Chapter 3 #2
She stands and walks around the island to hug me.
“You’re not old. And you were always too good for him.
” She squeezes me tight for a long time before she takes a step back, and holding my hands, looks me in the eye.
“I think you’re burned out and need to shake things up.
Get outside your comfort zone. Leave this house.
Try new things. Meet new people.” All things I don’t normally do. “You’re stuck in a rut.”
“Maybe this is my midlife crisis?” It feels like I’m in crisis, midlife or not.
“Goddess, I hope not. That would mean you’re scheduled to check out at sixty-eight.”
She walks to the chalkboard that hangs on the kitchen wall. We used to use it all the time, but the same message has been written on it in Lola’s handwriting for the past year:
“Figure out who you are—then do it on purpose.” –Dolly Parton
Lola erases it without a thought and writes:
Soph’s Fuck-It Tally
(Do all the scary things.)
She turns to me and says, “You know, like a twist on the fuck-it bucket.”
“What the hell is ‘fuck-it bucket’?”
“You no longer give a fuck,” she stretches out the last word, “consequences be damned.” When she sees the apprehension on my face, she clarifies, “Like start a photography side hustle. Or look for a new job because the one you have is draining the life force out of you. Your creative side is dying to take the wheel. Let her.”
I roll my eyes. Photography is my hobby, not a marketable commodity. And I can’t leave my job. It pays too well, and we need the money.
“Or have a one-night stand. You’re in your sexual prime, explore it.”
I’ve never been into one-night stands. If I’m being honest, my sex life’s never been very satisfying either, so maybe she’s on to something.
She takes me by the shoulders and shakes gently. “You’ve always been a relationship girly. And with a carbon copy of Ken.”
I do the wobbly nod, shoulder-shrugging thing. ‘Relationship’ feels like a stretch because that implies a level of serious commitment I’ve never achieved. I always go into dating with that intention. But somehow it never transitions from mild attraction to love. I might be broken.
“How’s that working for you?”
I stare at her in silent agreement.
She drops her hands and nods once. “Exactly! You’re young, enjoy being unattached. Live it up. Flirt with strangers who don’t own a pair of pants that require ironing and work in sales or management. Traditional, corporate nine-to-five isn’t sexy. It’s safe. And safe is boring as hell.”
“I like safe.” It’s knee-jerk.
She calls me out immediately, on a disbelieving, devilish chuckle.
“Oh, no you fucking don’t. You don’t like safe; you’ve settled for it.
Think about the men you’re truly attracted to.
Raven from Treachery’s Riot? The guitarist last night?
You can’t tell me ‘safe’ is the word that comes to mind when you think of them. ”
Safe is the last word. “They’re fantasy. There’s a difference.”
She shrugs while shaking her head. “Why?”
I raise my eyebrows, because the answer is obvious.
She huffs and concedes, “Okay, maybe not Raven specifically, but why can’t you date a sexy musician? Why can’t you close the gap between fantasy and reality?”
I don’t hesitate. “Because sexy people date sexy people.”
She claps her hands and points at me, like she’s finally getting through. “Yes. That’s my point.” When I don’t say anything, she softens her tone. “Soph, do you honestly not realize what a smoke show you are?”
I shake my head. “You’re sexy. I’m…” I hesitate because I’m not sure how to finish that sentence, “…normal.” I shrug.
She scoffs. “For fuck’s sake, when’s the last time you looked in a mirror? Your legs go on for days. Your tits are incredible. And your hair? Don’t even get me started; it’s like a goth mermaid and a vixen and a bonfire had a baby.”
I rub my lips together. “Do you feel sexy?” I ask in all seriousness.
“Yeah, I do,” she answers, unabashedly.
I knew she would say that, and it makes me smile. “God, I love that.” I mean it. “I fucking love your confidence, Lo. That’s sexy.”
“That’s it though, isn’t it? Owning it.” She taps her temple. “It’s all up here.”
“I want that,” I admit.
She tilts her head and asks, “Did any of your boyfriends ever make you feel sexy? Did they tell you how beautiful you are?”
I think back and then answer honestly, “No.”
She blows out a breath. “They were all useless, weren’t they?
Every last one of them. It’s time for a reset.
Not just the men in your life, but on every level.
Turn your world upside down.” She drums the chalkboard with her fingernails on her way to the stairs.
“Growth happens when we do scary shit. Get reckless. The universe has been waiting, like a proud Mama, for you to unleash, Soph.”
