53. Fifty-three
Nadine is a part-time college student who wears thick glasses, has frizzy black hair, and is possibly the most organized person on the planet. The day I hired her, she showed up with color-coded schedules and spreadsheets that changed my life. She is an organizational superhero.
“I got your travel booked for the next few months.”
Nadine’s perky voice comes through the phone on our now daily call.
“What are we looking at?”
“Next week, you are in Atlanta for a single day of training, then off for two weeks for the holidays if you want to squeeze in one of the local requests we have. January, I have you booked for three days in Charleston, South Carolina, then the initial meeting for an ongoing gig with an owner in Bangor, Maine.”
My pulse skyrockets. “Maine? What’s that one?”
I click the pen I’m holding furiously.
“Umm…” I hear Nadine click through screens on her computer. “Sounds fun. It’s someone who is considering a restaurant in the city but isn’t sure how it could stand out against what’s already there. Very early stages. They paid the full fee already. Basically, she has a building and some ideas but nothing else. They want to get an idea of what you think would work in the environment, yada yada. Name is something Donalds.”
I google Bangor, Maine, shifting my phone to my other ear. “Yeah, that does sound fun. All right, well, email all those over to me, and I’ll text you anything else. Thanks, Nadine.”
I hang up, looking at the map on my screen. It’s just over a hundred miles from Bangor to Bethel. I could add a couple days onto the trip and go see Ethan and… What? Say hi? Dry hump his leg? Give an awkward speech declaring my love?
I rub my forehead.
Me: Hey, can you extend my trip to Bangor for the whole week?
Nadine:Sure thing, Boss. Anything else?
Me: That’s it. Thanks!
And just like that, once again, I’m going to Maine.
***
I’ll never understand why Miami sells winter clothes, but they do. This is why, the week before my trip to Maine in mid-January, I drag my mom and Marin with me to the city to go shopping.
“Penelope, show some skin. You look like a nun.”
Eyes narrowed, my mom pinches at the sweater I’m wearing like it’s a piece of rotten produce.
“It’s twenty-three degrees in Maine, Mom. Showing skin will kill me,” I argue.
She scoffs and turns up her nose. “Well, you won’t win him over looking like that, that’s all I’m going to say. I mean, a turtleneck?” she huffs. “It’s blasphemous to a woman’s body!”
With this declaration, her arms are in the air.
“Mom,” Marin interjects. “How about we get a nice coat, and then whatever you wear under it can be less… nun-ish.”
Ever the mediator, my Marin.
My mom eyes me over the lingerie she’s holding. I don’t even want to know if she’s looking at that for her or me.
“So, what’s the plan? Are you just going to go in there, guns blazing, with some cleavage and jump on the bar licking your lips or what?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “What kind of plan is that, Mom? No, I’m just going to walk in and say hi. And then I’ll see what happens. There’s a very good chance he’s dating someone. Hell, I might walk in and find him making out with another woman at the bar.” My stomach twists at the visual.
“Why don’t you just call him and find out?” she asks.
Like I haven’t thought about that every single day since I flew from there.
“And say what? Hey Ethan, I can’t stop thinking about you even though I ran away from you, and you still live in Maine?” I shake my head. “No, I’ll chicken out. I just need to go see for myself and then figure it out. Maybe I’ll see him, and he won’t be as attractive as he was six months ago. Like maybe I was in such a different headspace that it will all be… uglier. Like desperation made me do it.”
Lie.
My mom and Marin exchange a look as they send me back into the dressing room, arms full of everything that isn’t a turtleneck.
***
I’m on my second day of freaking out, but there’s no backing out. I’m going to do this scary thing even if I piss my pants in the process. I cycle through a million different ways how walking into Ethan’s restaurant unannounced might backfire on me. Him being married is the absolute worst-case scenario, I decide, but him kissing a woman at a dark, quiet table rivals it.
What if he’s not even there? Do I drive to his house? God knows what I might find there.
No.
I’ll show up, he’s going to be casually working as he always is, and I’m simply going to say hello, and I shouldn’t have left the way I did.
I can do that.
Can I do that?
The distance between us hasn’t changed, so why I think I can handle this whole situation better than I did six months before, is beyond me.
Maybe it’s because I have family dinners with my kids that aren’t filled with contempt.
Or because I told my dad I wanted something different in my career.
I know that’s not why.
It’s because, at the end of every day, I want to hear his voice and tell him everything.
Pacing the kitchen, I pull out my phone.
Me: Hi.
Ethan:Hi.
I have no clue what to say.
Me:Isn’t it kind of weird that anything is in season in January? Where does it all grow?
I cringe.
Ethan:It is. My guess is Florida.
I drop my head against the kitchen cabinet with a groan. He’s probably sitting casually, like this is no big deal, while I’m on the brink of dying a slow death.
Me:Have you met anyone?
I chew my pinky nail aggressively, drink an entire glass of water, and chew my pinky nail again while three dots appear and disappear.
Ethan: I have.
My heart drops straight to the floor and breaks.
Me: Is it serious?
His response is an instant, It is.
He met someone, just like I expected. Expecting and accepting, I realize, will not coexist in my body when it comes to this.
Him.
Me: Me too.
Ethan: You’re still a terrible liar, Penelope.
My cheeks sting with heat.
Bastard.
The smart thing to do would be to drop it. He’ll never know I’m in Maine. I can go to the meeting, stay in Bangor, and never go to Bethel.
This is one of the many lies I tell myself while I lay in bed that night and pretend to sleep.