Chapter 10
Iwake up with a head that is about to explode.
The room is dark thanks to the blind covering the window, and I lie sprawled like a starfish under a blanket.
My mouth is as dry as if I’ve spent all night swallowing sand.
Maybe I have, who knows? Who knows what I did last night?
A whole lot of shit apparently. I squeeze my eyes shut as the memory from the bar restroom emerges from the darkest part of my brain.
Ugh. And he saw everything. He saw me vomit.
Smelled it. He of all people. I bet he was smugger than ever when he had to carry me inside and dump me on my bed.
I have really screwed everything up.
Everything I’ve worked for is just . . .
gone. Lydia doesn’t trust me. Instead of Paris, I’m here in a town I hadn’t even heard of just a week ago.
Someone else is doing my job. And I can barely stand the humiliation.
It’s not like me to screw up. I just don’t.
June Collins doesn’t screw up. She has a plan.
Until now.
Something warm is making my pillow damp. I curl up under the blanket and squeeze my eyes shut again. Please, make me disappear. This burning sensation of disappointment and embarrassment is unbearable.
But sadly, I don’t disappear. So, after a while I have no other choice but to pull myself together and drag myself to the bathroom, careful not to look at myself in any mirror. I really don’t want to see the mess I know will meet me. The mess Benjamin saw last night.
The cold water streaming down my aching body feels nice, making me aware of my sore limbs instead of my sore chest. It’s a welcome distraction that unfortunately ends the minute I step out of the shower again.
When Dad died, the only thing I asked Mom and Clara if I could have was his old university sweatshirt.
The one he wore every Sunday morning and on every trip we made.
When I picture my dad in front of me, I see him in that sweater.
And whenever I’ve needed comfort, it’s the sweater I’ve turned to.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but the soft and worn fabric is the closest thing to a hug from him I can get.
For some reason, I made sure to bring it when I packed to come here. And as I pick it up from one of Liz’s drawers and pull it over my head, I feel relieved in a way I haven’t done in days. It’s as if I can finally breathe again.
I bring my coffee outside and flinch when the first rays of sunshine hit my hungover eyes. But I plop down on the swing anyway, curl my fingers around the mug and inhale the smell from the pines, the damp grass, and the roses.
I’ve always loved early mornings, even before I moved to New York and realized that the only time I could be almost alone there was if I was up before everyone else. I love the special air and the promise of a new beginning.
I let out all the air in my lungs. I could really use a new beginning.
Cactus looks pissed when I pick her up and she must follow me instead of staying at Margot’s.
“Sorry,” I mutter as she demonstratively walks in front of me all the way back to Liz’s. Wow, being hated by a dog must be some new level of rock bottom. “You think I want to be here?” I snap at her before filling her bowl with more lasagna. In response, I think she scoffs.
Furious, I march out of the kitchen and kick a pair of rubber boots on my way outside. One of them hits the porch railing with a muted thud, scaring a couple of small birds resting in the shade on the porch.
I stride down the steps and start pacing through the overgrown grass without even knowing what I’m doing.
I don’t know anything anymore. What’s happened to my life?
Why isn’t Lydia calling me to tell me she’s changed her mind?
To tell me that it was all a mistake. We both know this isn’t right.
It can’t be. I’m not supposed to be here.
And I sure as hell shouldn’t be hungover like this after a night like that.
What was I thinking? I’m so much better than this.
“Than this,” I murmur, and turn my gaze to the house. “I’m better than this. I’ve worked hard to be better than this.”
I left a small town many years ago and now I’m back. How the hell could everything go so wrong? Once again, my head feels like it’s on its way to explode but this time it’s not from a hangover but from an acute sensation of failure. I need to occupy myself now before this feeling eats me alive.
Without thinking further, I hurry to the garage and find a lawn mower—a push mower. Perfect. That means it’s going to take a while.
And it does. Angrily, I push the rusty mower in front of me for hours without caring about either the headache or the heat.
It’s hot—I sweat profusely everywhere—but I don’t care because it silences my brain.
I can’t think about anything else except pushing the mower harder and harder in front of me, making the blonde baby hair on my neck both wet and curly.
Now and then, Cactus comes out to—what I’m sure is—watch my misery.
She watches me for a few seconds before she returns inside with some kind of dog frown between her eyes.
She thinks I’m crazy, and maybe I am. But she’s wrong about one thing: I’m not miserable.
I am, for the first time since I got here, enjoying myself because I can’t think.
When I’m done with the lawn, I move on to the flower beds.
I clear everything, not a single weed is allowed unless I’ve said so.
And when I’m finally done, I sprawl on my back on the freshly mowed lawn, my chest heaving up and down, and my eyes fixed on the soft sky. My head isn’t aching anymore. Finally.
My breathing is back to normal by the time I get up, knees dirty from grass and soil. I know what I want to do—what I’ve been longing to do—and I won’t wait any longer.
“Come on,” I say to Cactus, and because she realizes we’re going for a walk, she follows me after only a moment’s hesitation.
I close my eyes when I feel the ocean breeze brush my face, filling my nose with the air and enjoying the wind in my hair.
“Wait here,” I tell her as I pull off my shorts.
To my surprise, she lies down in the sand.
Her face turned away from me, but still, she did as I asked.
I walk slowly toward the water, alone here since most of the tourists hang out in the middle of the croissant. A single seagull is my only audience.
I shiver as my toes reach the water and I pause.
It’s cold. As a kid, I used to just throw myself fearlessly into the waves.
But not now. Now I walk slowly, hesitating with every step.
I turn to check that Cactus is still there, and she is.
It looks like she’s watching me now, as if she’s sure I’ll chicken out. And that challenge is all I need.
I dive under the surface, almost screaming when the chilly water envelopes me. I let my hands cleave the water in front of me as I kick forward. My lungs feel bigger somehow. When I come up for air again, I tip my head back and let the sun brush my face.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper, not sure to whom.
When I get home, something is sitting outside the door: a red bag with a ridiculously cute black dog on it.
I look around but no one is here. Hm. The only person who knows about my struggle with Cactus and her food is .
. . But it can’t be him. He would never help me .
. . unless he was afraid I’d starve her.
Well, of course he is, I told him she wasn’t eating.
And he’s a vet. It’s his job to keep animals alive.
I glare at the bag. I’m sure he enjoyed himself when he dropped it off. Dropped it off for the person who can’t even buy the right dog food . . .
But I bring the bag inside, and like the traitor she is, Cactus shamelessly shoves her head deep down into the bowl as soon as I’ve filled it.
We spend the evening at each end of the sofa, ignoring each other. She’s looking like a stubborn pretzel and I’m sitting with my arms around my legs, thinking about my life—maybe not entirely unlike a stubborn pretzel myself.