Chapter 2
two
. . .
Fourteen days had been spent basking in the glow of my own tragic existence and it was all for naught.
I had spent nights and weekends cleaning out the vestiges of Nick while blasting music that made me feel like the main character in my own life for the first time in years.
I danced around my empty apartment, aggressively lipsyncing into my broom like it was a microphone because no one was around to tell me it was cringy.
At the time, there was some sick beauty to the scene of my neighbor banging on the wall while I decided which of Nick’s socks I should throw out so he’ll always have an odd number.
Whatever energy had carried me through the last two weeks had screeched to a halt. The post-breakup depression hit me like a freight train.
True tears—blocked before by superficial apathy—started welling up in a hot release. Whatever breathing I was able to do before was impossible as every breath rattled out a choking sob.
My legs were heavy as they dragged me to my bed, my head swam with the molten lava of my complicated feelings.
I flopped onto the comforter, winced at the lingering scent of Nick’s shampoo on the pillow beside me, and nearly gagged on another cry.
My hands balled into fists on the fabric as I bargained with the universe to give me a new form of amnesia that made me forget he ever existed.
I stared up at the ceiling and watched the popcorn texture blur into nothing as my tears formed into two tidal pools on the brink of overflowing.
Six years of my life were over.
I was starting over again in my late twenties.
The person who I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with cheated on me for two years right under my nose.
I was so naive. I listed these facts over and over, a grocery list of my life’s biggest shortcomings.
This breakup had been so easy when it was a hypothetical, anticipatory thing.
Now it felt like I was thrust into an eternal winter, just as spring was beginning to break loose.
The May sun cast shadows across the room, and I watched them dance as I tried to think about anything else but Nick.
Everything seemed to cycle back to him, he was the world’s shittiest boomerang.
My eyes glazed over artwork, tchotchkes, and the pile of laundry that was sitting on my chair begging to be folded.
Somehow, all of it reminded me of Nick in a way.
There was the massive Edgar Degas exhibit advertisement that I made him fish out of a dumpster on Allston Christmas one year, and a miniature porcelain clown I bought at a flea market because we agreed it was haunted and had chosen us.
Even my clothes had pieces of him attached to them, boxer shorts he had slid down my hips on a lazy Sunday, a skirt I wore on a casual margaritas date.
I groaned, scrubbing my hands down my damp face.
Here I was, forced to claw my way out of this dark cold cave. It was one I dug myself, but still one I needed to escape.
I needed warmth.
I needed sunlight.
I needed to run through a field singing a dramatic song about the life I wanted to live.
If I shut my eyes and blocked out the sounds of the traffic below I could envision myself dressed as a damsel locked in a tower of her own making.
My phone chimed with a text.
Nick
that was fucked up.
i thought we could at least stay friends.
I hated myself for the way my heart lifted at the sight of his name on my phone. This push and pull of emotions wasn’t sustainable. I deleted the messages and tossed my phone onto an armchair across the room.
The belief that my life needed to exist in cinematic moments started to cloud my judgment. I envisioned a dream world parallel to reality where life was a scripted and choreographed scene with flattering lighting, a memorable wardrobe, and a rousing soundtrack.
My life should be filled with emotion, dramatics, and witty lines delivered with snappy comedic timing. I needed to reframe my present reality. I wasn’t going through a complete quarter life crisis, I was at a pivotal turning point in my young adulthood!
Romanticizing your own heartbreak only goes so far.
My emotions ebbed and flowed as I laid on my bed. Why was I so heartbroken all of a sudden? I should be skipping through the streets celebrating the shedding of a parasite.
The plaster walls of the apartment ping-ponged between signaling freedom and a prison. As they slowly closed in on me, my opinion on them favored “prison.”
Actually, the entire city of Boston was far too small.
I started mapping out entire branches of the Green Line I would need to skip to avoid seeing Nick’s friends.
If I left for work an hour earlier I could avoid the possibility of running into one of his coworkers on my commute.
I tried envisioning a future where I could never step foot near Fenway again out of fear of running into him stumbling out of a bar.
