Something Forever

1. Whitney

1

WHITNEY

N othing good has ever come from a rash decision.

This is my mantra.

Structure, stability, and reliability. The simple tenants by which I live my life. So far, they have not let me down. I have never come to a conclusion without crafting a highly detailed and aesthetically pleasing pros and cons list. A pros and cons list is infallible, and it is the only way to be sure that every choice I make is the right one — that I’m not leading my life down the wrong path simply by making a spur-of-the-moment decision. I always consider every possible outcome before acting, which is why the words that just came out of my mouth are a shock to me more than anyone.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Dan, my boss, asks, his graying hair slicked back in a greasy man-bun.

“I quit,” I repeat, an out-of-body sensation seeming to take hold of me. “I quit,” I say a third time, just because it feels so damn good.

Dan stutters, furrowing his brow. “You can’t quit!”

“I just did,” I grin, another laugh escaping me.

“But… why?”

There are many reasons I could give Dan for my departure. The not-so-subtle misogyny that I’ve dealt with as the office manager at the world’s dumbest tech start-up being high up on the list. Last week, Jeff — a serial sexual harasser and absolute menace — left a sticky note left on my computer with a crude drawing of a stick figure woman being bent over a desk. Also, no matter how many times I’ve reminded him that my name is Whitney, he still calls me Brittney. I’m 99% certain he does it on purpose to make me feel small.

Secondary to the inhospitable environment might be that BeanLife is everything that is wrong with the world, and I’ve been pushing pencils for their ridiculous agenda for the past three years. It’s an app to find the nearest coffee shop, like people don’t have the internet. Why would they need an app to tell them there’s a Starbucks around the corner? More importantly, why have I wasted so much of my life here?

I know why: the salary, benefits, and reliable routine that it has allowed me. Still, all the bright-siding in the world isn’t enough to make up for the fact that I am not meant to answer emails all day long.

“It’s just time,” I reply diplomatically to Dan. “I’m ready to move on to something else.”

“Oh, come on,” Dan scoffs. “Don’t feed me some line. Why are you really leaving?”

I should just leave it, but I’m already deep in my throwing-caution-to-the-wind moment, so I shrug and give Dan the truth: “Honestly? This workplace is toxic, the kitchen always smells like fish, I’m one of two women on the entire floor, and I couldn’t give less of a fuck about our mission. If someone wants a cup of coffee, it’s easy to find one. They don’t need a stupid app made by a bunch of frat bros to tell them where they can get a cold brew. It’s a bad idea, and the world doesn’t need it.”

With that, I walk out of Dan’s office. I pass by the desks of people staring at me, slack-jawed. Clearly my outburst wasn’t very quiet, but I don’t care.

I’m free.

It doesn’t take me long to pack up everything at my cubicle, but I do steal a box of tissues as a final petty gesture.

Sharon, the aforementioned other woman in the office, stares at me from across the office, as shocked as the rest of the staff must be, but her surprise morphs into an expression that almost looks like… satisfaction?

“Good for you, Whitney,” she says in a motherly tone.

“Thanks, Shar,” I say with a smile. “Good luck.”

Tucking my box under my arm, I strut down the hallway, hoping I can steal a bit of that luck for myself.

By the time my adrenaline subsides, I’m stumbling up the stairs to my apartment, clutching my box of belongings to my chest. Now that the rush has faded, I’m left with the painful reality that I am unemployed with no real plan. It took me three weeks to decide on a dress to wear to my college reunion, two of which were spent scouring the product review sections of multiple websites. I don’t normally surprise myself, so I have no idea what makes this day different than every day before it. It just felt… right. It was like my feet carried me into Dan’s office, like some alien had inhabited my body for those brief minutes in which I changed my life forever.

Now, the worry is settling in, my chest is tight, and my stomach feels twisted up in knots.

