2. Indiana
“ O kay, Han. I need to go. I’m currently changing my clothes in a rest stop bathroom because of my flight delay, so I have no time to entertain you,” I tease.
“I love you. I miss you. Bye,” I tell her out of reflex before quickly tapping my screen and taking a deep breath.
There’s still an hour drive ahead of me, and I need to mentally prepare myself to make a good first impression.
Being considered, let alone hired, to be a part-time manager for a bakery is still hard to believe.
I have no experience with being a manager—or bakeries—but I do interview really well, and the owner seemed to like the mock-ups I did for the website.
Working as a web designer for a hotel chain for the past four years was fine—until it wasn’t.
The job was good, and there was even a little bit of travel involved, but I was never a project manager. They were never really my projects.
With the encouragement of my sister, and the camera she lent me, I started going to photography classes on the weekends a year ago in an attempt to start a more freelance career, but that all seemed to fall apart just a few months later. Feeling unimportant— like a lot of things.
The rumbling on the sink lets me know I’m getting another call. Wrangling the zipper on my bag, I check the name.
Wyatt.
He must have heard through the grapevine—my parents—that I left the city.
Wyatt isn’t a bad guy, and even though my parents would like him to be, he also isn’t my guy.
I’m pretty sure, at least, I feel like I would know if he was.
All our conversations started to end up the same way; he wanted to be together, and I… I didn’t know if that’s what I wanted.
A common thread in the tapestry of my life—I don’t know what I want.
I’ve always had trouble sticking with things. There was painting, then the tumbling class, and before that it was dance. It seemed to get worse in my early twenties. I get restless and sometimes that comes across as flaky or impulsive—but this doesn’t feel like it has in the past.
No, the urge to leave the city was there long before my breakup with Wyatt; it was there before last summer.
I used to love the hustle and bustle of city streets.
I loved being with my family, and the people watching from our apartment window.
Now the noise makes my head ache, and the constant stimulation makes it hard for me to sleep or focus.
The vibrating stops, and I let out a sigh. It rumbles again, telling me I have a message, and I groan, looking at it.
Wyatt
I heard you left. Are you okay?
I roll my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek. Surely he knows I can see right through this. My fingers hover over the screen before I tap out a quick reply.
Me
I did. I’m fine, and you can tell them that.
Three dots appear immediately.
Wyatt
They’re just worried about you.
I rub at the ache in my shoulder. This requires a longer conversation, but I’m not ready for that.
I don’t know when, or if , I will be. I slip my phone into my bag, and close my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.
Crossing my arms over my chest and wrapping my hands around my upper arms, I squeeze them once, then twice.
After the third time, I feel more centered and able to continue my hunt for appropriate clothing.
When I’ve finished getting dressed, I look at myself in the dirty mirror above the sink. The dark spots under my brown eyes have lessened but are still easily visible, and I desperately need to have a moment alone with the sun.
I’ll be different here. I have to be.
Closing my eyes in an attempt to fight through the swarm of bees that are trying to make a nest in my head, I take in another lungful of air.
I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life—unsure if coming here is the right choice.
I may be twenty-seven, but I still have so much to figure out.
I’m not asking to have it all together, but having some of it together could be fun.
Just enough to move the needle in a productive direction.
I mean, I cut my own hair last week. It was just the bangs—but still .
Planning isn’t really my area of expertise. Though, I’m not sure what you would expect with the upbringing I had. It was chaotic —in the most magical way. My parents are both artists, so eccentric and eclectic are just two of the words I would use to describe my childhood.
I like to think I’m artsy, but I’m definitely not an artist .
I’ve learned I require a little more structure if I want my mental health out of the garbage.
My sister has always been a different story.
Melodic and energetic—Hana Holmes is music.
Not in the way that she’s a talented musician, but in the way that she knows the perfect song for every specific moment of your life.
Not a single drop of personal musical talent in her body—but damn can she recognize it.
