2. Rune
Chapter 2
Rune
I don’t believe in using liquor to drown my problems, but there is a time and a place for everything. The moment I get back to my apartment, I pour myself a shot glass of whiskey and down it in a single gulp.
“What are you doing home so early?”
I nearly jump out of my skin as my roommate Danielle emerges from her bedroom, still wearing pajamas. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“The conference ended early, so I came back late last night.” She squints and pours herself a cup of coffee from our battered little coffee maker before settling on the oversized armchair. “What’s going on? Why are you drinking already and without me?”
“I got fired.” Saying the words out loud is unreal.
Danielle’s eyes widen. “Because you did something…wrong?” Her voice drops to a whisper on the last word.
I shake my head. “There were a lot of meaningless catchphrases about restructuring and budgets, but—I think it's because I made the wrong enemy.” Diana and I have never been friends. I’ve had to correct her work too many times.
It's a testament to the many stories I've shared over the past two years that Danielle knows exactly what I'm talking about.
“Diana is a bitch,” she seethes. “Did they at least give you a good severance?”
“Three weeks. And no quarterly bonus.”
“That should be illegal. You could renegotiate. Or threaten a lawsuit for discrimination.”
“Discrimination? I don't think…no, it wouldn't get me anywhere.” I struggle with confrontation on the best of days. I am definitely not starting now. Is it pathetic that I feel like it’s just better to cut my losses than try to fight for a low-paying job with a boss I can’t stand?
Danielle looks as if she might argue, but remains silent as we each take another drink.
“This hasn’t exactly been your ideal role,” she says finally. “Maybe this is an answer to your manifesting.”
“What manifesting?”
“You haven’t been manifesting?” She looks appalled, in a no wonder this happened way.
“Diana’s clearly been manifesting. I got fired, she gets a raise.” I glower at my empty glass, thinking of her stupid finger trailing down Craig's sleeve. Annoyed, I exchange my glass for a cup of coffee and throw myself down on the lumpy sofa.
“Aren’t you glad you don’t have to deal with her anymore?” Danielle tries again from a different angle.
“I suppose.”
“You can find a better job.”
“If there are any.”
“You’ll have more time to finish those illustrations and start that side gig you’ve been talking about.”
“Yeah, for sure.” I force a little smile. I have no energy to be optimistic about this. Not right now.
Listlessly, I pick up my phone. There are a few unanswered texts from my coworkers, all varying degrees of I can’t believe they did this to you and Are you ok? I tap out a couple of responses with smiley faces and thumbs-up emojis.
I should probably text my sister, Jules. I share absolutely everything with her, despite the fact that we live across the country from each other. But she'll probably want me to take action immediately, when all I want to do is disassociate. So…maybe later. I'm about to set my phone back down when I recall Sebastian, my long distance boyfriend.
He might be half a world away, but he’s always been someone I can count on when I'm in need. When I broke up with my sophomore year boyfriend, he was the one who sat with me, listened as I sobbed about my broken heart, and then made sure I had a wingman every time I went out.
My spirits perk up just a little as I realize that Sebastian is the one I need to talk to. He'll know what to say to make me feel less awful. I tap out a quick text.
Me: Are you still in Paris?
Not a minute later, the phone lights up.
Sebastian: Mais oui, ma cherie. Pourquoi demandez-vous?
I don’t know the first thing about French. I show the phone to Danielle, who snorts and translates it for me.
“You should tell him that tu is more appropriate in this scenario. And that he forgot the acute accent over the e .”
I ignore her and type a response.
Me: Do you have time for a call?
Sebastian: It’s getting a little late here. What’s up?
Me: I lost my job today.
The speech bubble pops up and disappears several times. I stare at it, oddly comforted. It’s nice to know that someone is thinking about me, trying to find the right words to say to make me feel better. Then my screen lights up, revealing a shirtless Sebastian, the light from the phone illuminating his face against a shadowy background. His head is resting against what looks to be a headboard. He looks very mussed. I must have caught him falling asleep. It's nearly one-thirty in the afternoon here, I don't know what time that makes it in Paris.
“Hey, you ok babe?” he asks. There's a muffled something in the background and Sebastian covers the phone for just a moment before reappearing. “Tell me what happened.”
I tell him the abbreviated version: the company is making cuts and apparently I was one of them. I don’t bother mentioning Diana, since I haven’t told him about her before now. Our conversations have been so few and far between lately, it seemed ridiculous to waste time on work drama. Sebastian asks about severance and is appropriately upset at my answer.
