Chapter 2
TWO
I’m pretty sure I have gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It’s not really what I should be thinking about, especially at this very moment, considering my boyfriend of nearly two years is breaking up with me in spectacularly awkward, yet diplomatic fashion. But each time I try to move my foot, the bottom of my shoe sticks to the pavement, and it’s got me convinced I must’ve stepped in gum.
Who does that? What kind of psycho takes gum out of their mouth and just drops it on the ground like a heathen? It’s gross. They couldn’t wait until they found a trash can? There are millions of them in this city.
“Are you listening to me?” Cameron asks with that indignant look on his face that I used to find so cute. When did I stop finding it cute? Was it a year ago when he started making subtle digs about my body? Or was it around the same time I started questioning if I even wanted to pursue the postgrad degree necessary for the career path I’d chosen?
When did I start coasting through my life? I know a lot of people get senioritis, but this level of apathy feels so much worse than what I’ve seen my friends go through.
“Meredith.”
“Sorry. I got distracted.”
He rolls his blue eyes at me. “Of course you did. That’s part of why this isn’t working. I feel like you’ve checked out.”
I have checked out. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but he’s right. I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore, and I suspect I haven’t for a long time.
When I first met Cameron at the end of sophomore year at UCLA, he seemed charming and funny. He was focused on his studies like I was, but also liked to go out and have fun on the weekends. Everyone thought we were a perfect fit. Hell, most of our friends have been asking when we’re going to get engaged. But staring at him now, I feel the same apathy I feel about getting my degree.
I should feel guilt or remorse or something. But I don’t really feel anything.
“I’m sorry,” I say because I have to say something and I’m pretty sure this is what he wants. He wants me to apologize for checking out. He wants me to take responsibility for our relationship falling apart so he can feel confident about ending it.
But why hasn’t he ever asked me why I’ve checked out? For the first time in weeks, a surge of something bubbles through my veins. Instantly, I don’t feel numb or frozen or like I’m just going through the motions. The blood under my skin heats as anger spreads, the faintest pinprick of sensation much like the tickle you feel on your leg before looking down to find a bug crawling on you.
“You know what?” I say, taking over this conversation, because fuck him. He doesn’t get to make me feel bad when he’s been as disconnected from this relationship as I have. “You’re right. This isn’t working. We should break up.”
His eyes widen for a second before he schools his expression. His throat bobs as he swallows and nods, looking down at his empty plate. “I’m glad we could be civil about this.”
Sure he is. He almost looks disappointed. I can’t help wondering if he’s disappointed I didn’t fight him on it, or disappointed he didn’t get to be the one that actually ended it. He’s always loved having the power in our relationship, and for way too long, I didn’t bother to fight him on it.
I think I settled with him because so many of my friends thought he was the right guy for me, but he’s not. This conversation should’ve happened a long time ago.
He sets down enough money to pay the bill. “I’ve got to get going. I wish you the best, Meredith.”
“You too, Cameron,” I respond, not moving from my chair.
He stands up and hesitates before seeming to make up his mind and walking out. I lean back in my chair and let out a heavy breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. After almost two years, I should feel sad, but as tension fades from my shoulders, all I feel is relieved. After not feeling much of anything over the last six months, I’ll take it.
The drive home only reinforces the feeling of relief. The farther away I get from the café, the lighter I feel.
“Dad?” I call out when I get home.
After I graduated a few months ago, I moved back home with my dad. My college roommates were all moving for jobs or getting their own apartments with partners, and it didn’t make sense for me to get my own lease when I didn’t have a job—or any postgrad plans for that matter—lined up.
I got a degree in kinesiology because I’ve wanted to be a physical therapist since I got a knee injury playing soccer in high school and became fascinated with the power of helping others heal. But then, when it was time to apply for grad programs, I froze. I questioned if this was really what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. What if there was something out there that I’d be better at, or that might pay more, or would be more fulfilling? I was filled with what-ifs and self-doubt that became debilitating.
I started going through the motions and sticking with what felt familiar because it was safe, and compared to the scary unknown of my life after college, safe seemed pretty good.