Trying to shake off my growing anxiety, I push the door to my apartment open to find my roommate, Olivia, standing in the living room with two suitcases and a guitar case, looking like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Uh, hey?” I greet her, dropping my box onto the floor near the entrance.

Her face scrunches into a guilty frown. “I’m so, so sorry, Whitney. I was gonna text you, and I really hate to leave so quickly, but listen — I found a subletter, and he’ll be here in a couple of days.”

Her words are swirling around in my head, but nothing is really computing. Maybe I’m still running on the adrenaline from my first ever impulsive decision.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It all happened so suddenly, and I just couldn’t turn down the opportunity.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.

“I got an offer to open for Young the Giant on their US tour, and we leave tomorrow.”

“Oh, wow. Wait, so you’re… moving out?”

Olivia has been my roommate for a little over a year, but we aren’t friends. We coexist, but we don’t really know each other. I know she’s been trying to make it as musician and works as a waitress somewhere in the Lower East Side, but other than that, I don’t know much about her. She spends a lot of time out of the apartment, so I rarely see her.

“Yeah, I am. Sorry again. I meant to talk to you about it, but it’s been a crazy twenty-four hours. My friend is coming for my boxes tomorrow, and the subletter will be in sometime next week.”

My mouth is opening and closing like a fish.

Boxes. Her stuff is in boxes. Because she’s moving out.

“Oh-kay?” I manage.

“I’ll text you everything you need to know about the sublet. He’s got the key already. Thank you so much for everything.”

Olivia brings me in for a hug that I think I reciprocate, but my limbs are sort of moving of their own accord. She brushes past me, yanking her suitcases behind her, and clamors through the front door without looking back. Just like that, she’s gone.

Wow.

I know she said it was just the tour, but part of me feels hurt that my roommate is leaving me behind. That she didn’t care enough about our sort-of-friendship to give me an advance notice. That she chose today, of all days, to announce her swift departure. Okay, so maybe she had no way of knowing that today was going to blow up in my face, but now I’ve not only quit my job, but I’m completely alone.

My mind reels, snagging on a detail that Olivia mentioned.

“I’ll text you everything you need to know about the sublet. He’s got a key already.”

He’s got a key?

My new roommate is a guy?

A guy living here? In my apartment? Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. I haven’t lived with a man since my ex, Christopher, and I certainly never planned to again until I got married, which is many years off. Decades, even. Boys are irresponsible! Boys are messy! Boys are gross! It was bad enough having to deal with those assholes at my job, but what if my roommate is some creep? How can I even trust living in the same apartment as some strange guy I’ve literally never met? He could be a murderer. He could be a mansplainer. He could be the type of person that claps when planes land and knows how NFTs work.

Okay, so maybe I’m being childish, but the point is my apartment is my happy place. My sacred place. My lavender scented, perfectly decorated haven. Fall is just around the corner, and I plan on turning this place into a veritable Pinterest board of autumnal cheer. If a man moves in here, it’s going to screw everything up. He’ll leave his sweaty man-things everywhere and just… ugh!

I groan into the empty room and take a gulp of my coffee, praying it’ll wake me up from this nightmare scenario I’ve entered.

It doesn’t.

This cannot be happening.

Freaking out, I grab my phone and send a text to Olivia.

Whitney: Sorry, did you say the subletter you found was a guy?

Her response comes in quickly.

Olivia: Yes, his name is Liam. He’s the best!

Suppressing a growl, I reply immediately.

Whitney: I really don’t want some random ass guy living in my apartment.

Olivia: I promise, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides, he works nights like I did, so you’ll never see him.

I scowl down at my phone. Am I really going to get into this fight with her over text? Whatever. I’ll just have to wait for this Liam guy to show up and inform him that the room is no longer available. Rolling my eyes, I send a text to my best friend, Abbi, to relay my two shocking tidbits of news.

Whitney: I quit my job and Olivia is moving out.

Her response comes through immediately, two texts in quick succession.