“I’m really sorry, Rune. You're talented. You'll manage to find something,” he says, which is a nice sentiment.
“When are you coming back?” I ask. “I wish you were here. I always feel better when you're around.” Which is true, even if Danielle is silently gagging at me. She does not share my fondness for Sebastian on any level.
An unmistakably feminine voice murmurs something in the background of the call. Danielle must hear it too, because she sits a little more upright and looks intently at my phone. There’s a blur next to Sebastian, followed by a slender hand that emerges to rest on his shoulder.
“Is there—is someone there with you?” I glance up at Danielle, whose brows are raised.
Sebastian clears his throat. “Rune, I just wanted to make sure you're doing ok. Is there someone with you right now? Is Danielle there?”
“I—Sebastian, who is in bed with you?”
“Please answer my question,” he says, sounding actually irritated. “Is Danielle there?”
“Yes,” I say, dazed. All I can do is stare at that hand resting on his bare shoulder.
“Good. Do you need money for a plane ticket to see your parents?”
“What—no. Absolutely not.” Like hell would I ever share any of this with my parents. He should know that. “Sebastian, are we—” I really don't know how to voice this question, considering the fact that someone else is currently with him in bed. A woman, from the looks of it. I try again, “—is that?”
“Rune, I'm glad to hear you're doing ok,” he cuts me off abruptly. “I'm sorry about your job. Is there anything I can do to help you right now?”
“I just wanted to hear a friendly voice. That's all.” My voice quavers a little at the end. I don’t know what to do. He’s hiding someone. It looks like a woman. Why is he hiding a woman from me?
“It's fine. Let me know if there's anything I can do to support you during this time. Goodnight, Rune.” Before I can reply or ask any more questions, the call cuts out. Dazed, I set my phone down on the coffee table.
Danielle looks at me with an expression like she’s just seen a ghost. Or a spider.
Her phone buzzes, but she only glances at it for a moment before flipping it face down on the table next to mine. It’s something in her expression that makes me lunge forward to flip her phone back up. The notification bubble is still there. A text from Sebastian.
“Think you should read that?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
She shakes her head, but does it anyway.
Sebastian: Hey, Rune just texted that she lost her job, wanted to make sure you're with her.
Fuming, I text him back on my phone.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me.
Sebastian: About what?
Me: The FEMALE in bed with you?
Sebastian: We haven’t seen each other since July. I assumed we were on the same page.
Me: ASSUMED?
Sebastian: We can talk about it later. This is obviously not the right time. Don’t say anything to my parents. She’s a client.
“He’s sleeping with someone. In fucking Paris.” My hands are shaking so badly that I drop my phone onto the carpeted floor. “What did I forget to manifest here?” I stare at Danielle, waiting for an impossible answer.
She looks like she wants to cry. She isn’t great at confrontation, either.
“He's an asshole,” she says finally.
Is he? I wonder. Or am I just na?ve?
I look around, dazed, at this shitty, expensive apartment. I came here to build a life, a future, with Sebastian. Sure, we might have hit a rough patch, but who doesn’t after four years? The last time I saw him we went out for pizza. And the time before that we were laying naked together in bed. How was I supposed to know when he stopped looking forward to the next time with me? Has he been sleeping with other people all along? Suddenly, all those weeks where he barely responded to my texts take on an entirely new meaning.
I am a fool and now the walls of my little life are crumbling around me.
“He’s a fucking idiot and not worth your time,” Danielle says, watching me nervously.
“I came here because of him.” My voice sounds far away, even to my own ears. “I was working towards a future with him.”
And what a shitty future that’s turned out to be.
Sebastian has been earning twice as much as me since we graduated. He's traveled the world many times over. And what have I done? I’m jobless, soon-to-be-homeless, and apparently emphatically single. The fact that this apartment alone eats up most of my monthly paycheck, which means I have barely enough for next month. And then what? What if I can’t find a job and all that money is just…gone? Four years and absolutely nothing to show for it.
Danielle comes to sit by me on the couch, wrapping her arms around me as tears course silently down my cheeks.
“What can I do to help?” she asks.
I just shake my head. The thought of Sebastian—of us—has kept me motivated all these years. If I only stuck with it long enough, I thought for sure I’d get the ring, the husband, the house.
And now I’m just supposed to…what?
I have less than two months before my money runs out. In that time, I either need to land a new job or find a new place to live. Someplace free.
