Chapter 33 Now
Now
I decide to quit my job on the flight home from London.
If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been toying with the idea for a while. But ultimately it’s Maren’s words—and an email from Mandy—that drive the nail into that coffin.
The thought of scouring the Instagram feeds of local photographers for recently engaged couples who would make good candidates for “Real Weddings” makes me feel physically ill.
Ditto for returning to the office Monday and having to interact with Mandy and Jenny.
I don’t even want to face David, who will take one look at me and know that I’m hanging on by a thread.
But as much as I’d love to fire off a snarky reply to Mandy, then march into her office and quit on the spot, I know that this is real life. I need a plan first.
So, I spend the rest of the seven-hour flight drawing one up.
I decide I’ll finish out the month at Shore Life, simultaneously getting my contacts in order and lining up some freelance work. After Labor Day, I’ll put in my two weeks’ notice. No turning back.
It’s a big, scary leap, but I’m finally ready to take it.
About halfway through the flight an attendant pushes a beverage cart down the aisle, and I order a Bloody Mary to celebrate.
I empty the plastic shooter of vodka and the mini tomato juice can into a clear plastic cup and sip on the concoction like it’s a fine wine.
My seatmates exchange a look that falls somewhere between amusement and mild concern.
I don’t care. I’m toasting to my freedom.
The second the wheels of the plane hit the ground I switch my phone out of airplane mode and message Maren to let her know that I landed. Then I call my mom, who confirms she’s in the cell-phone lot waiting for me.
“Are you starving?” she asks. “If you aren’t in a rush to get back, we could grab something. Or we could stop home. I have plenty of things I could make you.” I smile into the phone. Everything changes, but somehow my parents don’t.
“That sounds great,” I say. “I’m not in a rush at all.”
“Oh, good! Dad and I are dying to hear about your trip.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I have a lot to tell you, actually.”
My parents convince me to spend the night.
When I tell them my plan to quit Shore Life and pivot to freelancing, they’re nothing but supportive.
Part of me had wondered if they’d try to talk me out of it—I wouldn’t blame them if they thought forgoing the stability of a staff position was a little brash.
But they’re the kind of parents who always told me I could do anything I set my mind to and actually seemed to believe it. Unconditional confidence.
I email Mandy to let her know I picked up a cold on the plane and am going to work from home all week.
She’s a germaphobe so she doesn’t question it.
David, on the other hand, can tell something’s up after three Slack messages and quickly wrestles the truth out of me over the phone.
I make him swear to secrecy until the following Tuesday, when I plan to tell Mandy the news.
Again I brace for pushback, but he doesn’t even seem surprised.
He admits he’s been applying to other roles, too.
We agree that we’ve both outgrown Shore Life.
I know I’ll be leaving with our friendship, and that’s enough to make the last six years feel worth it.
One night turns into one week.
My parents are taking a bucket list trip to Italy next month, so I stay with them under the pretense of helping them prepare for it.
I help them book tours and save shopping and restaurant recommendations to Google Maps.
They joke that they should be paying me instead of their travel agent.
We don’t talk about why I’m really there, which I’m not certain of myself but suspect has to do with this being the place I stayed last time I was jobless.
I remind myself that this time it’s my decision, but still.
After I quit I want to come home to a place where other people are in charge of me.
My parents have never been huge drinkers.
A glass of wine with dinner on the porch in the summer, sure.
Maybe two on a holiday or special occasion.
So I smile when we sit down to dinner on Labor Day and my dad pulls a dusty bottle off the rack and starts twisting out the cork.
He pours a glass for each of us, then raises his.
“To our baby, Angelina. You make us so proud every day.”
I roll my eyes to reroute the tears I feel forming and nudge him. “Who knew quitting my job would make you guys so sentimental. Or maybe it’s this trip you’re taking.”
My mom shoots my dad a playful glare. She’s such a lightweight that just holding the glass probably makes her feel tipsy. “Could be that. We’ve only waited decades for it.”
“I’m glad you’re finally going, but I still don’t get why you guys waited so long. You’ve been talking about Italy for as long as I can remember, Ma.”
My dad waves a hand. “Your mother’s all talk, Leens. I told her so many times over the years, say the word and we’ll set the money aside and make it happen. She’d always come up with one excuse or another to put it off.”
I straighten in my chair. This is news to me. Money was pretty tight at times growing up, and I figured my parents considered taking an extravagant trip like that to be selfish, irresponsible—something to dream about and nothing more. “Ma?”
My mother shrugs. Her cheeks are flushed red from the wine, like she’s blushing. “I figured I’d get there eventually, but traveling just wasn’t a priority for us, especially when you were young. I mean, we were lucky enough to be raising you in a place other people traveled to.”
“Our lives are their vacation,” I say, remembering a line my dad had said on more than one occasion when I was growing up.
Usually it was said sarcastically, in a moment of frustration—while sitting in traffic driving anywhere south of our turnpike exit in the summer or circling to find parking at a local restaurant that we loved long before the tourists discovered it—but now the sentiment makes me smile.
My mom squeezes my dad’s hand across the table, looking from him to me. “We had everything we wanted right here.”
My dad pats my arm, linking us all for a moment, and says, “Still do.”
The first tear finally spills over the threshold, and then there’s no use fighting any longer. I don’t even lift my hands to intercept them as they fall.
My mom scoots her chair closer to mine and pulls me to her chest. “Talk to us, honey,” she says into my hair.
The errant tears transform into ugly sobs. I force myself to wait until I can take a few slow breaths. My parents are patient people: I know they’ll wait until I’m ready.
“I always thought,” I say slowly, “the goal was to move on from here. A nice place to go home to, sure, but not somewhere to stay forever. I was so proud when I got the Ever After job. I was going to have this big-time career—this big-time life—in New York City.” I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of my mom stroking my hair.
“When I got laid off, I felt like such a failure.”
“You’re not a failure, honey,” my dad says. “Not even close.”
I continue anyway. “And then a month later Maren called to tell me she was staying in London after her internship ended. It felt like everyone else was moving on, and I was back to square one.”
“Lina,” my mom says, cupping my face with her hands until we’re eye to eye. “Do you remember what you used to say you wanted to be when you grew up?”
I raise a brow. “A vet who could read pets’ minds?”
My mom rolls her eyes. “After that.”
I shrug, and my mom finally releases me.
“Let’s see. If I’m not mistaken I believe it went something like, ‘Mom, I’m going to be a writer.
And Maren’s going to design clothes for famous people.
We’ll both probably work too hard to have boyfriends for a while but we’ll have each other so it’s fine. ’”
“I personally was thrilled with the no-boyfriend part,” my dad adds, helpfully.
“You’re doing exactly what you said you would.
Is it a little less glamorous than you pictured?
Sure. Adulthood can be disappointing that way.
But you earn money doing what you love. You’ve got a great apartment.
You have wonderful friends, you have family, your health.
” A series of affirmative nods from my dad.
“From where we sit, you’re doing just fine.
And you know what, Lina?” My mom takes my hands in hers.
“Maybe you’re just not feeling a hundred percent happy, because you want even more.
And that’s okay. Because I have a feeling those other things you want will come when the timing is right. You’re just getting started.”
My mom squeezes my hands, and I squeeze back.
Tonight I’ll eat eggplant parm, watch Dateline with my parents (they’ve always disapproved of my reality TV habit, which feels a bit pot-and-kettle) and fall asleep in my childhood bedroom.
Tomorrow, I’ll leave the job that’s been my safety net for the last six years and figure out what comes next.