6. Chapter One
Chapter One
Maeve
Why is this my life?
I think to myself as I stare blankly at the dark-haired woman in front of me, her finger swinging in the air. Her words are going in one ear and out the other. My brain’s hit the emergency shut-off switch again. Classic dissociation. The adult version of hiding under the bed.
It's something that's been happening more frequently anytime I return to this dull, suffocating life in London.
My therapist claims it's my mind's way of protecting itself from further harm.
At least my body seems to be right about something: this life, this job, they are nothing but a source of constant trauma.
Problem is, flipping it back on is getting harder each time.
Like each time, it takes a little more of me with it.
I’ve barely unpacked my suitcase from my last trip, and I am already googling cheap flights to anywhere that isn’t London.
I keep falling into this endless loop—months of exploring, searching for a place I can call home and feel like I belong to, only to be greeted by the hollow “welcome home” when I return to London.
But it’s never home. Not really. More like the place where I am constantly reminded of my childhood trauma.
Growing up in a decaying flat, mostly on my own, always waiting for a mother who never really showed up.
Telling myself it’s normal. And now, standing here, it feels like I’ve only traded one nightmare for another.
A low-paying, soul-crushing job in hospitality—rude customers, endless hours, and I’m barely scraping by.
It’s soul-sucking, but hey, it funds my travels, and that’s what keeps me going.
For the past eight years, I’ve wandered through corners of the world.
From the sun-drenched streets of Spain to the bustling markets of Thailand, from neon-lit Seoul to the rugged coasts of Australia.
I even made it to Finland once, lured by its title as “the happiest country in the world.” And while those journeys have given me good memories and glimpses of hope, I’ve never found a place where I truly belong.
No matter how far I go, I always end up back here, crashing with my best friend in her cramped flat in Shoreditch, clinging to cheap rent and pulling shifts at the same coffee shop that keeps welcoming me back, mostly because they're always short-staffed.
All just to save for the next expedition, the next chance to find my forever home.
“Hellooooo.” The drawn-out, nasal screech of middle-class entitlement yanks me out of my thoughts, pulling me back into the overstimulating chaos around me.
The woman, who had been jabbing her finger in the air like it was some kind of weapon, has finally lowered it.
Now that I’m fully back in reality, I can hear her loud and clear.
“My coffee is way too strong. This is not what I asked for,” she whines.
She’s serving full Karen energy, wrapped in a Kardashian aesthetic, perfectly contoured and perfectly condescending.
I plaster on my war paint—a fake smile that I’ve been perfecting over the years and respond with as much forced cheer as I can muster.
“I’m so sorry about that. What was it you asked for? I can have the barista remake it for you.”
“I asked for a flat white,” she snaps, planting her hand on her hip. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“A flat white is meant to be a strong coffee,” I say in my overly sweet, overly fake tone. “If you’re after something not so strong, I’d recommend a latte.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. “If I wanted a latte, I would’ve asked for one,” she spits.
And that’s when I’m done. Completely done. I lock eyes with her, pull off my apron, and set it down on the counter. No words. No final sass. I turn, grab my bag from the staff coat hooks, sling it over my shoulder, and walk out.
Frustration courses through my veins as I walk through the streets of Hackney, my Dr. Martens boots slapping against the damp pavement with no real destination in mind. My shift wasn’t supposed to end for another five hours, and yet, here I am. Fired? Quit? I don’t bloody know.
All I know is that I’m out, and like the chaotic queen I am, I left with no plan B. I haven’t really ever needed one when my life in London has been the same old rinse-and-repeat bullshit: work, save, sleep, repeat. Sprinkle in a breakdown here and there to keep it spicy.
The only consistent thrill I get these days is from my books, and my current read sits at the bottom of my bag, practically begging to be picked up. I had to put the book down last night right as the hot, single dad cowboy got into the hot tub with the nanny… playing truth or dare.
Elsie Silver, you evil genius. The way she writes these men makes me swoon for a reality that doesn’t exist—because let’s face it, if a single dad cowboy challenged me to truth or dare, he’d probably be more creepy than charming. And I would probably dare him to pay off my student debt.
