Elsie
Chapter Nine
Iwas vaguely aware that I might be penned as certifiably insane as I paced the town square muttering to myself, but at the moment, I had bigger worries on my mind than what the town of Colbridge thought of me.
I was twenty-six years old and apparently extremely punctual for the quarter-life crisis I’d been so certain I was on track for avoiding.
I used to make fun of people going through this. The ones who broke up with their partners, or quit their jobs to travel, or worse, ‘find themselves.’ The ones who burned down their lives to find something new to do with their lives just for the hell of it.
Unfortunately, I was now forcibly living that reality. Minus the fun, exciting, adventure part of it where money didn’t seem to be a concern.
At least I had the freedom, I guess. My life was a blank slate, which for some might have been incredibly exciting. But for me? It might as well have been standing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing if I wanted to be pulled back or just fall over.
I liked plans. I liked knowing what was coming next. And despite my sometimes erratic behavior, I craved stability.
I was twenty-six with nothing to show for it. That number kept ringing in my head.
Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-six.
Young, all things considered, but old enough to want at least a few accomplishments under my belt. What did I have to show for nearly three decades on this earth? Nothing.
Though I could always snap a photo of Colbridge’s scenic main street, post it to Instagram with some inspiring quote and let people think I, too, was seeking my destiny with arms wide open, instead of the ugly reality.
I was running.
And what’s worse, I was almost certain it was more due to the fear of what everyone would say back home rather than any real heartbreak on my part.
I hadn’t even taken down the engagement photos yet, but of course, everyone knew.
I opened the app, finding several direct messages that I absolutely refused to open.
When tragedy struck in your life and people reached out, more often than not it wasn’t coming from a place of concern.
It was from a place of interest. A new conversation-starter to share with their social circles, whether they knew me.
“Oh, how awful. Don’t you just feel terrible for her?” They would say with gleaming eyes as they shared the drama with everyone they knew.
Well, I refused to be known as the unfortunate girl with the broken engagement. It wouldn’t define me.
Navigating through the app, I found the deactivation button and clicked it with forceful aggression, as if it could delete the event in my life that led me here.
I needed to make something of myself. I needed tangible proof I wasn’t the screw-up, late bloomer I’d always assumed I was.
I had enough money to pay rent at Mr. Briggs’s house for three months, with just enough money to feed myself and pay for any other slight expenses that might come up. Maybe four months if I was stretching it, but I wanted to be gone after three.
Three months to write a novel, and then what? My savings would be drained. I still wouldn’t have a job, and it would still take months of editing and reworking before it would be in any shape to send to an agent.
What could I do in the meantime?
Go back home, live with my family, and follow the master dynastic plan? Find another job that sucked the life out of me and another fiance that looked better on paper than in reality? No way.
“Back-up plan,” I muttered, circling the square for the fourth time. “I need a back-up plan.”
Approaching the gazebo in the center of the park, I sat down on the bench, lost in the chaos of my thoughts.
I wasn’t allowing myself to go backward, no matter what. Boston was no longer an option for me.
I’d rather live in the gutters of Colbridge than prove my mother right.
As soon as I decided that, I felt the weight on my shoulders lighten a tad.
“There. One decision done. Onto the next.”
Where will I go? After three months here, I’ll need something cheap. Or something guaranteed to make money quickly.
I couldn’t count on my manuscript for that.
“Realistic. I need something realistic,” I muttered hopelessly.
What were my skills?
I was a good writer, technically. I hoped. Either that, or my English professors were all filthy liars. I was a people-person. I was pretty coordinated. No, wait. That one was a lie.
I groaned, dropping my head into my hands.
“What do I need to be coordinated for, anyway? I’m not a dancer,” I muttered.
When I lifted my head, I nearly yelped with surprise at the sight of a small child who had seemingly apparated before me.
“Um, hi.” I waved, blinking at the little blond boy with the skeptical eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, apparently having been privy to my meltdown.
“Nothing,” I told him, thinking the response: I’m having an existential crisis of the greatest magnitude might be a little over his head. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Max!” he chirped, at the same time a woman ran up from behind him, calling the very name he just offered to me.
