Chapter 24
The next two weeks are a blur of alternating pain and numbness.
When I’m numb I wish to feel anything at all, yet ironically, when the pain sets in and buries me beneath the debilitating weight of heartache, I long to feel numb again.
The living room becomes my new habitat—night and day, day and night, on repeat.
Unemployed now, it’s not like I have anywhere better to be than this sofa.
Jacklyn comes directly home from work each evening and takes up residence with me.
We watch Friends reruns and eat strawberry ice cream straight from the carton (because fuck bowls, nothing matters anymore).
She’d offered to quit Around the Globe in solidarity, but I’d refused.
We can’t both be unemployed if we want to keep our apartment.
Thanks to my father drilling the importance of a savings account into my head from a very young age, I have enough saved to cover my share of the bills for a few months, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take to find another job.
Travel journalism is a niche market, so I’m faced with the reality that I’m likely going to have to give up my dream of traveling and focus on finding any writing job that pays the bills.
Yet for the past two weeks, I can’t summon the energy to shower on a regular basis, much less job search.
I’ve become a shell of myself.
Just like fourteen years ago.
If it were just one loss, I think I’d be strong enough to handle it this time around.
It’d hurt of course, but I’d get through it.
But I don’t know how to cope with the loss of my rekindled relationship with Ben and the loss of my dream career and the loss of my financial security all at once.
So I don’t. I exist on this sofa, sustained by ice cream, ramen, and an occasional PB and J if it’s a good day.
I’ve made it through all ten seasons of Friends—at least one thing I’ve accomplished—and am on the series finale when Jacklyn arrives home from work one evening with a little too much exuberance in her step for my liking.
I’m on the part where Ross realizes Rachel got off the plane, admittedly not my wisest decision, when Jacklyn picks up the remote and switches the TV off.
“Hey! I was watching that!”
“Noooo,” she drawls, perching on the arm of the sofa. “You were being a dirty little masochist.” She pulls the carton of mostly melted ice cream from where it’s cradled in my arm like a newborn baby and sets it on the coffee table. “Besides I have news. Important news.”
“Ugh, fine. What is it?”
“Calvin’s out.”
“Out where?”
“No. Out, out. Of Around the Globe.” She slides her hand across her neck in a slashing motion. “Finished. Done. Fired. Ousted by the board.”
I rise up on an elbow, suddenly feeling something other than the searing ache in my chest for the first time in weeks, although I can’t quite put a name to what it is. Happiness? Hell no. Vindication? Maybe. Intrigue? Abso-fucking-lutely.
“What do you mean he got fired?” I question. “He’s been there forever.”
“Apparently that’s part of the problem.” Jacklyn slides off the arm of the sofa, down to the cushion next to my feet. “With subscribership down, Cal needed a home run in order to keep his job. That’s why he was so adamant about bringing on a big name like…”
Ben.
The instant his image forms in my mind, my stomach seizes.
“Anyway,” Jacklyn continues, blowing past her faux pas, “turns out Cal’s job had been on the line for some time. Now with you quitting, he has no cover story for the December issue, no backup plan, and no…”
“You can say his name, J.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Not necessary.”
“So, wait.” I piece together what she’s telling me. “Since I quit, Calvin doesn’t have a cover story. Or Ben’s photos. And because of that, he got fired?”
“Well, I think there were a lot of other contributing factors, but that was the final straw. Can you believe it?”
“That doesn’t make sense though,” I process aloud. “Why wouldn’t he put out my article whether he believed in it or not? Wouldn’t that have been better than this?”
She shrugs. “Maybe he’s just another mediocre white man who assumed he was untouchable. It sounds like the CEO had been putting pressure on him to modernize the print division for some time. But good ole Cal adamantly refused.”
I shouldn’t be this interested. I don’t work there anymore. And yet…“What does this mean for the magazine?”
Jacklyn smiles in the way that tells me I’ve asked a question she can’t wait to answer.