When she descends the stairs to her room and I’m left alone with the Fuck-It Tally, I try to think about the last time I did something reckless.
Nothing comes to mind. And I realize that my life is entirely worry-based.
Some people are Buddhists or Baptists. I’m a Worrier.
With a capital ‘W’. It’s where I place my faith, because I know, deep in my bones, that the minute I stop worrying is the minute I lose control, and then it all goes to hell.
I do damage control ahead of time so I can avoid things that scare me and stay in my lane, where it’s not always safe, but it’s as safe as it can be.
A knock on the front door disrupts the tornado of confusion spinning in my head. When I open it, Chance is standing on the doorstep looking shower-fresh, as always. His older BMW is parked at the curb, still running. A sign he wants to make this fast.
“I came to pick up my things,” he says. He’s trying to make eye contact but can’t quite get there.
I open the screen door, step back so he can enter, and gesture to the boxes inside.
There are so many things I want to say, but I can’t decide where to start.
An unhinged, angry tirade would feel so good.
But those only exist inside my head. Instead, I cross my arms and watch him take the boxes out to his car one by one while queasiness fizzes like Pop Rocks.
I can’t stop staring at his license plate: Mndful1.
Bull. Shit.
When he picks up the last box, he looks at my hairline again. “We should talk about this.”
I huff out an unamused snort, take a deep breath, and shake my head. “I wish you well.” I don’t mean it. It sounds like, Fuck you. I’ve never been good at masking emotions.
“Fine, if that’s how you wanna be,” he snips while walking to his car.
He stops a few steps away and then turns back to add, “Going into this next chapter of my life, I need someone who can meet me where I am. It’s as simple as that.
Someone who can match my fired-up energy and inspire me as much as I inspire them.
I’m on my way up, and I can’t do that with someone who’s bringing me down. ”
“Two months ago, I was too much, and you told me to back off. Now I’m not enough? Which one is it, Chance?” Without even thinking, my earlier I wish you well that sounded like Fuck you, is repeated. But this time, shocking myself, I actually say, “Fuck you.”
I slam the door before he can reply. The cross-stitch sign hanging on the wall next to it sways. It reads:
Life Rules
1. Don’t be an a**hole.
2. Repeat #1.
Benji made it three summers ago when he went through an intense crafting phase with Mabel, our seventy-five-year-old neighbor, landlord, and mother-figure who lives in a tiny home in the backyard. They were heavy on censored, sweary, positive messaging—the crafts and Mabel.
I straighten the sign and glare at it because I feel like the embroidery is judging me. “He was an asshole first,” I whisper.
Lola crests the stairs, slow clapping.
My cheeks are hot with dwindling anger. “You heard that?”
The skin on her neck flushed raging-red tells me she did, but her smile is approving as she walks to the chalkboard and draws a check mark on it.
“What’s that for?”
She walks to me and wraps me in a bear hug. “You stood up for yourself while that guilty motherfucker was projecting his own insecurities. And it wasn’t in your normal passive-aggressive or sarcastic way. You were direct, unapologetic, said what you felt, and dismissed the sonofabitch.”
My arms are pinned to my sides as she continues to squeeze me tight. “With the emotional grace of a toddler,” I wheeze because the air in my lungs is nonexistent.
“Toddlers don’t say fuck you,” she says sweetly before releasing me.
I massage my chest to encourage airflow. “You did.”
She opens her mouth to deny it but then snaps it closed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I was five, which isn’t technically a toddler. And Declan totally asked for it. That kid was a shithead.”
“He was a shithead,” I agree. Our next-door neighbor was the worst.
As she walks toward the bathroom, she says, “I need to go shower and get to work. I can’t be late again. They’ve already given me two warnings, and I kinda like this job. But, Soph?”
“Yeah?”
She turns to face me. “Don’t you dare let him gaslight you.
You supported that piece of shit for nine months.
He whined nonstop about his problems, and you found solutions.
” She ticks them off on her fingers. “You gave him a place to stay while he was between apartments, fed him when he got laid off, wrote his resume, hell, you were the one who encouraged him to apply for the job he has now. He’s only on his way up because you offered a hand, and he climbed on your strong fucking shoulders to get the boost. There was never give-and-take with him; he took and took and took.
You deserve so much better, Soph. Good riddance motherfucker. ”
I know she’s right, but, damn, his words still sting.