25. Paige
25
Paige
S amantha is one hell of a woman.
She’s been verbally writing me her memoir, which undoubtedly would make all of the bestsellers lists as well as rights to its own TV series. We’re at the part of the story where her father sold their childhood dog to the circus so he could buy a drum set.
She was eight.
We still have twenty years to go, and I’m already three drinks, an eggplant tahini spread with flatbread, and a campfire doughnut in.
I’ll be ancient by the time we finish. Cleo will think I’m dead and not returning. The two bowls of cat food, one small plate of wet food, and three water bowls I left for her will only last tonight.
After catching a ride downtown and walking around for a bit, we settled on this place, an underground restaurant with Noir vibes. Dark lighting sets the mood while jewel tones of rubies, greens, and golds splash across wallpaper, furniture, and accent decor. All of it was so unsuspecting since it’s below street level.
I finish off my dessert and push the plate away, debating on whether to order more food while I listen. Samantha has other plans, though, since she turns the conversation to me.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks, sipping her fruity cocktail with extra maraschino cherries bobbing around in it.
I freeze up, not expecting this question to be turned on me so soon, if at all. We’ve already talked at length about her ex, who I also discovered procures feet pics on the side and sells them. I naturally had a lot of questions about this.
She’s staring at me with her full attention now; chin propped on her clasped hands with elbows digging into the glass table top.
It’s suddenly so hot down here. “I don’t have an official boyfriend.”
Look at me being a grown-up.
“Are you sleeping with him?” she asks bluntly.
I tilt my head, thinking of the half-nude photo I sent of myself earlier. Rhodes said he really liked it, but his text message made it seem like something was on fire. Like maybe I shouldn’t have done it. Let’s just hope it was his pants that were burning and not his mind. Rhodes, with a nagging thought, is no good.
“Not exactly.”
Samantha’s brows pinch together. “I don’t think I’m tracking.”
“He’s my not yet .”
This doesn’t seem to ease the wrinkles between her brows.
I’m not one to undershare, so I immediately launch into another full explanation, ending with: “There’s no way I can tell Amber about the photo because nude , and I’m starting to think I crossed a line by doing that. I came on this trip to figure myself out, spend time on my own being independent, and finding out what I want to do about a career. But now I’m starting to think that was a tall order. How am I supposed to fit that all into weeks when it could take a lifetime?” I take a breath. “I really like him, and I don’t want to wait too long or too little.”
“You’re overthinking this,” Samantha says. “Sounds to me like you just need to get laid.”
My mouth gapes, and I peer around the small room to see if anyone might have heard this. “I can’t sleep with a random person I don’t know. That’s…reckless.”
“I didn’t say random,” she clarifies. “I’m sure Mr. Not Yet would love to finish what you started with that picture you sent him.”
That’s the problem.
I want that.
I want it so badly, I’m afraid of just how much. Seeing his sweet face morph into something darker, something more unruly, like a feral cat in heat. Opening the door a crack has me so curious what the room inside looks like.
“There’s just so much pressure to do this right for our sakes. I don’t want him to be just another guy I date and dump. I want it to last, but I need to dial in what else I really want. Rhodes has his life figured out. A good career, a level head, and a tool set he knows how to use.”
She holds a hand out. “Okay, wow. Breathe.”
I take another deep breath, doing as she says. “It’s a lot, I know.”
“It is, but it isn’t as complicated as you’re making it out to be.” Her dark curls bounce as she says this.
This wouldn’t be the first time I'd done this.
“Do you think I have all my shit figured out? I’m in the middle of a love triangle—”
“Wait, you are?” I don’t remember her telling me this.
She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah, a couple of guys at the hot springs had it out for me, but I told them both it was a strong maybe.”
I’m sure my mouth is open.
“Anyway, I think there’s this myth that truly decent humans who are trying to change themselves don’t deserve good things. Life isn’t an obstacle course with a direct path to the finish line.” She picks up her drink with a flashing ice cube and two straws. “It’s more like a maze. Sometimes you start out on the right path and end up getting it wrong. But you don’t just quit. You try a different direction.”
Holy shit, this is making so much sense.
How does she know how to do this? Asking questions like this causes me to think. My head is spinning at how much sense it all makes and how much pressure I’ve put on myself…how much The Itch has affected my life. When in reality, I just needed to take a step. Traveling across states was a big one, but that’s kind of my style.
“This man clearly loves you from all that you said. He’s your good thing. So, do you love him?”
I swallow, but the truth lodges in my throat. “I…don’t know.”
Her expression softens, not out of pity but understanding. “Have you let yourself love him? Because it sounds like you’re hung up on a journey that doesn’t end until you—” She draws a line across her throat with her finger.
I study the table, every nick and crevice of the wood beneath the smooth glass top with my fingerprints blurring it. “I don’t think I have.”
She leans closer over the table. “It sounds like this is an age-old case of seeing yourself as unworthy of his love, so you don’t even let yourself consider it.”
My mouth falls open yet again, and I stare directly at her, but she appears to be swaying. Granted, my head is already a little swirly from the drinks. “Holy shit, Samantha. You’re like a therapist.”
She smiles broadly. “I’ve seen enough of them.”
We both laugh until we’ve garnered the attention of the waitress again, and she refills our drinks once more, saying they’re on the house since she finds out it’s my birthday tomorrow. I can’t stop laughing when Samantha borrows my glasses, propping them on the tip of her nose while she pretends to write notes in my pretend chart. And I keep laughing while drunkenly stumbling back up the stairs to street level again because apparently four cocktails at twenty-nine mean the same at thirty: drunk off my ass.
But on the ride back to the campground where Samantha continued her charade as a shrink for our driver, and maybe Rhodes since I think we called him, I had a thought. A thought that plagued me when I was fumbling into my van—which I realized the next morning was actually Samantha’s trailer—that maybe I just need to let myself love Rhodes. Maybe I need to stop thinking I have to be someone or do something to feel deserving of his love. True love. Not a fling or a good time. But for always.
The thought is big and weighty as it dances across my thoughts, but it’s hard to grab hold of. I blame it on cocktail number three.
With my cheek plastered to the high-end linoleum floor in Samantha’s rig and the under-cabinet lighting that burns my retinas when my eyes are open, I think of only one thing. It’s another journal entry I hope I remember enough to write tomorrow.
I see myself writing it as I drift. It starts the same way it always does, but it ends with a confession I’m not sure I’m ready to hear or know quite what to do with. But that’s the point of journals. You can write whatever you want, admit the truths that feel the most raw and undefined. The kinds of things that warrant being kept under lock and key.
Except this one, I’ll let him read one day.
Dear Rhodes, I think I love you.