Abbi: OMG WHAT!!

Abbi: Drinks at Rocka Rolla at 7? Tell me everything.

I reply, letting her know I’ll meet her at our favorite local bar. It’s a divey spot that serves frozen margaritas in giant goblets. We like to sit in their backyard and make bets on who can finish their drink the fastest.

I imagine that tonight I’ll come out victorious.

Abbi’s been my best friend since I moved to the city. She’s more like my mom than me — a total free spirit. Where my mom prefers crystals and Coronas, though, Abbi is more of a CrossFit and cosmos kind of girl. Still, I guess I am drawn to my opposite, or maybe I was subconsciously looking to fill that mom-sized hole in my life when I met Abbi a few months after finishing school and moving to Brooklyn.

I’m about to start wallowing in self-pity — or maybe I should just start drinking? — when I see my phone buzzing with an unknown number. Usually, I’d ignore it, but something tugs at my chest. Maybe it’s because of the shit show today has been, but I have the urge to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Whitney Rhodes?”

I pause, wary. This day has already been a complete mess, so it’s not like it can get any worse. “Yes, this is she.”

On the other line, I can hear papers shuffling. “Ms. Rhodes, I’m so glad I reached you. It’s been a nightmare trying to contact all the next of kin.”

“Sorry, who is this?”

“I’m your grandmother’s attorney, Trent Wilson. I’ve been tasked with her last will and testament.”

“My grandmother?”

“Agnes Rhodes.”

My mind is spinning. My mom is the only family I have. The only family I’ve ever known. Whenever my mom would talk about her parents, which was rare, it was always in the past tense. I guess I assumed they were dead. I never really thought about it. I accepted a long time ago that it was just me and my mom.

“Your inclusion in the will is somewhat extensive. There’s a letter to you, as well as your portion of the inheritance, though there’s a complication with that as well. She was a very… eccentric woman.”

I open and close my mouth, trying to form a response, but nothing comes out.

“Are you able to come to New Haven?”

“What?” I manage.

“If not, I can send everything over, but these things are easier in-person.”

“I’m in the city. Will the rest of my… family be there?”

“You’re the first person I’ve managed to get in touch with. Her daughter Caroline — your mother, rather — seems to be completely off the grid. It’s really just the two of you and a few of your grandmother’s friends in the area. Your grandfather, Joseph, passed a few years back.”

My mind is reeling, trying to process the information I am receiving. I had two grandparents. Living grandparents that I never got to know, and now it’s too late. Meanwhile, my mom is nowhere to be found as usual. In the wind.

“I’ll call my mom. I don’t know if her number is the same, but she usually checks in with me every few months, and it’s been a while, so I’m sure I’ll hear from her soon.”

“If you do speak with her, please tell her to call me.”

“Can you just… email me everything? To be honest with you, I didn’t even know I had a grandmother until the start of this conversation. I just quit my job, my roommate is moving out, and I am, like, completely freaking out right now.”

“I understand,” Trent says, his tone sympathetic. “I apologize for springing all this on you. I can certainly email you the relevant documents and information, but… well, as I mentioned, your grandmother was quite eccentric and had her own way of viewing things. I had no idea you were estranged, and to be honest, I’m quite surprised.”

“Why?”

“Well, your inheritance is… significant.”

“Significant?” I say, squinting. “How much?”

“One million dollars.”

My jaw hits the floor. “Did you… ” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Did you just say a million dollars?”

“That’s correct.”

My breathing increases, black spots starting to appear in the corner of my vision. “Is this some kind of prank? Is Abbi behind this?”

“I assure you, Ms. Rhodes, this is no prank.”

“What… how… I don’t understand.”

“There’s also the slight issue of the amendment clause to the inheritance.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean, amendment clause?”

“Well, it’s stipulated that the inheritance be paid out in three parts,” the attorney says plainly, “the first upon your marriage.”

