Chapter 31
Thirty-One
I scrub a hand over my face, wishing the ache in my chest would just fucking leave. After four months in this new city, it’s a constant one step forward, two steps back predicament.
Loneliness traps me in its familiar web as my foot taps against the cement floor, eyes hypnotized by my clothes tumbling in the dryer unit.
I dislike this windowless room in the bowels of my apartment building.
It always reeks of…something unidentifiable.
Don’t even get me started on the humidity.
Virginia summers mean enduring thick, wet, suffocating heat.
Temperatures fluctuate wildly and the oppressive mugginess permeates every nook and cranny that isn’t air conditioned. Like this room.
Moving away from everything and everyone I know wasn’t easy, even if I chose this adventure.
It’s the first time I’ve lived alone, and I miss the daily company roommates provided.
My studio initially seemed cozy but sometimes closes in on me like a jail cell.
I’ve pushed out of my comfort zone by exploring the region some…
it just sucks to do activities solo, and my limited funds curtail me further.
There are ironic parallels to my location in Virginia to California.
The San Francisco Bay abuts the Pacific, while here, the Chesapeake Bay abuts the Atlantic.
Like at home, within four hours I can be at the beach, mountains, countryside, or a major metropolis—not that I’ve gone that far yet.
There’s even reportedly a boardwalk in neighboring Maryland to rival Santa Cruz.
The landscape, architecture, cars, food, and vibes are different, and history is a persistent backdrop.
I was barely aware of the Gold Rush while in my native state.
Here, I’m steeped in the Civil War as if it occurred yesterday.
Battlefields, landmarks, museums, and monuments abound—and Confederate battle flags fly everywhere, including the state capitol.
Prior to this, I’d never even seen one—aside from the graphic emblazoned on the roof of the General Lee, the Dodge Charger in The Dukes of Hazzard.
Hallowed ground, where blood was shed, strategies planned, plantations burned, and lives lost, is profuse. I’m ashamed of how little I remember about this fraught conflict as taught in my history classes. I’ve got miles to learn and explore.
And I need to give Virginia a chance…even if I’m homesick.
My job remains the high point, and I’ve thrown myself into it.
Under Tyler’s mentorship, I’m improving, growing, and excelling as a writer.
Every assignment challenges me, forcing me to do more, write better, find a unique angle or hook.
Magazine life is fast paced, and we’re always months ahead, juggling multiple balls to launch each edition.
The we’re all in this crazy boat together collaboration among our various departments helps.
I’ve welcomed the late nights and weekends, voraciously learning aspects of production as I did at San Francisco Life .
Some of my newer daydreams include starting a magazine myself someday.
I’ve made a handful of friends at work, people to share a drink with during Friday happy hours or to commiserate with over the occasional lunch, including Valerie.
But they land firmly in the acquaintance category—not close friendships like the kind I forged back home.
I celebrated my birthday alone earlier this week, which only left my thoughts marinating in the dangerous echoes of the past.
The bane of my existence is Tanya. As Greg predicted on day one, she’s proven to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing, her fake charm in place to mask the stench of her true nature. She undermines me constantly, vies for stories awarded to me, and seems intent on stepping on my face to climb over me.
Then, of course, there’s Don, the publisher.
He slithers by my office every other week under the guise of checking in, but I don’t miss his obvious perusal of my tits and his not-so-subtle hints about how his door is always open .
Or the gold band gleaming from his ring finger.
Can’t forget his insufferable dirty jokes, told with the ease of a practiced sleazeball.
My response sickens me more—defaulting to nervous laughter because I haven’t a clue how to fight sexual harassment, especially from the person in charge.
He holds the power to fire me, and not only do I want and need this job, but the thought of being unemployed on a foreign coast fills me with panic.
I live paycheck to paycheck with pathetically little in my savings account. It’s debatable whether he’s crossed any legal lines anyway. He’s a pro scumbag, always skirting the edges, but it’s still wrong. I’ve grown to fucking loathe the dude.
The dryer whines as it slows, shutting down my thoughts. I dump my warm clothes into my plastic laundry basket and haul it to my apartment to fold.
When I hang a blouse in my closet, I pause to study my dresses. I’m going on a date tonight and haven’t decided what to wear. The whispers of resistance murmur. Honestly…I’d rather crawl into bed with a book than go out .
I’m such a bitch. Correction: jaded bitch.
I’m rarely attracted to anyone, not motivated to find a connection, still uncaring about this part of my life. Work is my boyfriend, sans orgasms.