Before my thoughts spiral into the dirty fantasies that make me wish I could like a man enough to let him near me, let alone my vagina, I shoot my best friend a text.
Maeve: So… I rage quit my job like a caffeinated goblin ??
Iris: You bloody what? ??
Maeve: Some woman was acting like I poisoned her coffee, like I had the energy to even make it in the first place.
Iris: So you just walked out mid-shift?? So much for saving for the next trip lol.
Maeve: Yeah yeah, I know. I’m gonna regret this later but I will sort something out. Maybe I’ll sell my body. ??
Iris: Probably make you more money than the coffee shop to be fair looool.
Maeve: You bet. I’ll be home later for wine and a full-on meltdown. See you then babe.
With Iris updated on my latest “do it for the plot” moments, I wander the forty-minute walk back to Shoreditch, lost in thought about what to do next.
No job means no income. No income means no travel.
The panic in me rises from the depths of my soul.
I laugh about it in my head because the alternative is sitting down on this pavement and not getting back up. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
By the time I push open the door to Iris's flat my legs ache, and the smell of burning incense and a hint of cinnamon wraps around me. I drop my bag by the front door, heading straight for my half-unpacked suitcase still splayed open in the small bedroom that Iris keeps free for me when I return.
It's been three weeks since I've been back, and I still haven't fully unpacked. I never do. The open suitcase is like a promise that I won't be here for long. Or maybe because unpacking means admitting the search is over, and I’ve just got to settle for whatever this is. How depressing.
I grab something a little comfier and a lot less coffee-and-sweat scented to change into before heading to the large corner sofa that’s as threadbare as my life choices.
I practically throw myself down, letting my body sink into the worn misshapen cushions.
The book that's been calling my name all day is finally in my hands, offering the escape of fictional tension and perfectly-timed orgasms. That is, until the sound of the front door swinging open breaks the fantasy.
Iris backs in through the door, not one but two bottles of red wine under one arm, her deep copper curls wild from the outside world. As she twirls around, her eyes lock on me, and the biggest grin stretches across her face.
“Oh my god! It’s the runaway barista!” she playfully exclaims, like I’m a headline in some gossip tabloid.
“Get the glasses, will you?” she says, kicking off her shoes. “We need to get some of this in you asap.” She shakes one of the bottles for emphasis.
I unfold myself from the sofa quickly—because I do need wine pronto—and take the few steps to the kitchen, reaching instinctively for the cabinet where the glasses have always been, only to find jars of spices staring back at me.
I stand there for a moment, opening and closing doors like an idiot in someone else's home.
I suppose I am, no matter how many times Iris tells me it's my home too.
“Oi girl, where are your glasses?”
“Oh, I moved them!” she calls breezily from across the room. “Cabinet above the kettle now.”
Iris is already back on the sofa; legs tucked beneath her.
Didn't take her long to get comfy, already stripped down to just her baggy t-shirt and underwear.
Her bare legs are pale against the emerald, green material, the greyscale ink sprawled across them on full display.
One bottle is already open in her hand, the other waiting patiently on the table beside her.
She grabs the glasses from me and pours very generously before handing one back. She lifts hers toward me. “To poor life decisions and the plots they create!”
We clink our glasses and I take the first sip. The warmth of the wine dulls the sharp edge of the day, but only slightly. With a low sigh, I slump back onto the sofa.
“Iris… what have I done?” I say, staring mindlessly into my glass.
She waves her hand dismissively, shifting positions until her legs are stretched out over my lap and her head rests on the armrest. “Pfft. I don’t know babe, but it will work out.
” Her hands gesture wildly, her wine forming a tsunami in her glass.
“Things happen for a reason, Maeve. Maybe the universe is telling you something’s coming. ”
Her words are so casual, so assured. Iris is a free soul with no care in the world, probably because she was raised by a loving, hippy mother who taught her to be unapologetically herself.
Meanwhile, I spent most of my childhood being told I wasn’t enough.