Do I have parents? Yes. However, I refuse to tell them what’s happened, let alone ask them for free room and board while I figure out the next step. I’m sure they care, in their own way. They just have a really weird way of showing their love and concern. It usually looks something like a stinging critique followed by several misguided ideas, each one more irrational than the next.
I could ask my sister Jules…but that, too, reeks of failure. She’s off living her own life in Portland right now as an executive assistant. If I can, I want to figure this out on my own. I want to prove to myself that I’m capable of doing what it takes to stay independent.
“I’ll find something else,” I tell Danielle, rubbing my tear-blurred eyes. “I won't leave you with all the rent.”
“That is literally the last thing on my mind. Besides, I’ve been thinking that with the lease up for renewal next month, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to look elsewhere. There are lots of other places out that are in much better condition than this one.”
“Like where?” Pretty sure this is one of the cheapest places out there, and it’s falling apart.
“Brian's house.”
Brian is Danielle’s boyfriend, who she’s been dating since August. He's a snappy, high-earning entrepreneur who just bought a fancy house a few miles away. With cash, if the man is to be believed.
“Did you talk about it with him?”
She nods, looking a little guilty. “A couple weeks ago. But I didn't want to tell you.”
Now I feel even worse. They’ve been dating for less than a year and are already talking about moving in together. That’s one stage Sebastian and I never got to, even after four years together. “Do you want to move in with him?”
“Yes,” she admits. “But I won't if it puts you in a bad situation.”
I put my coffee down. What I should do is give her my blessing. Smile and congratulate her on having landed a boyfriend who wants to move onto the next step in their relationship. But I can’t seem to get the words out. The best I can do is a flat, “That sounds sensible.”
“We don’t have to. I swear it’s not that big of a deal,” she says hurriedly, which makes me feel even worse.
“It’s fine. I approve. I think–I think I just need some air.” I avoid eye contact with my roommate as I gather my phone and keys and put on my coat. “I'll be back in an hour or two. Talk then?”
I barely hear her quiet assent as I close the door behind me and take the three flights of stairs to the street. I feel like a villain. Danielle has a great job and a boyfriend who clearly wants to amp up their relationship. I don’t want to hold her back from that. I should have said something nice, something supportive, but all I can think of is that hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. I wonder if that girl is pretty, if she speaks French, if she’s successful in life. I wonder if she’s everything I’m not.
I pick up my pace as the light mist turns into all-out rain, heading towards one of the more upscale neighborhoods, filled with spacious, modern houses and a string of boutique shops. When I first moved to Chicago, I walked this street and dreamed about living in one of the houses—the blue cottage on the corner lot, to be precise. Despite the rain, I pause in front of the fence, looking at the white gazebo. It would be the perfect place to read books. To work on my illustrations. To dream.
I showed it to Sebastian once, hoping that he would also latch onto the vision, but he shrugged and insisted that high-rise apartments are far better. I didn’t take it to heart; I was sure he’d come around eventually and set his sights on the blue cottage-style mansion, too.
Joke’s on me, I guess.
The icy wind grows stronger and I turn back towards the shops that line the edge of the posh neighborhood. Every store on this block is unique, but there's one in particular that I'm drawn to: a three-story bookstore tucked into a narrow brick building. The door is painted black with panes of glass on the top half and a fancy brass knob with etched leaves.
There’s an ancient-looking carved sign hanging above the door:
Rowanberry Nook: Something for Every Reade r
I step inside to warmth and the rich smell of espresso mingling with the iconic scent of book pages. Thousands upon thousands of books, packed into every nook and cranny in this building. It smells like heaven and looks like it, too.
In the front of the store, the shelves are filled with carefully curated limited editions and signed copies; farther back and on the second floor are the regular books, with used volumes taking up the entire third floor.
Usually I go straight upstairs, but today I linger near the front. Window shopping for beautiful books is nearly as cathartic as buying a large stack of gently used novels.
There's always something new to see here, but today is a special treat.
Right in the front, propped on a stand, is a signed, special edition volume of A Tale of Crimson and Roses , the first book in a fantasy romance series by R.E. Andersson. It’s my absolute favorite book by my absolute favorite author. It also happens to be the book that I’ve been creating my illustrations for.
I wave my hands around to dry them off before carefully reaching for the book and turning it over reverently in my hands.
“How did you get this?” I ask Brett, the store owner, who has emerged from behind the counter to greet me.
“The author stopped by to drop off a few signed copies. You actually just missed it all.”
Of course I did.
“Is R.E. Andersson from the area?”