But now I’m wondering if maybe it’s time to figure out what’s next, as scary as that is.
I could take a gap year, try doing something else for work in the meantime, and figure out if I can find the love and passion for physical therapy that I had before.I’m basically doing that anyway, except for the finding a job part.
Bolstered by the thought of finally having a plan, I head into the kitchen on the hunt for my dad.
“Dad!” I shout.
Still no response, which means only one thing. If he’s not in the kitchen, he’s usually in the garage. I head out the back door and down the stone walkway my dad put in when I was fourteen. The garage door is cracked open, and inside I hear a muttered curse and the clanking of tools. Biting back a laugh, a smile pulls at my lips for the first time all day. Pushing the door open all the way, I find my dad bent over the front of an old convertible he’s been “restoring” for at least a decade, if not longer. He’s always been a tinkerer, and cars are his passion, with food a close second.
I have to dodge some car parts before I finally reach him, and then rest my elbows on the side as I duck my head under the hood to see what he’s looking at.
“Hey, Princess, how’s Cameron?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the bolt he’s trying to tighten.
“We broke up.”
He pauses, his whole body freezing slightly before he glances at me. Before he can ask, I reassure him. “I’m okay, Dad. That relationship ran its course anyway.”
He stares at me for a beat longer, assessing if I’m telling the truth. When he’s sure I am, he resumes his work. “I never liked him anyway.”
I smile, even as my heart twinges a bit. “Sure, Dad.”
“I mean it. He was always so focused on himself and his own successes.”
He was, but at the beginning I liked that about him. His drive was attractive to me.
Changing the subject, I ask, “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking fajitas.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I push away from the car and head back inside to start cooking. As I stand in the kitchen I grew up in, I get a familiar, small pang in my chest. It’s moments like this—days like this—when I wish my mom was still alive. Would she have been glad I broke up with Cameron? Would she have tried to talk me out of dating him in the first place?
I love my dad. He’s my best friend and always has been because it was always just the two of us. But he wasn’t great with heavy emotion, and I wonder how different I’d be if I’d had a mom growing up. If my own hadn’t died due to complications in childbirth, or even if my dad had been able to move on and find someone else to fill that role for me. Would I feel as lost as I do now?
I push that thought aside and get to work making dinner because I can’t change the past, but I can make sure my dad eats. Whenever he’s tinkering, he gets so focused, he could spend a whole day out there and not realize he’s starving until he’s shaking and about to pass out.
While I prep the ingredients, I think about what jobs I could do over the next year until I figure out my long-term plans. Most of my experience in high school was babysitting. In college, I worked in a café, but I’d rather not do customer service again. As I’m getting the peppers in the skillet, I remember my friend Amanda took an au pair job in France. She argued she was using her French minor so it was worthwhile. The idea of going abroad doesn’t hold a lot of appeal. I stayed in state for college because I like being close to my dad. I’m all he has and want to make sure I can still see him regularly no matter what job I choose. But I think she used an agency, and maybe that’ll be the fastest way to get my foot in the door for a steady job.
As the peppers cook, I send a quick DM to Amanda on social media.
Hey, hope you’re enjoying France! Question, did you say you worked with an agency to get your job?
I don’t expect her to respond right away, but then my phone vibrates with a message from her.
Amanda
Bonjour! Ya, I worked with Lacey Wilde at the Wilde Child Care Agency.
Do they only find au pairs? I’m looking for a nanny job, but would still like to stay in LA.
Amanda
Def reach out. I’ll email her and let her know I referred you. They work with elite clients in the LA area and internationally, so I bet they could find you a nanny job in a heartbeat.
We chat back and forth a little longer about her experience with her family in Paris and my recent breakup with Cameron while I finish cooking. But once the food is done and I holler out to my dad, I grab my laptop and get to work researching nanny gigs and emailing Lacey Wilde.
For the first time in months, excitement courses through my veins. I have a goal in mind and a potential job opportunity that I’ll actually enjoy while I sort myself out.
It’s amazing how much can change in a day.