Maybe that's why I love Iris so much. Her carefree, open-hearted nature makes me feel a little less broken.
Or at least, less aware of how broken I actually am.
I take another sip. “Maybe the universe is telling me I’m an idiot,” I mutter under my breath, half to myself, half to Iris, but she doesn't seem to notice.
After hours on the sofa, drinking wine and laughing about all the questionable life choices we somehow survived, I decide to retreat to my room to get some sleep, hoping a new day erases today’s poor choices.
But sleep does not come.
Instead, I am left staring at the ceiling, studying the glimmer of streetlights that have filtered through the thin curtains. My traitorous mind screams at me to solve my panic here and now, as if the middle of the night is the perfect time for existential intervention.
I shift to my side, cocooning myself tightly into the duvet, hoping that the tightness will soothe me to sleep. But it doesn’t. The loud thoughts act as a barrier to the temporary release that rest could bring, each one bouncing off the walls of my skull.
In line with my eyes, my phone lays on the bedside table, offering the empty promise of distraction. Ten minutes won't hurt, I think, already knowing it's a lie. It’s never just ten minutes. It's an hour. Maybe two.
I grab my phone without hesitation, ignoring the nagging voice warning me against it, because let’s face it, I may as well be consistent today.
The glow of the screen burns my tired eyes as I pull up my “runaway list”—a collection of fleeting destinations and impulsive flight searches saved in my notes.
I scroll through the usual suspects: Lisbon, Prague, New Zealand.
But tonight, none of them spark even a flicker of excitement.
Maybe I really am destined to stay in this ordinary London life, where my only escape is either through dissociating or between the pages of a book.
My mind drifts back to my current read—the one set in a quiet little town, on a ranch surrounded by nature instead of crowds and traffic.
A place where the sun rises over wild grasslands rather than concrete towers. Could that be what I need?
Despite knowing full well that walking out of work means I probably can’t afford a new trip anytime soon, my fingers move across the screen, driven by stubborn defiance.
I start searching for ranch destinations, flicking through listings and images, trying to picture myself in that setting.
And then I see it. An ad that seems almost too perfect, like a golden ticket out of here. At least temporarily.
Ranch Work Scheme – Live and work on a Cattle Ranch this Spring! Experience the country lifestyle. Paid job, accommodation provided. No prior experience necessary.
I blink at the ad and click the link without thinking, half-expecting one of those sketchy, too-good-to-be-true scams. Instead, a clean, legitimate-looking website loads with all the details:
Work with cattle on a ranch in the small town of Wildbrook Hollow, Texas Hill Country, USA.
Accommodation provided. Meals included. Time to explore.
Paid position. Open internationally (flights not included).
My eyes linger on those last words: flights not included. And just like that, the small flicker of hope that had sparked in my chest vanishes, snuffed out by reality. The universe, ever the cruel magician, makes my dream disappear with a cheap sleight of hand. Poof. Gone.
I don’t have enough savings for the flights. Not even close. But still… I can’t look away from the screen. This wouldn’t be just another backpacking trip or fleeting getaway. It’s a chance to live somewhere else. To trade my tourist status for something real.
I’ve travelled all over the world, but I’ve never been more than a visitor, an observer passing through. Maybe that’s why I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere. But this, this could be different.
My thumb hovers over the “Apply now” button. What if I just… apply? The voice in my head is small but annoyingly persuasive. I could always get a small loan, right? And before my thoughts spiral and talk me out of it, I click the button.
My fingers move with a reckless sort of hope, rushing through the form without caring for perfection, as if leaving the commas out and being brutally honest might keep my expectations low enough to survive disappointment.
After all, even if by some miracle I land the position, I would still have to figure out how to afford the flights.
That's a future me problem. For now, I press “Submit” and hope that just the act of applying will be enough to quiet the chaos in my head.
I place my phone back on the bedside table, burrito myself into my duvet, and close my eyes. And as sleep slowly pulls me under, I cling to the dream that this impulsive, not-so-ten-minute scroll has offered me.