a matter of seconds. I could see him tracking the lines. “Impressive. It seems the variable of human effort was higher than I anticipated for a service-level position.”

Variable. The word made me think of Jay.

“It’s not just effort. It’s timing and support.”

“Regardless,” he said, handing the notepad back. “Maintain the trajectory. Consistency is the only metric that matters in the long term. Get some sleep before your shift tomorrow.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” I corrected softly.

He paused, a frown touching his lips. “You should’ve requested the extra time while the volume is high.”

“I need the recovery time,” I lied. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. I needed to see what the world looked like without a notepad or a tablet in my hand.

I retreated to my room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it. The house was silent, orderly, and perfectly mapped out. I took a quick shower and crawled into bed. I didn’t set my alarm, I didn’t need to. I wasn’t going to wake up to hit a target. I was waking up to see if I could learn how to float.

When I rolled out of bed at 4:15AM, the house was still silent. I put on my swimsuit, threw a sundress over it, and crept down the stairs with a towel tucked under my arm.

My car felt impossibly loud when I started it, but no lights came on in the house. I didn’t receive any texts or phone calls asking where I was going. I exhaled, my shoulders relaxing as I shifted into reverse. I backed out of the driveway, and headed to Emerald Bay State Park. The sun was barely starting to peek above the horizon as I pulled into the parking lot. It was empty, except for that familiar rusted-out Honda. A couple of surf boards hung out of the back window.