“Max!” she gasped out, breathless and angry. “You can’t just run off like that!”
Middle-aged and stout, she was past the stage of her life where chasing after a six-year-old would’ve been an easier task.
“But I wanted to see if this lady was okay.” He frowned. “She kept lookin’ d’stressed, like you do.”
The woman huffed.
“Distressed,” she corrected, and then turned her gaze on me. “And that’s because your mother failed to mention that you were an eloper when discussing our nannying arrangement.”
“I’m not a loper.” He frowned, offended. “I was just running.”
“E-loper, Max.” She sighed. “And that’s precisely what it means,” the woman said with an exasperated hand to her head.
I laughed, then tried to cover it with a cough when I realized the nanny might not see the humor in the situation. I couldn’t help it. Max was cute, all bright eyed and skinny legs. And he was looking at me with such earnest eyes when he asked, “So, why you duh-stressed, lady?”
His nanny tsked, bringing a hand to her brow in obvious defeat, as if it wasn’t worth the bother of correcting him anymore.
“My name is Elsie,” I told him, admiring something about his bold nature and dimpled smile.
“I haven’t seen you before,” he remarked, tilting his head as if the reason for that might come to him if he thought hard on it.
“That’s because I just moved here,” I told him. “Well, sort of. I’m staying here for a little while.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you staying here?”
“Max,” the nanny grabbed his hand, “stop bothering the poor woman.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” I assured her. “In fact, you’ve given me a great idea, Max!”
“I have?” He grinned.
“You have.” I nodded. “So, thank you. But in the future, maybe stay away from people talking to themselves, okay?”
“‘Kay,” he agreed. “I’ll see you later.”
I nodded, not doubting that possibility.
The nanny grabbed his hand, and he waved, looking over his shoulder all the while as she lead him away.
I smiled back, grateful for the chance encounter, because he had helped me. He reminded me of another skill I’d completely disregarded when thinking of positions I was qualified for.
I loved kids.
I also loved travel.
And most of all, I loved high-tailing it as far as I could get from Boston with the excuse of a new career opportunity.
No one back home had to know that being an au pair would be only a temporary solution until I became a successful writer.
Satisfied with the plan formulating in my head, I slung my satchel over my shoulder and hurried across the square to check off the next most important part of the day.
Coffee.
Some people (my ex included) used to claim I should stay as far from caffeine as possible, considering the wheels in my mind whirred about one hundred miles per hour without it.
Sometimes, it was a benefit. I could write a lot faster than the average person. I could come up with three new ideas before you had time to question the first one I’d already put into action. And I had already formulated precise responses to any number of possible questions I might ever be asked.
I was reminded of the downside, however, when I collided with a body. Because sometimes, I existed so entirely in my head, I wasn’t even aware of the world around me.
“Woah,” Will’s voice said. I looked up to see him frowning down. “You okay?”
I blinked around, realizing I was standing right outside the doorway of Will’s café, where HUGHES was written in bold lettering.
And I’d just run directly into his chest.
From an outsider’s perspective, I really tried my best to reach the top of his shit list.
“Are you okay?” I asked, grateful that at least it had been someone solid enough to handle my clumsiness. “I did run into you after all. Sorry, by the way.”
“Shockingly,” he said dryly, “you didn’t leave any damage.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Good.”
He stared at me for a minute, seemingly as dumbfounded as I was about what to say next. He settled on scratching his head and gesturing toward the door.
“Are you going in?”
“That was the plan,” I said, wondering if I should bother stepping around him when he clearly took up most of the doorway. “Were you leaving?”
“Oh, I was—” He turned to look behind him. “No. I’m going back in.”
“You were?”
“Yup.” He pushed the door open. “After you.”
Shrugging, I stepped inside, welcomed by the aroma of coffee beans and pastries.
I turned to Will, who was still staring at me.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Why are you wearing a sweater with shorts?” He peered down at my outfit. Red gingham shorts paired with a maroon sweater. I thought it was whimsical.
I clicked my tongue in offense. “Why are you wearing like a bazillion keys on your pants?” I looked pointedly at the ring of keys attached to his belt loop.
“Because people trust me to take care of their business when they need help,” he said, arching a brow as if to say, Now you?