My friends back home keep encouraging me to “get back out there,” so I’m remaining openminded.
Or trying to. It’s why I said yes to the guy who works in my office building.
We continue crossing paths—in the elevator, at the newsstand out front, in line at the tiny cafe nearby—and after a few weeks of light flirting, Jeff made his move.
He’s an engineer, tall with a pleasant face, slim build, and great hair.
While he seems perfectly nice, I haven’t experienced spark one.
Maybe dates aren’t about sparks.
Maybe staying walled off means the fireworks have zero chance to spark in the first place.
Not willing to give a relative stranger my address, I meet Jeff at the restaurant he selected in downtown Richmond.
Joe’s Inn sits on a corner cloaked in brick with painted white ironwork and black awnings. Jeff idles on the sidewalk, flashing me a smile as I approach.
He holds open the door and as soon as I walk through, I’m instantly transported to Original Joe’s in San Jose. The scent of Italian spices and sauces wafts around me, drenching me in nostalgia, a sharp pinch of longing on its heels.
Jeff speaks with the hostess, and we follow her to our reserved table. The narrow restaurant has a long wooden counter with stools along one side and matching booths on the other. More homey than fancy, it’s another nod to my former employer.
We settle in across from each other, accepting menus.
“It smells delicious,” I say .
His eyes bug out as he leans toward me. “This place is fantastic. Been around since the 1950s. I highly recommend…everything.”
I study the menu, immediately spotting my heart’s desire under the pasta selection.
He purses his lips and cocks a surprised brow. “You know already? Impressive.”
I don’t know if that’s a genuine compliment or rag on women in general, but I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.
A soft-spoken, middle-aged man with classic Roman features takes our order and leaves us with warm bread smeared with a garlic herb butter, returning shortly with glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon.
The conversation flows without much awkwardness.
But then our salads arrive and my date inhales his, talking with his mouth full and reminding me of my father in the most unfortunate way.
I steel myself when our entrees arrive, but there’s no avoiding the front row seat to his egregious lack of table manners.
My delectable dinner makes up some of the loss. Brimming with sausage, meatballs, and melted cheese over a heaping mound of pasta, it will equate to three meals.
Jeff monopolizes the conversation, relaying stories from his fraternity days coupled with bad engineering jokes ( Any circuit design must contain at least one part which is obsolete, two parts which are unobtainable, and three parts which are still under development ), to which I feign polite laughter.
Just about the moment my eyes want to glaze back into my head, he seems to recognize the imbalance and coughs into his hand. “Oh boy…there I go again. I’m sorry, Jacqui. I talk a lot sometimes.”
My eyebrows hike.
He holds his hands in surrender pose. “Tell me more about you. Are you from Virginia? ”
“California. I moved here four months ago to work at the magazine.”
“Wow, the Golden State, huh? Were you a beach bum?” He doesn’t give me a second to answer. “Of course you were. Look at you.”
I offer him a tentative smile, bracing for the stereotypical comments that people often blurt out. “I love the ocean. And I’m bummed the beach is so far. On the map, it seemed closer.”
“You’ve got the massive Chesapeake Bay in the way. It’s hours either direction to get past it to the big O.”
I nearly choke on my wine, my brain going straight to orgasm, not ocean. “I haven’t been yet. I’m dying to see how it differs from the Pacific coastline.”
Jeff’s expression turns optimistic. “I’m happy to take you. A buddy of mine has a house in Virginia Beach. We could hang for the weekend.”
I smile noncommittally.
With concerted effort, I make it through dinner, dessert, and more of Jeff’s long-winded monologues before begging off, citing work responsibilities in the morning.
“On a Sunday?” He’s rightfully suspicious.
My shoulders shrug, head tilting. “Writer life.”
“I’ll stick with my nine to five,” he answers, another indicator of how different we are. I’d spend every weekend working to become a great writer.
Once we’re outside, he insists on walking me to my car. “Any chance you want to come back to my place?”
You’ve got to be kidding. “I really need to head home. Thank you for dinner—my kind of place.”
“Cool. Let’s do it again. I’ll call you.”
I don’t answer, which he takes as a sign to lean in and kiss me. I break it quickly before he can insert his tongue.
“Thanks again,” I murmur, yanking open the door and climbing into my Toyota. I race off with a final wave, heaving out a long groan. What a letdown.
Zero sparks.
Zero attraction.
Zero interest in doing this again.