Chapter 4
SIENNA
Kicking off my shoes, I toss my bag on the floor in the entryway of my apartment.
Too tired to place the bag neatly on its rightful hook, I head toward the couch.
Falling face-first into the plush navy-blue cushions, I wish my problems away as I sink deeper.
The smell of coffee invades my nose, and I wonder if I’m going to smell like this permanently.
“How many times were you asked for a cappuccino with no foam today?” Beth asks me from where she sits in her emerald-green swivel chair next to the living room window.
“Too many to count, but enough to lose brain cells.” My response is muffled by my face buried deep into the couch pillows.
I don’t have to look up to know that Beth watches me with a sly grin on her face. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, so I've memorized her facial expressions.
Beth is my opposite in many ways, but that’s part of what makes us such great friends.
Take fashion, for example. Where I struggle, Beth excels.
She never fails to find the perfect outfit for any occasion.
Especially since the many tattoos that decorate her body elevate any clothing item she wears.
I’ve failed to see the day she doesn’t find something that perfectly complements her light skin tone, brown hair, and blue eyes.
Although she constantly reminds me that her success in finding clothing items is more due to the fact that the fashion industry caters heavily to that specific combo, rather than her talent. I think it’s a bit of both.
Unfortunately for me, where I’m taller and slimmer, she is shorter with a textbook hourglass body type. Which means I’m usually more likely to wear an old sweatshirt from my closet than I am to find something in hers that will fit me.
“Did you hear back from any companies today?” I sit up as Beth continues the conversation, and she sets her newest romance read on the coffee table.
Beth has always been a voracious reader. In first grade, she was reading at a fifth-grade level. I've always preferred movies to books, but I love hearing about her latest read. She’s only about halfway through the one she just put on the coffee table, but I know she’ll have it finished by tonight.
“Yes, but they all hated me,” I grunt, burying my face in my hands.
The couch cushion sinks as Beth sits next to me. She doesn’t say a word, and for a few moments, we sit in silence. I’ve always appreciated Beth and her ability to let me have my self-pity moments when needed.
Gathering my thoughts, I think about the shitstorm of a day I’ve had.
My water bottle already sits on the walnut coffee table in front of me, and I reach out to take a drink.
Setting the bottle down, I lean back on the couch.
It’s days like these that I’m thankful Beth and I were able to be resourceful enough to make this place somewhat decent.
Thankfully, we can scrounge up enough money each month to afford a two-bedroom. During our freshman year, Beth and I tried sharing a dorm room but quickly realized—despite how much we love each other—sharing a space that intimate just doesn’t work for us.
We snagged this place during our sophomore year.
Since it was the only two-bedroom we could afford near campus, we didn’t have a choice.
The appliances are run-down, two of the stove burners don’t work, and we both have mini fridges because the one in the kitchen is too small to hold all our groceries.
Don’t even get me started on the plumbing.
I had to create a shower schedule to make sure we both get hot water.
We have enough money to get by between my job at the small coffee shop just down the street and Beth working at Powell’s Books. It’s not an uncomfortable life, but I can’t help but think there has to be more to life than this.
Hence, my very specific ten-year plan to achieve success. I long for the days I don’t have to grab my breakfast from a mini fridge or smell like coffee even after I shower.
My phone rings, and I hit the silence button. I don’t need to look at the screen to know who's calling. I know I shouldn’t be dodging his calls like this, but it’s just not a conversation I want to have right now.
“How’s the bookstore planning going?” I ask Beth in an effort to steer the conversation away from my crumbling life.
Beth sighs. “Amazing and awful at the same time. I have too much to do, but I can’t get started until I find a place to actually house my bookstore.
I just want the space to be perfect. I was hoping to find a place by the end of the summer, but I’m okay waiting if it means I find the perfect spot…
” She stands and continues talking as she paces about the living room.