“It means there’s going to be a lot of change.
More of a social media presence, which we should have had years ago but Calvin thought that would ruin the prestige of Around the Globe’s name.
Also, there’s a new president taking Calvin’s place, and I think she’ll be fantastic. ”
“She?” Around the Globe has always felt like a boys’ club.
“Suki!” Jacklyn’s practically beaming now. “Suki’s taking over as president. It was announced in an emergency staff meeting this afternoon.”
I get why Jacklyn’s enthused; Suki would be amazing to work for.
She’s confident, professional, doesn’t put up with bullshit from anyone, and she’s done the actual job and knows what it takes.
Also, she’s never once asked me to pick up a get-well-soon card or plan someone’s baby shower.
“That’s really great for you, J. I’m glad things are turning around there. ”
Her brows pinch together in bewilderment as if I’m missing some vital piece of the puzzle. “You know what this means, though, right?”
“That you’ll get to work for a kickass boss?”
“Yes, that. But also…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “You could come back.”
“Ha!” I bark. “I couldn’t go back after the way I left.” Could I?
Jacklyn doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course you could! They still need a story for the December cover, and Suki always liked you. More important, she recognizes good writing. I think you should call her on Monday.”
My fingertips begin to tingle, my heart rate kicking up a notch. This is the first time in weeks I’ve felt anything other than hurt, so it takes a moment to recognize the feeling as hope.
I know what I need to do.
“I have to get to work,” I say, more to myself than Jacklyn. “If I’m going to ask Suki for my job back, I need to have this article ready for her. And it’s got to be the best goddamn thing I’ve ever written.”
“There she is.” Jacklyn smiles proudly. “Welcome back.”
* * *
I spend the weekend at my laptop, alternating between staring at the blank white screen and typing furiously, only to delete everything moments later.
I’d be lying if I denied that Calvin’s harsh rebuke of my outline—like it’d be better suited for my old middle school’s quarterly newsletter as opposed to his prestigious publication—didn’t take a chunk out of my confidence.
He may be an ass, but he didn’t get to where he is (or was, I suppose) without having some idea of what he was doing.
So I debate my approach to the article over and over again, getting nothing accomplished in the process.
Well, that’s a lie. I accomplish one thing: staying distracted from Ben’s text messages that have poured in over the past weeks.
The gist: he’s sorry he didn’t tell me the truth, and he loves me.
I don’t doubt either of those things, and if it were as simple as him keeping some random information from me, I could probably get over it.
What I can’t get over is the humiliation his actions caused me.
Ben used to be my safety and my comfort and the person who knew me best in the world.
I don’t know how to reconcile the fact he knew from reading my articles that my career was nowhere close to where I pretended it was, that I hadn’t traveled the world like I always dreamed of.
He knew those things, and he used them to his advantage to step in and arrange this trip, dangling everything I’ve ever wanted in front of my eyes, but knowing the whole time that it was all because of him.
Because he is the one with the award-winning career.
He is the one living my dream, just in a slightly different way.
He’s the one who went out there and created the successful life for himself that I haven’t been able to.
Yet the question that haunts me most during the dark, sleepless nights: Am I really that angry with him, or am I jealous?
No one forced me to stay at Around the Globe for as long as I did.
No one made me be the people-pleasing, No Worries!
party-planner I allowed myself to become.
In my life, I’m surrounded by go-getters who demand attention and go after what they want.
What they deserve. My father, Marcus and Mason, Jacklyn, and now… Ben.
Maybe it’s time I stop apologizing and follow their lead.
And that starts with this article.
So how could it not be personal?
A new email notification pops up on my screen. From Ben. It’s well past midnight Sunday night and, having gotten zero responses from me over the past weeks, I’m surprised he’s reaching out this late.
When I open the email, the first thing I see is an image.
One that knocks the wind out of me completely.
