good note
MARLEY
I’m running on fumes by the time I wake up the next morning.
My plan was to pack the night before, but after a long hot shower, my body begged for rest, and I ended up dozing off before the sun went down.
Now I’m up at one in the morning, packing for a seven-day trip that takes off in less than four hours. I am pushing my luck, I know.
Goodness me.
“Hawaii,” I murmur under my breath.
Just saying it aloud feels like a breath of fresh air.
Later today, I'll be sitting by the ocean, drinking spiked pina coladas in a fresh coconut shell, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves with the ocean breeze washing away every ounce of stress.
No deadlines. No emails. Just me, the sun, and the ocean.
With the help of my travel agent, I created an itinerary for my stay in Maui.
There is sunrise yoga, a chocolate farm tour, and, because all the dolphin excursions are booked, insert ugly cry, a scenic hike up a volcano.
The rest of the days involved reserving a cabana on the beach and reading romance novels carefully selected from my Tbr.
Sometimes simplicity is the most powerful way to have the best unwinding trip.
There will be no over-planning, just focusing on what my mind and body need right now.
Peacefulness and serenity.
One hour, thirty minutes, and two packed suitcases later, I sit drained in the middle of my walk-in closet, overthinking everything I’ve packed and wondering if there is anything I forgot.
When it occurs to me that I’m not even dressed, I throw on a leopard print midi skirt and a fitted tee.
Then I put on some no-show socks, slide my feet into some Pumas, and add some pep to my step, my mind racing.
What else? What else?
Am I forgetting something?
Oh, weekender bag. Pack weekender.
I grab my bag and pack it with the rest of my odds and ends.
Summer romance novels, MacBook, Tatcha lip mask, and satin bonnet, when my phone starts to ring.
The shrill tone chimes from under a heap of clothes on my bed.
I scoop through the garments in search of my cell.
It seems like every stitch of clothing I own is on that bed.
My OCD kicks into overdrive at the mess.
My bed is covered in two-piece sets, dresses, swimsuits, jumpsuits, and cover-ups. I have absolutely no time to clean all this up before I leave. Which would be nice, because coming home to a clean house after a long vacation is top tier.
The shrill tone seems to be ringing more urgently with each second I don’t answer, and I finally find it lying casually under a pair of seersucker eyelet shorts.
Hmm, should I pack those too?
RIIIING!!
Oh right, phone.
I wince when I read the screen.
Mother.
I hesitate.
I haven’t talked to my mom in over a week, and she knows I’m leaving for my vacation today. If I don’t answer, she will be calling excessively until I do pick up. I decide it’s better to talk to her now than when I’m in paradise.
“Mom. Hey,” I answer, trying my best to bite the irritation rising in my voice.
Most talks with my mother end on a sour note, but I always try to stay optimistic, hoping our discussion will be peaceful and enlightening.
“What took you so long to answer the phone?” she shrieks. “Are you at the airport?”
“No, ma’am. Heading out the door in a few minutes.”
“You’re still at home?! I could have sworn you told me your flight leaves at five.”
I check my phone. It’s 2:52. It will take me thirty minutes to get to the airport from where I live. I picture myself rushing through security and sprinting to find my terminal.
“It does. Just running behind. I went to bed early last night, and now I’m packing last minute.”
“Clearly. My goodness, child. If it were me, my bags would have been packed days ago. My daddy used to say procrastination is the foundation of all disasters.”
I bite my tongue as I scan the room for any last-minute items I’m forgetting.
AirPods.
Where the hell are they?
“I hope you don’t miss this flight. Lord knows you need this vacation more than anyone. You work as hard as a man.”
Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?
My mom has always championed homemaking over corporate careers. She is a proud housewife and a damn good one at that. She home-schooled Jinni and me until middle school, kept our home running like a Fortune 500 company, and never missed a prayer call or a hair appointment.
But I’ve always been more like my father.
Ambitious, head-strong, and goal-oriented.
While my sister, Jinni, followed in our mother’s footsteps, I trailed behind our father, working my first job at fourteen.
My dad’s work ethic became my blueprint.
He took pride in providing for his girls, and I took pride in building something of my own.
“Well,” I say, hoisting my weekender bag over my shoulder and carrying it toward the front door, “when you don’t have a man to do things for you, you have to be woman enough to do it yourself.”
Shit. That one slipped.
“Yes, of course,” she snaps. “Because a woman like me just settled for being a stay-at-home parent.” Her voice is dripping with condescension.
“Mom, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you didn’t. But there’s nothing wrong with a woman caring for her husband and children instead of slaving sixty hours a week for some company. Look at your sister. She’s doing great!”
Is she?
From what I know, Jinni’s marriage is a ticking time bomb. Explosive headlines, messy court filings, and one near-death experience. But clearly my parents are masters of denial, or maybe they’ve just gotten really good at looking the other way.