“No idea.” He shrugs. “Seemed a bit nosy to ask.”
I leaf through the leather bound copy. The signature is the most precious part—R.E. Andersson actually held this in her hands—but the pages are also filled with delicate floral sketches surrounding each chapter number. There’s also a bonus scene at the end featuring the main character and her love interest.
I have to have this.
I know I'm out of a job, but—I glance surreptitiously at the price. $125 isn't that much for a book, is it?
“Do you have any more copies?” I ask.
“Nope. Believe it or not, the other four sold while the author was still here. That's the last one I have.”
Well, that decides it. I take the book to the counter, ignoring the little voice in my head that whispers frantically to put it back. Everything else has gone wrong today, I might as well treat myself to one nice thing.
“Off work early?” Brett asks conversationally as he rings up my book.
“Well…I got laid off.” It’s a testament to the power of shopping therapy that I don’t burst into tears. At least I’m not distraught enough to break down completely and say something like— “I also learned my boyfriend has been cheating on me.”
I cringe. On his side of the counter, Brett does as well.
“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to tell you that,” I say.
“Wow, that really sucks. You, uh, want a coffee on the house?” He motions at the fancy espresso maker behind the counter.
“You don’t have to give me a pity gift,” I say, but I scan the handwritten menu.
“Please. We humans have to stick up for each other. What d’ya want—latte? Cappuccino?”
“A latte, please. And thanks.” I slide onto a stool and stare at the author’s signature on the inside cover of my book. It feels like a lifeline. R.E. Andersson is a goddess among authors, which basically makes this a relic. “It’s not like the job was even that great, you know?”
“Jobs are jobs. It’s nice to make a livable wage, but sometimes the cards don’t always give you that.”
“I guess.”
“I wish I could offer you something, but I’m full staffed already.” He hands me a steaming latte. It tastes like heaven after the piss poor coffee I’ve been drinking at work. Which I will not be drinking anymore.
“That’s ok. I haven’t really processed any of it yet. I should probably get started doing that.” Therapy would not be remiss here, but I no longer have health insurance, so scratch that.
“A mental reset. Nice. You gonna eat, pray, love your way into a better life?”
“I wish,” I sigh. My bank account definitely cannot support that kind of an endeavor.
“You got any family or relatives to visit? Sometimes a change of scenery is just what the doctor ordered. Helps you to see outside the box.”
I'm about to decry the idea when a sudden thought snags in my mind: I actually do have relatives to visit. My aunt, who lives on a lake up in northern Minnesota. My sister Jules and I used to spend a month there every summer, back before our parents became snobs and cut ties with the rest of the family. Thanks to college and very little PTO, I haven’t been to visit in years, despite a standing (and often repeated) invitation.
I whip out my phone and send a text to Aunt Mairi, asking if her favorite niece can come visit for a few days, maybe a week at most. The answer comes back almost immediately.
Aunt Mairi: Obviously yes. I'm heading down to the Cities tomorrow. Will be back on Friday, but you come whenever. The door will be unlocked.
I blink back the sudden moisture gathering in my eyes. Another lifeline.
“Good news?” Brett says cautiously.
“Eat, pray, love,” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. But it comes out a sniffle. “Looks like I landed a visit with my Minnesota aunt. She lives out in nature. Maybe I do need that.”
“Atta girl,” he says proudly.
I sit for a while chatting with Brett, surrounded by the warm comfort of the bookstore. I don’t leave until a crowd of new customers comes in and steals his attention away from me. With a little wave, I leave the coziness of Rowanberry Nook behind me.
When I get back to the apartment and update Danielle on the turn of events, she's almost beside herself with relief.
“That book is totally worth the money,” she affirms, touching it as reverently as I did. “Also, I talked to Brian when you were gone. He brought up the fact that there's basically a small apartment in the basement of his new house. If you want, you could have that to yourself. We don't have to commit yet, of course, I—I just wanted to let you know that it’s an option.”
“I like that idea,” I say, even though I cringe at becoming such an obvious third wheel. But my real options are pretty limited. “How soon do you want an answer?”
“Go on your trip and maybe we can talk about it when you get back?”
“Ok,” I say, relieved. I'm not in any state to make long-term decisions. After a long shower (in which I burst into tears again, recalling the utter embarrassment of being singled out at work as the first to go), I curl up in bed, too worn out to do anything except run my fingers along the cover of my new book. It feels like a good luck charm. Like a token of promise that somehow, somewhere in the future, things will get better.