Unforgettable
Page 12
“And never mind you,” Lexi sniffles, tearing up. “What am I going to do, dealing with all these assholes without you?”
“You’ll kick their asses, as usual,” I reassure her. I pull back, trying not to get choked up myself. I hoist my box, and take a final look around before leaving the cubicle.
“So what then?” Lexi trails me towards the exit. “Where are you going to go next?”
I take a deep breath. The idea has been building, ever since I told Harper where to shove it.
No, before that, even. Ever since Albus broke the news to me, back on the sunlit Main Street, with the ocean glinting blue in the distance and the scent of sunscreen and honeysuckle in the air.
“I’m going to Beachwood Bay.”
6.
I head back to my apartment and spend the rest of the night in a whirlwind of manic activity, packing up my personal effects and cleaning like crazy. I go onto the college alumni message-board and offer a sublet for the summer; within the hour, a nice girl writes back, needing a place to stay during her law internship at a firm downtown. I give her my parents’ details and promise they’ll let her in next week, then drop my keys in the mailbox, load up the car, and hit the road.
It’s crazy, I know, I’m not giving myself a moment to think about what I’ve just done. But that’s the point. If I pause, even for a second, the full weight of my actions will come crashing down on me. I can just imagine if I’m still in the city when that happens: my parents crowding around, the reality of rent and bills looming, and waking up tomorrow morning knowing I’ve made a huge mistake and there’s no taking it back.
No, not a mistake, I correct myself as I hit the freeway at 2:00 a.m.
A change.
I turn the radio loud to drown out the rest of my doubts and focus on the relief I feel instead. No more late nights in the office, eating limp salads at my desk at nine o’clock at night. No more asshole clients, or office politics. And no more Harper and his flying spittle of rage.
As the miles fly by, I feel the tight knot in my stomach slowly unravel; the weight lift from my shoulders, and a new sense of freedom take its place instead. By the time I make it in to Beachwood Bay and turn up that winding coastal road, the morning sun is bright in a cloudless blue sky.
I pull up in the cottage driveway, and take a deep lungful of crisp ocean air.
The house is just as I left it: the white shutters framing the faded blue clapboard planks; the overgrown front yard, and the namesake roses twisting wild up over the porch.
The last of my doubts melt away, and I feel a sense of calm wash over me.
Yes.
I’m so tired, it’s all I can do to grab my bags and unlock with the keys Albus sent me. I stumble through to the back studio, tumble face first onto the bed, and fall fast asleep.
*
The sound of my cellphone wakes me, insistent. I groan, reaching blindly for the bedside table, but my hand hits something soft and fringed instead. It teeters under my grip, then crashes to the floor with a smash.
I drag myself upright, squinting in the bright sunlight. Then it hits me. My bedside table isn’t there, because I’m not in my city apartment. I’m in Nana’s old studio, at the B&B.
Where I live now.
I jolt awake, checking for the time. It’s afternoon now, and down on the beach, I can see families and people playing in the bright summer sun. I must have slept all day.
My cellphone is still ringing. I dig it out of my bag and check the caller ID.
Mom.
I wince, and set it to voicemail. I go take a quick shower in the bathroom, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel and play the message.
“Hi sweetheart, I just wanted to check, did you leave your sweater here the other night? I have a blue one here, and I can’t for the life of me remember if it’s mine. Talk soon!”
Beep.
I pause. I was braced for lectures and disappointment, but it sounds as if she hasn’t heard yet. I figured legal gossip would get back to my dad, but maybe I was worrying too much. After all, I’m small-fry. An associate meltdown probably happens every other week at the big firms—nothing to put it on the radar of anyone my dad knows, at least.
My hopes rise. I’m going to need some time to figure this out before facing my family’s inquisition. Even a few days could let me come up with some answers for what on earth I’m doing here, and why. I’ve seen what they’re like when they turn the full force of their debate skills on an unsuspecting subject. My older sister, Olivia, considered becoming a family physician for a hot minute—before my parents started talking about goals, and ambition, and realizing her potential. Before the week was up, she was signed up for a surgical residency, and never looked back.
I’ve buckled under the weight of their expectations before, but this time, I need to stand firm. I’ve spent too long trying to make them happy—and crushing my own dreams in the process. Here, right now, this is for me, and it may seem like a crazy, impulsive mistake, but for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I dress in my summer uniform of cut-offs and a tank top, then lace up my sneakers and head into the main house. Last time I was here, Kayla gave me a quick tour, but I didn’t really take it in. Now, I take my time, checking each room in turn and every closet and bathroom, too.
There are six guest suites in total, all decorated in Nana’s trademark old-fashioned style. The main sitting room and dining room areas are packed with antique-looking furniture, and in the back, I find a sunny little office nook with some file cabinets and a stack of ledgers.