Hana—Han, as in Solo. I smile at the incredibly kitschy names my parents bestowed on the both of us. Han and Indiana. In the Holmes household, we consumed art in all forms: cinema, music, sculpting, dance—you name it, we tried it at least once.
Our parents are huge film buffs. We grew up hearing the intricacies of Harrison Ford movies—so much so that they would name their two daughters after two of his more famous characters.
To be fair, I don’t hate my namesake. In fact, I love Raiders of the Lost Ark .
I genuinely thought I would be a history professor slash archaeologist up until the age of ten.
I fold my discarded clothes, placing them into my bag before zipping it up.
I walk down the convenience store aisles, picking out a granola bar and a sparkling water from the coolers.
Setting them on the counter, a rack of sunglasses and postcards grabs my attention.
I pluck a pair of sunglasses for myself off their stand and a stack of postcards for Han.
I’ ve sent her a postcard from everywhere I’ve ever been.
I’ll need a few since I’m planning on being here for a while.
“Will this be all for you?” the cashier asks from behind the counter. He’s older than me with salt and pepper hair, maybe in his fifties, but the kind smile on his face makes him seem younger.
“This should do it,” I answer brightly.
He scans my items, putting them into a paper bag. “Receipt?”
“That’s okay. Thank you. Have a good day,” I tell him, grabbing my brown paper bag.
As I put on my cheap sunglasses, I give myself permission to believe this is all going to work out.
Stepping out of the automatic doors and walking back to my car, I take in my surroundings.
The air is thinner already, not cool exactly, but crisp in a way that has my lips turning up and my mood lifting.
It’s hard to be in a bad mood when I’m surrounded by mountains as far as my eyes can see.
A soft bubbling and trickling draws my attention to the creek running alongside the road.
The view makes me feel small. Grounded. Sometimes my issues feel so much bigger than me, like they can take on a physical form, towering over me.
But looking at the stunning rock formations before me, my issues start to feel smaller too.
Lifting my face to meet the light breeze that’s ruffling my already messy hair, a reassuring thought comes to me. Maybe this is what I’ve yearned for.
Applying for this job may have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but from the second I hit send on my application, I haven’t been able to stop picturing what my life in Colorado could be.
I bought a book titled: Must Do Hikes In Colorado and a backpack before I even got the call back from the bakery owner with the offer.
Accepting immediately, I started looking up rental properties.
Searching online turned up no viable prospects, with the closest home being two hours outside of town.
I was starting to get a little worried—only to get a call back thirty minutes later from my new boss saying she had a small cottage that was for rent, right off the town square, within walking distance to the bakery.
She sent me one picture, and I was sold.
An hour later, I’m parked on the town square in Silverthorne.
I study the buildings with my windows down, it’s bright and there are spring flowers overflowing from decorative pots—suddenly, Colorful Colorado makes a lot of sense.
An American flag waves in the breeze, and the mountains behind it give me a very patriotic feeling.
I know a cover for a John Cougar Mellencamp cover when I see one.
I grab one of the postcards I bought at the gas station, wanting to document my first moments of this grand adventure I’m embarking on. I reach for the pen that’s fallen out of my purse and jot down a few lines to Han.
It smells like pine trees and sunshine.
It feels like possibilities.
I love you. I miss you .
Love, Indiana
I spot the sign for Thistle and Sage bakery, quickly checking myself over again in the visor mirror—my shoulder-length hair is a bit windblown but otherwise I’m presentable.
Reapplying my lip balm, I grab my briefcase containing my laptop from the passenger seat, my camera that I don’t go anywhere without these days, open my door, and step into the sun—and my fresh start.
Inside the bakery I’m greeted by a small line of customers at the front counter and the most heavenly smell to ever grace my senses.
The space is beautiful. Light and airy, with wood accents and a black-and-white tiled floor.
I peek around the line to see a young woman behind the counter.
She’s smiling, chatting with customers, and getting them their orders.
I’m not sure if I should wait here or knock on the door that leads into the back.