28. Present Day – January
28
PRESENT DAY – JANUARY
JOSIE
H aving dropped Jamie at the Bull, I return to my apartment and snuggle down on my bed. I whip my phone from my pocket and open the dating app. After dithering about exactly what to write on my profile for days now, I put on my big girl pants and hit publish. The thrill of anticipation shimmers through me as I read back over my profile. Appropriate sexy photos: check. Pithy bio: check. Paralysing fear of rejection: check, check, check. Do something every day that scares you, right?
So I don’t panic and delete the whole thing, I swipe over to Instagram and give my account some attention. Between Insta and my online shop, I’m managing to cover bills, which means my wages from Craftisan are going into savings. I finally feel like I’m not a total disaster. Maybe one day I might be able to take Abi up on her offer, visit her in South America, maybe even explore my art there.
Fingers itching, I dabble with a watercolour of a lily in a bid to stop looking at the dating app. Focusing on the way the petals curl open, the evening flies and it’s not long until it’s time to get Jamie.
As I pull up in the carpark of The Bull, I can’t resist the urge to check the app any longer. It’s only been a couple of hours but I’ve already got four messages and an unsolicited dick pic. In a weird way, it gives me a sense of confidence that I might meet someone — whether that someone is for a hookup or to actually go on dates with, get to know, I’m open to all options. God knows my immediate circle is barren and without either option.
My breath starts puffing out in a cloud, fogging my phone screen. It’s too cold to stay in my ancient car so I head into The Bull to wait.
Scott is cashing up and Jamie’s stacking chairs as I slide onto an empty bar stool.
‘You can head off if you want,’ Scott calls to Jamie.
He shakes his head, ‘Nah, five more minutes. I’m paid until eleven thirty. You want your usual, Jo Jo?’
I nod and smile at my brother.
‘Can’t beat his work ethic.’ Scott shrugs as Jamie potters about mixing up my passionfruit juice and soda.
‘That’s my dad’s influence — he’s a tyrant. One of the reasons I had to move out.’
Scott folds some notes over, wrapping a band around them. ‘Oh?’
Why am I telling him this?
‘He didn’t agree my work ethic quite matched his expectations.’
‘Really? From what I’ve heard, you work your arse off with your side hustle and everything.’
‘Ah, well he thinks my art is “hobbying” and not “work”, so …’
It feels strangely comfortable telling him random facts. I stop myself just short of announcing I’m even managing to deposit a small amount of savings after paying my bills, not that this comes anywhere near my parents barometer of success — a nine-to-five office job.
‘Must be tough, not getting validation from your family.’
Ain’t that the truth.
‘We get on better now I’m not under their feet all the time. They can’t see how long I spend painting at night. Or wasting time as they put it.’
‘Josie, that’s?—’
‘I don’t mean to slag them off. They do it from a place of love. It’s just a … difference of opinion.’
‘Well, Jamie is a good worker. He’s thorough, polite. Conscientious. Couldn’t ask for more.’
Jamie interrupts by plonking my drink down in front of me. ‘Aw, boss. You’ll make me blush.’
Scott rolls his eyes but a small smile sneaks across his lips before he turns away. My chest aches at the thought of how much Marcus would have loved this.
As I wait for Jamie to finish his shift, I log on to Etsy to check my orders and then click into the search tab. I type out “silver anklet with black gem” and hit the spyglass. I’ve given up all hope of finding my anklet, it’s been missing for weeks and I could buy a replacement with some money I got for Christmas.
I find one very similar to the one I’d lost, and my finger hovers over “Add to basket”. But I hesitate.
Years ago, I bought the anklet after speaking with my therapist. Onyx, the black gemstone, was a symbol of my grief about Marcus. I pictured my grief as a boulder; a rock. It would always be there, either immovable in front of me as I pushed against it, or dragging behind me while I tried to forge a path forwards. This anklet was a symbol of acceptance. My grief would always be with me, and I’ve accepted it; carrying it with me with purpose. Accepting it eases the burden, apparently. But it turns out, anklets aren’t as permanent as grief is. And somehow, at some point, I’d lost it.
Did I really want to buy another one that could get lost so easily?
Just as I think I need to find a more permanent solution, Jamie comes over wearing his coat. ‘All set, sis?’
‘Let’s go, baby bro.’
He scoffs. ‘Less of the “baby”, yeah? I’m taller than you.’
We stride over to the door, but the sensation of being watched makes me glance back to the bar. I swear I catch Scott’s eye, see a vortex of heat pulling me in, but then his stupidly big shoulders dip, he lowers his head and a frown furrows his brow as he concentrates on wiping the bar over.
‘Evening, Josie,’ Enzo greets me. ‘Your usual spot is ready for you, and he’s left you your drink.’
We’ve fallen into a routine of sorts. Twice a week I drop Jamie off at The Bull and go home, switch my phone off and paint. Then I head in to collect him about half an hour earlier than I need and catch up on any admin I need to do on my phone: my Instagram account, the dating app, orders on Etsy. There’s always an empty stool waiting for me and, the last couple of times, a passionfruit and soda — my favourite soft drink. Jamie’s a good kid.
‘Jamie okay?’ I ask Enzo.
‘Sure, he’s in the cellar with the boss man. Give me a shout if you need anything else.’ Enzo backs away and starts to clear some empties.
I wriggle on the stool, getting comfortable, and open my phone’s internet browser. A tab for Brush and Beach Art Retreats springs up, with a stunning coastal oil painting filling the screen. Abi had sent me the link and a message with more exclamation marks than letters to say she’s helped Camila update her website. They’ve been touring around South America, visiting her friends in different countries, and planning locations to host her future art retreats.
From first glance, it’s sleek, evocative and giving me epic wanderlust. Weeklong workshops to break down barriers and get vulnerable with your art. Foster creativity while freeing your inhibitions. Find your authentic self. Experience the beauty the world has to offer and capture it with ? —
A reminder pings up on my screen and I baulk. Reality check. I hate doing my tax return assessment and the deadline is looming.
I hit my recent calls list. ‘Can you look over my tax return one last time?’ I ask Ella breathlessly down the phone.
‘Of course, but you’re doing fine. Try not to stress.’
Most people think I don’t stress, but Ella sees it. I suck at this ‘having life together’ organised shit. I feel like I’m stumbling through, scrabbling to do the bare minimum just in time. Like I’m some kid playing at being an adult. My brain simply doesn’t … prioritise it. I want to see love, life, colour… not fucking spreadsheets.
And it’s only the desperate need to try to keep experiencing the colourful things that makes me do the grey ones.
‘Could you come over tomorrow evening? I’ll make cocktails at my place.’
‘Sounds good. Then you can fill me in on how the dating app is going.’
‘Urgh. Nothing to fill in. But okay.’ And there isn’t. A few pointless message conversations which mainly involve single letter combinations. WYD. What am I doing? Trying to work out when guys stopped being able to form sentences. That’s what I’m doing.