A burst of laughter escapes from me. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘marriage’?”

Trent pauses on the other line. “I did. In order to receive the first part of the inheritance, you must be married. The second and third are paid upon the subsequent years of marriage.”

My brain just… breaks. There are no thoughts inside of it. No words on my tongue. Zero.

“Ms. Rhodes? Are you still there?”

“Sorry. Um, yes, I’m here,” I say, dragged back to earth. “So, not only do I have a grandmother I knew nothing about, but she’s also left me a million dollars, but only if I’m married, and only if I stay married for… ”

“Three years at least.”

Brain. Cannot. Compute.

Trent sucks in a breath. “I’ll just… email you the details. You give me a call back if you have any questions. I’ll be available.”

Words. Where are words?

“Nice speaking to you, and I am very sorry for your loss. Goodbye, Ms. Rhodes.”

Trent hangs up, and I set the phone down on the counter.

I can’t believe this. Agnes Rhodes. I’ve never once heard that name before. Eighteen years of raising me, and my mom never mentioned her own mother. How is that even possible?

My blood boiling, I try to take in a few deep breaths to calm my panic. My first thought is that my grandparents must have done something terrible for my mom to remove them from our lives completely. After all, she wouldn’t have cast them aside for no reason. But another thought crystallizes and hardens inside me, remembering the nights we scraped together the last of her tips from the diner to buy frozen pizzas. How I’d hustle the drunks at the local bar into thinking I couldn’t play pool and smirk at their shocked glares as they reluctantly handed over twenty-dollar bills. I’d run home with my winnings in my pockets, and we’d use the money to fill the gas tank so we could make it to a new town and do it all over again. Days and nights on the wide open road. Untethered, clinging to each other, parent and child merged into one.

We had nothing.

There were times I didn’t understand it, our nomadic existence. Whenever we’d settle somewhere, I’d be the new girl at school, struggling to make friends. It was as if my peers could tell I didn’t belong in their world of pleated skirts and study dates. Just as I’d start to finally feel like maybe I could fit in, we’d be on the road again, headed somewhere new. I’d beg my mother to tell me why we had to go — why we couldn’t stay in any of the places we’d been to.

“We’re not meant for there, peanut. How much better is this? Just the two of us, completely free.”

I didn’t feel free. I felt lost. By the time I turned sixteen, I was as different from my mother as I could possibly be. I wrinkled my nose at her cigarettes and beers that I used to think were cool. She’d remind me of my scheming days at those dive bars, and I’d curl my lip in anger, frustrated that she’d roped me into her lifestyle from day one. I wanted nothing more than to settle down somewhere, to have a normal teenage life. Instead, I floated, belonging nowhere, finding nobody. I was desperate to go to college, despite my mother telling me over and over that I didn’t need that to have a good life.

Resentment churns in my gut at how things might have been different. That whole time, I had two grandparents living in New Haven, probably in a classic New England style mansion; while we’d been scraping pennies together at a rest stop in the middle of Iowa, they’d been scraping their silverware against their finest china.

I know I should call my mom, but I can’t. I’m too angry and shaken right now. I’ll end up saying something I regret. I’ll probably announce that I’m unemployed, and she’ll try to convince me to go on some wild adventure with her. She’s the only family I’ve ever had, but sometimes I just don’t understand her. I think we’re just too different. Maybe if I were more carefree, more like her, it would have worked, but I’m just not. I’m particular and anxious and I like my comforts. The life that I’m building for myself is the type of life that I always wanted — stable, ordered, and 100% mine.

Well, the life that I was building before I blew it up over the course of a single day.

How am I standing in the same place I was before this call? The apartment looks different, feels different, somehow. Heavier. Emptier.

Gasping for another deep breath, I feel the familiar prickling on the backs of my eyelids, a pressure building in my nose and chest.

Great, now I’m going to cry.

I should have trusted my mantra.

Nothing good has ever come from a rash decision.