She walks over to the bookshelf by the TV opposite the couch and fidgets with some of her books, making sure they’re perfectly aligned on the shelf. Since living with her, I’ve noticed it’s a tactic she uses to calm herself when she’s stressed.
She continues talking as she rearranges the classic novels she has on display.
The movement brings my attention to the top shelf, where my cacti sit next to our small flags from last summer’s pride parade.
Hers is the unmistakable pink, blue, and purple bisexual flag, and mine is the less recognizable ally flag.
I’m having a hard time focusing on her words when my phone rings for the second time. I hit decline call again.
“Don’t even get me started about a color palette, or a tagline, or fuck, taxes…” She continues talking as my phone rings again, prompting me to hit decline call one more time.
“You should get that. He’ll just show up here if you keep dodging his calls,” Beth says, noticing my phone in my hands.
“Sorry.” I grimace. “I just can’t talk to him right now. Today was rough. I don’t need his words of wisdom to be the cherry on top of the shit sundae.” I slump deeper into the couch.
“Just answer his next call, get the conversation over with, and then we can make up a tray of junk food and watch a marathon of your favorite movies tonight.” It’s an offer she knows I can’t refuse.
As if on schedule, he calls again, and I finally answer, heading out of the living room and into my cozy bedroom, only big enough to house a twin bed, a small desk, my mini fridge, and a nightstand. If I put anything else in here, I wouldn’t be able to walk around.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, answering the phone.
“Pumpkin! Finally, I’ve been trying to reach you all day. How are you? They aren’t working you too hard at that coffee shop, are they?” Despite my shit day, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at his greeting.
You eat half of a pumpkin pie at the age of eleven at Thanksgiving dinner, and it becomes your nickname forever.
“No, Dad, they aren’t working me too hard. I could do without some of the self-centered customers, though.” He chuckles, the sound simultaneously rich and lighthearted.
I sink onto my mattress, relaxing at the comforting sound of home.
“How’s Mom?”
“Better than ever. Her strawberries are growing very nicely. She says she can’t wait for you to try them. She’s out in the garden now,” he responds.
I stare at the framed family photo on my nightstand. My parents stand on either side of me in my high school graduation cap and gown. We’re in my mom’s garden as she insisted her flowers were the perfect background for a family photo.
My father, John, is a tall man with dark skin and a smile that never fails to bring out a sparkle in my mother’s eyes.
He’s an accountant at a small accounting firm downtown, not too far from my apartment.
I’ll occasionally stop by his office for lunch when our schedules align, but I’ve been so focused on applying for jobs lately that I haven’t been by in a few weeks.
My mother, Sara, is shorter than my father but not by much.
Her skin is paler compared to my dad’s and mine, but the dark brown curls cascading down her back leave no question that she is, in fact, my mother.
We share the same light brown eyes and an affinity for clumsiness.
She is a beautiful force to be reckoned with when she’s in her element.
Her element being her home garden, or the small plant nursery where she works part-time.
Pushing past the feelings of homesickness, I look away from the photo. I’m surprised my dad hasn’t brought up the reason for his call yet, but I humor him and reply, “I can’t wait. I’m excited to see both of you next week at graduation. Did you get the tickets okay?”
“Us too, pumpkin. We got the tickets, but to be honest, I didn’t call to discuss graduation.”
Here we go. The conversation I was dreading. “Have you heard back from any of the companies you applied to yet?” I suppress the eye roll.
“Yes, I have. I haven’t received any offer letters, though. But I’ve been applying to multiple jobs every day and—”
“Have you thought more about my offer?”
Ah yes, his offer. The one that requires me to “take some time off, move back home, and relax for a change.” My dad is the sweetest person alive, but he’s also one of the most determined people I know.
Lately, he’s been insistent on getting me to throw my plan out the window and go along with his idea out of the fear that I’m trying to do too much too fast.
“Dad, I’ve told you before, I can’t take time off. I’m on a strict ten-year plan, and that plan relies on me getting a job by the end of this summer.” I wince at my tone, but I’m annoyed that I have to explain this again.
