Page 55 of When There Was You
“Settling in alright?” His attentive gaze sends a weird shiver down my spine.
“Yes. All good.”
“If you need anything, my door’s always open.” He winks.
“Um…thank you,” I manage.
He saunters away, and I’m left flustered. A creepy twinge settles under my skin. Was he…? Nah. The boss man was just being friendly. I’m impressed he took the time to stop by and introduce himself. More so that he knew my name. Surely, I’m reading too much into it.
Thirty-One
Iscrub a hand over my face, wishing the ache in my chest would just fucking leave. After four months in this new city, it’s a constant one step forward, two steps back predicament.
Loneliness traps me in its familiar web as my foot taps against the cement floor, eyes hypnotized by my clothes tumbling in the dryer unit. I dislike this windowless room in the bowels of my apartment building. It always reeks of…something unidentifiable. Don’t even get me started on the humidity. Virginia summers mean enduring thick, wet, suffocating heat. Temperatures fluctuate wildly and the oppressive mugginess permeates every nook and cranny that isn’t air conditioned. Like this room.
Moving away from everything and everyone I know wasn’t easy, even if I chose this adventure. It’s the first time I’ve lived alone, and I miss the daily company roommates provided. My studio initially seemed cozy but sometimes closes in on me like a jail cell. I’ve pushed out of my comfort zone by exploring the region some…it just sucks to do activities solo, and my limited funds curtail me further.
There are ironic parallels to my location in Virginia toCalifornia. The San Francisco Bay abuts the Pacific, while here, the Chesapeake Bay abuts the Atlantic. Like at home, within four hours I can be at the beach, mountains, countryside, or a major metropolis—not that I’ve gone that far yet. There’s even reportedly a boardwalk in neighboring Maryland to rival Santa Cruz.
The landscape, architecture, cars, food, and vibes are different, and history is a persistent backdrop. I was barely aware of the Gold Rush while in my native state. Here, I’m steeped in the Civil War as if it occurred yesterday. Battlefields, landmarks, museums, and monuments abound—and Confederate battle flags fly everywhere, including the state capitol. Prior to this, I’d never even seen one—aside from the graphic emblazoned on the roof of the General Lee, the Dodge Charger inThe Dukes of Hazzard.
Hallowed ground, where blood was shed, strategies planned, plantations burned, and lives lost, is profuse. I’m ashamed of how little I remember about this fraught conflict as taught in my history classes. I’ve got miles to learn and explore.
And I need to give Virginia a chance…even if I’m homesick.
My job remains the high point, and I’ve thrown myself into it. Under Tyler’s mentorship, I’m improving, growing, and excelling as a writer. Every assignment challenges me, forcing me to do more, write better, find a unique angle or hook. Magazine life is fast paced, and we’re always months ahead, juggling multiple balls to launch each edition. Thewe’re all in this crazy boat togethercollaboration among our various departments helps. I’ve welcomed the late nights and weekends, voraciously learning aspects of production as I did atSan Francisco Life.
Some of my newer daydreams include starting a magazine myself someday.
I’ve made a handful of friends at work, people to share adrink with during Friday happy hours or to commiserate with over the occasional lunch, including Valerie. But they land firmly in the acquaintance category—not close friendships like the kind I forged back home. I celebrated my birthday alone earlier this week, which only left my thoughts marinating in the dangerous echoes of the past.
The bane of my existence is Tanya. As Greg predicted on day one, she’s proven to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing, her fake charm in place to mask the stench of her true nature. She undermines me constantly, vies for stories awarded to me, and seems intent on stepping on my face to climb over me.
Then, of course, there’s Don, the publisher. He slithers by my office every other week under the guise of checking in, but I don’t miss his obvious perusal of my tits and his not-so-subtle hints about how his door isalways open. Or the gold band gleaming from his ring finger. Can’t forget his insufferable dirty jokes, told with the ease of a practiced sleazeball.
My response sickens me more—defaulting to nervous laughter because I haven’t a clue how to fight sexual harassment, especially from the person in charge. He holds the power to fire me, and not only do I want and need this job, but the thought of being unemployed on a foreign coast fills me with panic.
I live paycheck to paycheck with pathetically little in my savings account. It’s debatable whether he’s crossed any legal lines anyway. He’s a pro scumbag, always skirting the edges, but it’s still wrong. I’ve grown to fucking loathe the dude.
The dryer whines as it slows, shutting down my thoughts. I dump my warm clothes into my plastic laundry basket and haul it to my apartment to fold.
When I hang a blouse in my closet, I pause to study my dresses. I’m going on a date tonight and haven’t decided what to wear. The whispers of resistance murmur. Honestly…I’d rather crawl into bed with a book than go out.
I’m such a bitch. Correction:jadedbitch.
I’m rarely attracted to anyone, not motivated to find a connection, still uncaring about this part of my life. Work is my boyfriend, sans orgasms.
My friends back home keep encouraging me to“get back out there,”so I’m remaining openminded. Or trying to. It’s why I said yes to the guy who works in my office building. We continue crossing paths—in the elevator, at the newsstand out front, in line at the tiny cafe nearby—and after a few weeks of light flirting, Jeff made his move. He’s an engineer, tall with a pleasant face, slim build, and great hair. While he seems perfectly nice, I haven’t experienced spark one.
Maybe dates aren’t about sparks.
Maybe staying walled off means the fireworks have zero chance to spark in the first place.
Not willing to give a relativestranger my address, I meet Jeff at the restaurant he selected in downtown Richmond.
Joe’s Inn sits on a corner cloaked in brick with painted white ironwork and black awnings. Jeff idles on the sidewalk, flashing me a smile as I approach.
He holds open the door and as soon as I walk through, I’m instantly transported to Original Joe’s in San Jose. The scent of Italian spices and sauces wafts around me, drenching me in nostalgia, a sharp pinch of longing on its heels.
