Chapter 29: The Natural Disaster
Jess returned from school with the particular deflation of someone whose enthusiasm had collided with reality.
"It was a disaster," she said, dropping onto the couch. "Not, like, actual disaster. Nobody got hurt. But..."
She trailed off, staring at the ceiling.
I'd predicted this. The Memory Palace had mapped the failure points three days ago, identified the convergence of absent volunteers and technical problems and scheduling chaos that would turn her carefully planned event into controlled embarrassment.
I'd said nothing. Done nothing. Let it happen.
"What went wrong?" I asked, though I could guess most of it.
"Everything? Mrs. Henderson's car broke down, so no refreshments until the second hour. The projector for the student presentations died halfway through. Three of my parent volunteers just... didn't show up." She made a sound somewhere between laugh and groan. "And I forgot to confirm the janitor would unlock the supply closet, so all my craft materials were trapped until he finished his lunch break."
Exactly the failure points I'd identified. Almost the exact sequence I'd predicted.
"That sounds rough," I said.
"The kids were fine. They're resilient. But the parents..." She covered her face. "I could see them judging. 'This is what public school looks like.' I could feel them thinking it."
Nick emerged from his room, having heard the distress. "What happened?"
"My school event imploded."
"Ah." He settled onto the couch beside her, the particular proximity of comfort without touching. "That sucks."
"It really does."
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with tea—the same terrible tea he always made, oversteeped and slightly burnt-tasting. Jess accepted it without complaint, wrapping her hands around the cup.
Human moment: the gesture mattered more than the quality. Some things couldn't be optimized.
---
I offered support without the undertones I didn't have standing for.
"These things happen," I said. "Sounds like you handled it as well as anyone could."
Jess looked at me over her tea, something calculating in her expression. "You don't seem surprised."
The observation landed closer than comfortable. I'd been careful to maintain appropriate reactions—concern when she described problems, sympathy when she catalogued failures. But she was watching closely enough to notice what wasn't there.
"Sometimes things just don't work out," I said. "Doesn't mean you did anything wrong."
"I know. I do know that." She sipped her terrible tea. "It's just... you have this way of never being surprised. Like you've already thought through what's going to happen."
The Memory Palace offered no guidance for this. Deflection would confirm suspicion. Denial would sound defensive.
"I think about a lot of things," I said. "Probably too much."
"Probably." She didn't push further. But I could see her filing the observation, adding it to whatever list she'd been building since the Ferguson slip on Winston's first night back.
---
[That evening]
Cece arrived to comfort Jess, bringing wine and the particular energy of best-friend support.
"Men are useless at this," she announced, settling beside Jess on the couch. "No offense to present company."
"Some taken," Nick said from the kitchen.
"You made her terrible tea."
"It's comfort tea."
"It's terrible tea that happens to be comforting."
The banter had the practiced rhythm of people who'd known each other through multiple iterations of crisis and recovery. I stayed peripheral, present but not central.
Cece caught my eye during a lull in the conversation. The assessment was familiar—she'd been watching me since the professional exchange, cataloguing behaviors that didn't quite fit.
Later, when Jess had retreated to the bathroom to wash her face, Cece appeared beside me in the kitchen.
"You knew that was going to fail," she said quietly.
Not a question. An observation.
"I thought it might."
"More than 'might.' You had that look three days ago when she was planning. The one that says you've already done the math."
The directness was very Cece. No deflection, no softening. Just assessment and challenge.
"I noticed some potential problems," I admitted.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Would she have listened?"
Cece considered this. "Probably not. She gets... focused."
"And if I'd warned her and she'd dismissed it, then the failure would have been partly about me being right instead of just about things not working out."
"That's very calculated."
"I prefer 'strategic.'"
"I bet you do." She studied me with the particular attention I'd learned to associate with Cece working something out. "You're playing a longer game than I thought."
"I'm just trying to be a good roommate."
"You keep saying that." She didn't believe me. She wasn't wrong not to. "But good roommates don't do the kind of math you do."
She returned to the living room before I could respond, leaving me alone with the weight of her accuracy.
Support the Story on Patreon
If you are enjoying the series and would like to read ahead, I offer an early access schedule on Patreon. I upload 7 new chapters every 10 days.
Tiers are available that provide a 7, 14, or 21-chapter head start over the public release. Your support helps me maintain this consistent update pace.
Patreon.com/TransmigratingwithWishes