Page 57 of When There Was You
Zero sparks.
Zero attraction.
Zero interest in doing this again.
Thirty-Two
I’m awake early, depression coating me as I contemplate another failed date—and another empty day stretching before me. It’s as if I’m barely tethered to the earth. Like an astronaut, floating without gravity, trapped in a little spaceship miles away from civilization. I wonder if “companionless” is my destiny. And if so, I need to figure out how to become better company. Learn how to fly soloandhappy.
Throughout my life, I’ve looked to others to fill this gaping hole that lives and breathes inside of me. My parents. Friends. Boyfriends. Perhaps that’s faulty thinking andI’msupposed to fill this goddamned cavern.
A memory flashes—the promise I made to myself as I drove across the country. About taking control of my next chapter, the one starringme. The one where I don’t need anyone to fucking complete me or my story, damn it.
Flipping off the covers, I fetch my road atlas and lay it on the dining table. I’m going to the beach today, something I’ve failed to do so far. Despite longing for the soothing presence of surf and sand, it potentially invites an avalanche of hurt and pain that sticks to me like Super Glue. I don’t know whatI’m in for because I don’t know what’s inseparable from Mick Callahan and all our memories surfside.
I don’t care.I’m not letting that shit stand in my way. I’m at a crossroads, and nobody can press the gas but me.
Using the mile measurement bar on the map, it appears Virginia Beach is about 120 miles away, and that cheers me instantly. I write out the directions, eat a quick breakfast, throw on my bikini, and pack my tote.
Little traffic peppers the road on this quiet Sunday morning, making for pleasant, easy driving that allows me to absorb the landscape. I make mental reminders to plan outings to recognizable cities I pass: Williamsburg, Newport News, Norfolk.
Just over two hours later, I arrive. When I glimpse the ocean from my car, my heart fills with a familiar ache. A public lot comes into view, and I park and grab my things. Walking turns to jogging as anticipation courses through my veins.
And then I’m there.
I gaze at the deep blue before me, and my eyes prick with happy tears. Even though I’m staring at a different ocean, my soul understands where we are. The beach is my solace, my port in a storm, embedded in me at the atomic level. I physically experience my cells opening to this gift and reenergizing me. It’s like surfacing after holding your breath underwater too long—and inhaling fresh air by the lungful.
I drop my bag, kick off my shoes and jeans, and wade into the Atlantic.
The early September sun kisses my skin, waves lap at my shins, and the sandy bottom shifts beneath my toes.
The whitecaps and breaks aren’t as mighty as the Pacific, and jagged cliffs, evergreens, and familiar vegetation are conspicuously absent.A goddamn blessing.
Instead of pain, the crashing surf, salt air, stretch of sand,and expanse of ocean from here to the horizon cradle me in comfort.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I murmur, swiping at the trickles down my cheeks, my heart filled to the brim.
This.This is what I needed.
Thirty-Three
I’m at the office early on Monday prepping for our weekly meeting and still riding yesterday’s beach high. I’m crackling with vitality and eager for new assignments. I open my note pad, pen at the ready, and sip my fresh coffee.
Tyler breezes into the room last in his stylish clothes, hip loafers, and impeccably styled hair. “We’ve got a big agenda this morning, so I hope no one’s hungover,” he says with his signature snark. “Status updates. Starting with you, Greg.”
We go around the table, each reporting on our current articles, with Tyler troubleshooting any issues.
“Next, we’ve got a special edition in the works for the new year. You’ve got exactly two weeks to pitch me your ideas. I’m looking forfresh, people, not the tired shit everyone prints. Donotcome to me with resolutions, fad diets, or psychobabbly self-help BS, or it will be instant termination.”
Is he joking? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
“We haven’t settled on a theme either, so even though we’re just one section of the magazine, think bigger…bolder…for the entire issue. Fourteen days. Got it?”
Heads bob, and I my brain takes off in asprint.
“Now, onto new assignments,” he announces, corralling my attention back to the meeting.
Tyler addresses me third—above Tanya—which is a first. He doles out the choice stories up front, so it means I’ve inched further up the list in a short time. There aren’t a lot ofattagirlsgiven around here, so I’m glowing at his display of confidence.