I’ll be graduating next week with my bachelor's in architecture. While all of my classmates have big internships and jobs lined up for the summer, I have nothing. No matter how many times I explain it, my dad never seems to understand the importance of my plan.
My parents provided me with a good life.
My mom stayed home until I was in school, then took a part-time job at the plant nursery, and my dad has worked for his accounting firm since graduating from college.
Being an only child, I never had to worry about sharing anything, including my parents’ attention.
We had mundane Christmases and family trips to the beach.
It was a steady childhood, and as a kid, I was never left wanting anything.
That is, until I grew older.
By the time I reached high school, I realized there was so much more to be attained in life.
Instead of road trips to the beach, I wanted to take flights and explore other countries.
Instead of shopping the discount racks, I wanted to buy clothing items at full price.
Instead of fake jewelry, I wanted real gold to adorn my fingers and wrists.
I’m grateful for the steady life my parents provided, but I believe I am capable of achieving more than what I grew up with. I refuse to settle in the same way they did.
“Hmm…Okay, I’ll keep sending you applications as I come across them. Just promise me you’ll give my offer some more thought. I’d hate to see you burn out at such a young age.”
“Thanks, I will.” I feel gross lying to my dad, but I’m tired of having the same conversation with him over and over again.
“We’ll see yo—oh, oh no.” My dad cuts himself off, and I hear a rustling on the other side of the phone.
“Pumpkin, I have to go. The sprinkler is going haywire on your mom again. Sara, I’ll be right there. I love you. Keep an eye out for my emails, okay?” he says. With an “I love you too,” our conversation is over.
Sitting on my bed, I contemplate my dad’s offer for a split second before brushing the idea off. There’s just no wiggle room in my plan to take a few months off after graduation. My dad is usually right, but he’s wrong this time. There’s no way I’ll burn out. I’ll be fine.
My phone pings in my hand, and I tap the incoming notification on the screen.
Theo
Here’s the address. Party is on Saturday.
The three dots are loading, and I wait for the next incoming message.
Theo
How’s the ankle I so brutally ran over?
Again, so sorry about that.
A giggle escapes my throat of its own free will at his triple texting.
I’m not sure why I gave him my real phone number, considering he slammed into me with his cart.
I’m also not sure why I decided to text him back.
I think part of me still wants to thank him for saving my laptop and planner the day I saw him in the diner.
Yeah, and the other part of you has spent the past four weeks thinking about his smile.
Shutting up my thoughts, I type out my reply.
Sienna
All better, thanks to a bag of ice and a tub of ice cream.
Theo
lol there’s nothing a bowl of cookie dough ice cream can’t fix.
I smile at his mention of my favorite ice cream flavor. I’m just thinking of my response when Beth appears in my doorway.
“How pushy was your dad this time?” she asks.
“Not as bad as last time, but that’s only because the sprinkler broke on my mom again, and he had to cut the conversation short.”
“Oh Sara,” she says, clutching her hands to her chest. “I just adore your mother.”
Standing from my bed, I grab my favorite sweatshirt off the back of my desk chair and slip it on. “I was promised junk food and comfort movies, and if I don’t get that within the next hour, I might have a complete breakdown.”
“Right, I think we still have some cookie dough ice cream left,” Beth gushes as she exits my room, all but running out into the kitchen.
Grabbing my phone off my bed, I read the chain of text messages with Theo again.
I’m not even sure we’ll be attending the party this weekend. Usually, when I attend parties with Beth, it’s during a school-sanctioned break. Parties on a random Saturday night aren’t typically my thing.
Especially not when they’re being thrown by a man with forest-green eyes and laptop-saving reflexes.
Nevertheless, there’s no point in attending a party that only serves as a distraction from my job search. Before I can throw my phone on my bed and ignore it the rest of the night, it pings again.
Theo
Hope to see you this weekend
He’s certainly not going to make avoiding this party easy, is he?