Ben kisses me in the foreground of the photo, the sky behind us filled with swirls of green and ripples of pink, like something out of a Van Gogh painting.
It isn’t the phenomenon of the northern lights that draws my focus though, it’s my own profile.
Though my face is partially shielded by Ben’s hand cradling my jaw, it’s clear by the lift of my cheek that I’m smiling, even as Ben’s mouth covers mine.
I look so happy, and so obviously in love.
I look like I’m exactly where I belong.
Beneath the photo is a message.
I’ve been offered an assignment in South Africa for three months. Give me a reason not to take it, Ems.
Then I notice there’s a file attached, and I click to open it before I can think better of it.
My screen fills with dozens of images from Iceland, all of them of me, or of me and Ben together.
There’s the photo of the two of us on the bench at Kerie Crater, several from our snowmobiling escapades taken by Fridrik as I cling to Ben for dear life, and my influencer photo from Kvernufoss is there, too.
Tears fill my eyes when I come to one from Nauthúsagil, me standing in the mossy cavern with my face tilted skyward and my eyes closed, sunlight streaming down on my cheeks.
It was the photo Ben took right before we kissed. Right before everything changed.
I quickly click through the rest, needing to see them but not strong enough in my current state to linger.
There’s one of me on the whale-watching excursion, my head thrown back in laughter as I chat with Cassandra.
And another of me, dirty and sweaty but smiling all the same, as I pose on the mountain with the volcano erupting in the background.
The last photos are from our time at Hótel Búeir: one of me walking through a grassy field toward the Black Church, my bright teal coat popping against the surrounding earth tones.
Then there’s one of me in the gravel parking lot, smiling at the camera as I stand close to Joseph while he munches on a patch of grass.
I close all of the photos and completely exit out of my email.
Ben’s message is an unexpected blow I’m not prepared for, threatening to knock me off my newly charted course.
The truth is, I’m not ready to admit to Ben that I miss him.
That he haunts my mind every second of every day.
That I feel his absence all the way down to my bones.
That while I’ve lived without him before, I don’t want to do it again.
Right now, I’m certain of this: The best thing I can do for myself, and for Ben, is concentrate on earning the life I want, on demanding the recognition I deserve. I am a good writer, damn it! Maybe I have to believe that before anyone else will.
I start typing, and this time the words flow from my fingertips as I envision the photos Ben sent me.
If what I wrote before was too personal for Calvin, this might as well be a diary entry.
But how could it not be? Iceland taught me I could do the hard things, and that is precisely the approach I take as I allow the words to pour from somewhere deep inside me.
A place I usually keep hidden from everyone… except Ben.
I write about having a panic attack while snowmobiling on a glacier, but how I wouldn’t trade that experience for any amount of money, despite my fear.
I write about pushing my body to its physical limit on hikes that far surpassed any difficulty level I was prepared for, but how the views of an active volcano or a waterfall tucked deep inside a cavern made the reward far greater than any temporary pain.
I describe the enchanting romanticism of the Blue Lagoon and Hótel Búeir, and I mention all the friends we met along the way: Natalia, Cassandra, Fridrik, and—certainly not to be left out—Joseph.
Further pushing myself to be vulnerable, I write about falling in love in Iceland and how the person I fell for encouraged me and believed in me, and by extension, I began to believe in myself, accomplishing feats I would never have thought myself capable of.
Then I tell the readers that if they’re lucky enough to have the means and privilege to travel, they should put Iceland at the top of their list. And if they are especially lucky and get to travel with a partner they care about, they might just find themselves falling in love all over again.
Just like I did.
It’s nearly seven a.m. Monday morning when I email the article to Suki with a photo attached—the one Ben sent me of us kissing in front of the northern lights.
The article is a very rough first draft, but I’m proud of my work, whether or not it earns me my job back.
After I hit send, I crawl into my bed and pull the covers up to my chin.
Then I do something I haven’t been able to accomplish in two weeks.
I sleep.