Maybe I should avoid the entire state of Massachusetts, just to be safe.
I had to get away, at least for a little bit. The first step would be peeling myself out of my bed, and that task felt herculean.
Sprawled out on the mattress like a half-dead starfish, I stared out the window letting my cheek rest on the pillow dampened with tears and snot. I had to get up and do…something.
I stood and stretched, and shuffled downstairs to my living room. The world outside my front window was moving on. People on my street were running errands, getting coffee, living their lives and I should too.
A massive rectangular shadow darkened my view.
A rolling truck engine hummed on the street.
There, passing by, cast in the glow of a late Spring afternoon, a beer truck with a white sand beach, clear blue water, and the words “escape” plastered on its side rolled past. It had to be a sign from the patron saint of heartbreak flashing before me.
That settled it. I had to get my ass out of Boston, as soon as possible.
Spontaneity was a foreign concept to me.
I’d never danced in the rain or taken a real chance on anything. Yet here I was, sitting at my kitchen table on my laptop feverishly looking up last minute trips to anywhere but here. Something overtook me. It was either the convergence of emotions or divine intervention from a beer truck.
The only thing my search gave me was a healthy dose of sticker shock.
Flights from Logan in the coming weeks were absurdly expensive—like most things in this city.
I had my phone’s calculator open beside me adding up projected costs and the numbers kept ticking higher.
Between travel points, my tax refund, and a little finagling with my bills this month, I could probably work something out.
At least that’s what I was telling myself.
My fingers flew over the keyboard, rabid with an energy I hadn’t felt in weeks. Google. New tab. Expedia. New tab. Pinterest. New tab. “Visit Bali on a budget.” “Visit Tulum on a budget.” “Visit the Bahamas on a budget.” “Visit somewhere tropical on a budget.”
The searching met the finish line. There, it sat before me, blinking in perfect pixels.
My escape.
An all-inclusive package at some three-star resort in Cozumel, where I could lounge on a beach chair and drink margaritas and read and write all day and not once think of Nick or any horrible thing he’d ever done.
I added extra options—the unlimited drink package was a necessity—and I selected flights. The cost ticked higher and higher, I whispered an apology for the pain my credit card was about to go through.
Right before clicking the green “Book Now!” button, the logical side of my brain finally took over. Spontaneity had run its course. There was another, less fiscally devastating, option for me to take advantage of.
Red Dock Lake Camps.
The home away from home I’ve had for my entire life.
The one place I could always return to. The location where no matter how far I’d been removed from it, I reverted back into the most authentic version of myself. The self that doesn’t have the worries and doubts that seem to settle in with adulthood, nor the self that fears the unknown.
It’s the place where I can be fully, truly me. In every sense.
My aunt and uncle’s wilderness camp tucked away in the north woods of Maine.
Aunt Sue couldn’t say no to her only niece in distress.
I’d spent every conscious summer of mine there, I could practically run the place myself.
Hell, I’d probably sleep on a cot under the stars if it meant that I didn’t have to spend another week in the apartment alone thinking about how I wasted my twenties in a terrible relationship.
Red Dock Lake Camps was beyond roads, beyond cell phone service, and in a way, beyond the twenty first century. It was the place where no matter what stage of life I’m in, or what I’m afraid of, I could go back and find myself again.
Year over year, my Aunt Sue’s band T-shirts would fade, her black hair dye would cover more grays, and my Uncle Randy’s bald spot would grow, but otherwise, the place never ever changed.
Sue, the camp’s signature red dock, and Randy had seen me in every possible form for the twenty eight years I’d been alive.
I dealt in a world of absolutes, and at this pinnacle of emotional crisis I had two options. Go to my Aunt and Uncle’s place, or impulse book that Mexico flight and flee the country. My finger still hovered over the book trip button while I tapped my credit card in the other hand.
Red Dock Lake Camps was my only hope unless I felt like wrecking my credit and taking out a loan to afford anything else.
Two hours—interspersed with frenzied cleaning, more crying, and anxious pacing— passed by before I decided to call Sue and ask. I had to get everything out of my system before I could pick up the phone.