Chapter 30 #2
“Where do you want your story to take you?” Liv asks gently.
I glance around the room, and my watery eyes stop on the pitiful unfinished Paint by Number before taking in more and more.
Then I stop letting my gaze land where it may and instead look deliberately at the small kitchen table where I keep my laptop. And where Jane’s card rests, tucked halfway under a cup like a coaster.
“I don’t want this. I don’t want to keep rereading the same chapters and never find out what happens next.”
“Okay. So what do you want?”
This question is interrupted by a knock at the door. I look at Liv, as if she’d have any idea who’s coming, and then I cross the room to answer it.
A delivery driver is already halfway down the stairs, but he left a Harris Teeter grocery bag. We don’t even have a Harris Teeter in Mullet Ridge.
I bring the bag in and open it on the counter to see my favorite at home hot chocolate discs—Taza—along with a small carton of heavy cream, a bottle of real vanilla extract, a jar of cinnamon sticks, and a packet of cayenne pepper found only among the Mexican food spices.
A moment later, I get a text.
Logan
Did I make a mistake not sending an electric frother, too? I debated, but given your job, I figured you had one, and I didn’t want to send you an appliance you’d feel obligated to hold on to.
I show Liv, who cocks an eyebrow meaningfully.
“I get it,” I tell her as I text Logan back.
Georgie
You really are my dream man. It’s perfect.
Also, I sort of maybe have three frothers.
“You have three frothers?” Liv asks over my shoulder. Without another word, she starts going through my cupboards—one of which is spilling over with old Tupperware that crashes onto her when she opens it. She gives me an annoyed look as she lets the plasticware keep tumbling to the ground.
“You’re right,” I say, firmly, already unwrapping one of the large chocolate tablets sent by someone who loves me so much, he’s waiting to share his entire world with me.
“I want more,” I tell her. “But how do I move on while honoring what I had?”
Liv smiles again, tapping the fingers of one hand on the counter. Then she pulls out her phone and goes over to the hideous mug with the weasel wearing a weasel scarf. She takes a picture of it and then sets it down next to the front door.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Starting a donation pile.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I say, panic rising in me at the thought of never seeing even this ugly mug again.
“You don’t have to,” she says, walking to the kitchen table. She moves the water cup and grabs Jane’s card that was resting beneath it. She hands it to me. “You have to call her. I’ll take care of the donation pile.”
“Liv—”
She puts a hand on my arm and squeezes. “You’re worried that you’ll forget something, right? That letting go of mugs and books and blankets will be like letting go of memories?”
I nod, another wave of tears pooling in my eyes.
“I know. That’s why we’re going to go out tonight and buy a bunch of supplies.”
I frown. “That sounds counter-productive.”
“I didn’t say we’re buying stuff, I said supplies.
For scrapbooking. I’ll take pictures of every book and blanket and half-finished painting in your place, and then you’re going to write up the memory that goes with each one.
We’ll donate everything except for the most special pieces.
And before you protest, think about the girl who’s going to walk through that thrift store with only twelve dollars in her pocket and who’s going to go home with a handmade chunky knit blanket, a milk frother, two mugs, four scarves, and twenty classics she’s never even heard of.
You could change her life by giving up things that have already formed yours.
” Liv smiles, and her eyes look damp. “Think of it like this: Everything you donate gives your mom’s legacy a sequel. ”
A sob bubbles from my lips, and I half cry, half laugh with gratitude. I didn’t realize it was possible to honor my pain without giving it top billing in my life anymore.
“Shoot. You’re good, Liv.”
She smiles and returns to the bookshelf to take another picture of a mug, which she then adds to the donation pile by the door. When she sees me looking at her, she nods toward the card. “You have a call to make. Set down the hot chocolate disc and stop micromanaging me.”
Inside, my body isn’t sure how to manage the conflicting emotions.
My heart is aching seeing the first of these items I’ve held on to for so long being set aside, like I’m reaching the end of a chapter I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of.
But then I look down at the card, and my aching heart swells, beating fast and hard in anticipation for the next chapter.
And I think about my mom, somewhere, somehow watching me with bated breath …
I call Jane.
After the second ring, I hear her low, confident voice.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jane,” I say, my voice pathetically high and wispy but my spine stronger than it’s been in years. “This is Georgie Ashman from the coffee truck. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met a couple of weeks ago through Kayla? I was wondering if we could talk?”
I’m so used to people interrupting me, I almost don’t know how to finish.
“I would love to, Georgie,” Jane says warmly. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
***
Sometime during my conversation with Jane, I stop paying attention to what Liv is doing and rummage through my shoulder bag for the journal I used to doodle and dream in, except I only ever used the back pages, hiding them as if they were shameful secrets instead of aspirations worthy of a vision board.
Now, I open it at the front and take careful notes about everything Jane says, as well as keeping track of the things I want to mention in our next meeting. Jane isn’t all business, though. She asks questions like she wants to understand me as a person …
Not just me as someone who wants to run the coffee shop her mother left her—the one her father and stepmother still run because of a choice she made at seventeen that never really felt like a choice at all.
Take over the shop now, and the debt with it, or let them keep running things until it was paid off.
I never imagined I’d still be paying for the consequences of that choice.
“Thank you, Jane,” I tell her when we wrap up the call, confirming our plans to meet. “I promise I’ll have a real presentation for you on Sunday.”
“I know you will, Georgie,” Jane says. “You have a sharp business sense and something really special in Meant to Bean. I’m looking forward to meeting.”
We say our goodbyes and then I squeal.
“I did it!” I exclaim.
I shoot off a text to Logan with a picture of Jane’s card and a checkmark. His response is immediate:
Logan
That’s my girlfriend!!
Game’s about to start. I’ll call when it’s over.
Love you!
I grin at his texts and then stow my phone, looking for Liv.
She’s not at the bookshelf anymore, and the bottom rows are bare of mugs and books.
I whip around to look at the donation pile, except that it’s not only a pile now.
It’s several full supply boxes from Meant to Bean, with the contents of each written in Sharpie.
Blankets, scarves, and pot holders. Tupperware and kitchen appliances. Mugs. Books.
“Holy cow,” I say, practically gulping as I pull my gaze to slowly look around my apartment, which already looks so different—not bare, like I expected, but … open.
Like it finally has room to make new memories.
“Liv?”
“Down here,” she says, and I look around to see her sitting on the ground on the other side of the armchair, where I have boxes and boxes of papers. I don’t even know what’s in there. Cell phone bills and credit card offers?
She’s holding a yellow manila envelope, looking at the papers inside with wide eyes. “Uh, boss?”
“Sorry?” She’s never called me boss before. Why is she now?
Liv hands me the envelope and papers, and my eyes scan the first page, but it’s all legalese that may as well be written in Greek.
Well, most of it is.
I read and reread the only part I can understand until the remaining strength and excitement drain from me, and I sink to the floor next to Liv.
I let my head fall to her shoulder, and she pats my arm before clearing her throat. “I think you need to call a lawyer.”