“You’ll kick their asses, as usual,” I reassure her. I pull back, trying not to get choked up myself. I hoist my box, and take a final look around before leaving the cubicle.
“So what then?” Lexi trails me towards the exit. “Where are you going to go next?”
I take a deep breath. The idea has been building, ever since I told Harper where to shove it.
No, before that, even. Ever since Albus broke the news to me, back on the sunlit Main Street, with the ocean glinting blue in the distance and the scent of sunscreen and honeysuckle in the air.
“I’m going to Beachwood Bay.”
6.
I head back to my apartment and spend the rest of the night in a whirlwind of manic activity, packing up my personal effects and cleaning like crazy. I go onto the college alumni message-board and offer a sublet for the summer; within the hour, a nice girl writes back, needing a place to stay during her law internship at a firm downtown. I give her my parents’ details and promise they’ll let her in next week, then drop my keys in the mailbox, load up the car, and hit the road.
It’s crazy, I know, I’m not giving myself a moment to think about what I’ve just done. But that’s the point. If I pause, even for a second, the full weight of my actions will come crashing down on me. I can just imagine if I’m still in the city when that happens: my parents crowding around, the reality of rent and bills looming, and waking up tomorrow morning knowing I’ve made a huge mistake and there’s no taking it back.
No, not a mistake, I correct myself as I hit the freeway at 2:00 a.m.
A change.
I turn the radio loud to drown out the rest of my doubts and focus on the relief I feel instead. No more late nights in the office, eating limp salads at my desk at nine o’clock at night. No more asshole clients, or office politics. And no more Harper and his flying spittle of rage.
As the miles fly by, I feel the tight knot in my stomach slowly unravel; the weight lift from my shoulders, and a new sense of freedom take its place instead. By the time I make it in to Beachwood Bay and turn up that winding coastal road, the morning sun is bright in a cloudless blue sky.
I pull up in the cottage driveway, and take a deep lungful of crisp ocean air.
The house is just as I left it: the white shutters framing the faded blue clapboard planks; the overgrown front yard, and the namesake roses twisting wild up over the porch.
The last of my doubts melt away, and I feel a sense of calm wash over me.
Yes.
I’m so tired, it’s all I can do to grab my bags and unlock with the keys Albus sent me. I stumble through to the back studio, tumble face first onto the bed, and fall fast asleep.
*
The sound of my cellphone wakes me, insistent. I groan, reaching blindly for the bedside table, but my hand hits something soft and fringed instead. It teeters under my grip, then crashes to the floor with a smash.
I drag myself upright, squinting in the bright sunlight. Then it hits me. My bedside table isn’t there, because I’m not in my city apartment. I’m in Nana’s old studio, at the B&B.
Where I live now.
I jolt awake, checking for the time. It’s afternoon now, and down on the beach, I can see families and people playing in the bright summer sun. I must have slept all day.
My cellphone is still ringing. I dig it out of my bag and check the caller ID.
Mom.
I wince, and set it to voicemail. I go take a quick shower in the bathroom, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel and play the message.
“Hi sweetheart, I just wanted to check, did you leave your sweater here the other night? I have a blue one here, and I can’t for the life of me remember if it’s mine. Talk soon!”
Beep.
I pause. I was braced for lectures and disappointment, but it sounds as if she hasn’t heard yet. I figured legal gossip would get back to my dad, but maybe I was worrying too much. After all, I’m small-fry. An associate meltdown probably happens every other week at the big firms—nothing to put it on the radar of anyone my dad knows, at least.
My hopes rise. I’m going to need some time to figure this out before facing my family’s inquisition. Even a few days could let me come up with some answers for what on earth I’m doing here, and why. I’ve seen what they’re like when they turn the full force of their debate skills on an unsuspecting subject. My older sister, Olivia, considered becoming a family physician for a hot minute—before my parents started talking about goals, and ambition, and realizing her potential. Before the week was up, she was signed up for a surgical residency, and never looked back.
I’ve buckled under the weight of their expectations before, but this time, I need to stand firm. I’ve spent too long trying to make them happy—and crushing my own dreams in the process. Here, right now, this is for me, and it may seem like a crazy, impulsive mistake, but for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I dress in my summer uniform of cut-offs and a tank top, then lace up my sneakers and head into the main house. Last time I was here, Kayla gave me a quick tour, but I didn’t really take it in. Now, I take my time, checking each room in turn and every closet and bathroom, too.
There are six guest suites in total, all decorated in Nana’s trademark old-fashioned style. The main sitting room and dining room areas are packed with antique-looking furniture, and in the back, I find a sunny little office nook with some file cabinets and a stack of ledgers.