I wheel the rest of my luggage to the door, still searching for those damn AirPods as my mom continues her rant.
“Who’s the floozy that fought for women to work alongside men, anyway? She probably thought pantsuits were a good idea too.”
“Oh, wow,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“It was so much easier for women to find a husband and settle down when they weren’t slaving away at a job. You’re always working, working, working. No play!”
“Women who work find men just fine.”
“Not you.”
My goodness, why didn’t I just let this call go to voicemail?
“I do. And I have.” I recheck the time on my phone again. I need to get out of here.
“Well, where is he? They don’t stay around long. Weston picked his career over you. And that low-down dirty Trey left you to marry someone else.”
“Can we not bring that up, please?”
I pass by Fatima, my fiddle leaf-fig, and remember that all my plant babies need watering before I leave.
“Fine. Excuse me for trying to make a point.”
“Which is?” I fill my watering can with water and make my rounds.
“That you’re getting older, which means I’m getting older, and I want to see you settled with a winner and have grandchildren before I die.”
“I’m only thirty-two.”
“I had you when I was twenty-one.”
“I was in college at twenty-one.”
“True,” my mother says, like she’s trying to sound gracious. “I just thought my oldest daughter would be settled by now.”
So did I.
Twice I thought I’d found the man who’d give me forever. A ring, a home. Maybe even a baby. But one left for a job overseas. And the other proved that our ‘forever’ was just a pretty lie.
After that, I stopped aiming for forever.
What came after were men who didn’t stay long enough to matter.
Dates that felt more like interviews. Conversations that went nowhere.
Connections that fizzled out before they even had the chance to become something real.
Men who were carrying bright red flags I chose to take seriously rather than brush off or try to fix, as if they had potential.
If they were already doing things I had low tolerance for, I was gone. Quick, fast, and in a hurry.
Once I finish watering my eight plants, I load the car with all my luggage. A large suitcase, a carry-on, and my weekender.
“You just take work so seriously. You know, work won’t keep you warm at night.”
“It does, actually. My light bill is working and that fireplace crackles quite nicely on Christmas morning.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she huffs. And I can almost hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. ‘I’m just saying, if you weren’t so busy all the time, maybe you’d have time for a real relationship.”
I sigh, slamming the trunk of my car closed. I head into the house to grab my crossbody purse, dragging the zipper closed with a little more force than necessary. I do a run-through of all the rooms in my condo, making sure I’m not leaving anything behind.
“Maybe, but I’m not just going to settle for the next best thing.”
“Weston was the next best thing. You should have packed up and gone with him to Japan. You haven’t exactly been picking winners since.”
I exhale through my nose.
“All these frauds,” my mother continues under her breath. “But you, with those hearts in your eyes, keep slapping a filter on these men and calling it love.”
And there it was. The irritation my mother knew how to spew into the severed wounds etched in my heart.
I had done a good job stitching myself up after my latest heartbreak with a man named Trey.
We’d broken up twice, the second time hurting worse than the first. The old, tainted memories of our relationship spun in my mind like a vinyl record skipping on the same bitter note.
“That’s not something I want to relive or even think about right now. Everything you’re talking about is from men in my past. I’ve learned my lesson.”
No more falling for charming men.
The great pretenders.
“I sure hope so.”
Aha. My AirPods. I almost forgot.
I snatch them off the desk in my office, along with the charging case. The mess in my room makes me cringe. I pop my AirPods in my ears, my mother’s voice still going as I text Lo.
MARLEY: I’ll pay you to clean my room.
LO: What the hell happened?
MARLEY: Packing happened. Do you still have the key I gave you?
LO: Yep.
MARLEY: Thanks, boo! I’d hate to come back to this mess.
LO: I got you.
MARLEY: I owe you.
“Did you hear what I said?” my mom screeches through the speakers.
“Oh, sorry! What did you say?”
“I asked if you’re still going alone.”
“Yes. Solo vacation. Just me,” I answer as I finally get behind the wheel.
“Good. You can mingle more. Men find it harder to approach a woman when she’s in a group.”
I roll my eyes and slam the car door shut. “Mom, seriously, where do you get this stuff?”
“Heat magazine.”
I laugh. “You have to stop reading Heat.”
“Absolutely not. It just so happens to be very resourceful. And you should take a few pointers from your own magazine. Let your hair down. Have some fun. Can’t remember which issue that was, but Brandy was on the cover.”
I smile. She’s actually reading Mod. That alone almost makes this call worth it.
“Despite everything, I am proud of you, Marley. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Find yourself a husband in Maui. Or at least a sperm donor,” she adds as I start the car. “Do something wild for once.”
I shake my head, laughing as I pull onto the road, praying I don’t miss my flight. And grateful we ended this call on a good note.