Just Friends(4)
“Do you have, like, an NYC bucket list?” Faye, my best friend from college, asked me one night.
I blinked at her and said, “What do you mean by… bucket list?”
“Like, aren’t you envisioning the cute outfits you’ll wear to work every day and the sexy dive bar you’ll get drinks at where you might spot a celebrity?” she said, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
But the question stumped me. Landing this consulting gig wasn’t about enjoying my work, having a vibrant social life, or living in a big city. Those all paled in comparison to the expression I imagined on my mother’s relieved face as I delivered her the news: “You can retire.”
Leaving Seabrook had always been about getting the best job possible so that I could relieve my mom from working behind the cash register at one of Lottie’s convenience stores. But more than that, I wanted to buy her independence. Her life had been about supporting me for so long, I wanted to pay her back. I wanted to see her carefree enough to hang out with friends or consider dating someone again. To simply do something because she wanted to. Not because she needed to for me.
But here I was, job deferred.
Which was fine, of course. There was nowhere I’d rather be than with Lottie. But simultaneously, it felt like I was abandoning my mom. She would never see it that way, because she’d never ask for my help in the first place. Her life was about making sure I could live mine. But I wanted to make mine about making sure she could live hers.
I let my mind wander to my friends’ more promising first days out of college. Faye moving her clothes into a walk-in closet, kissing her new husband on the cheek before ushering him out the door to make enough money for both of them. And Roshi, receiving congratulations from relatives as she announced the prestigious law school she got accepted to.
Their futures are unfurling while mine feels like it’s snapping backward: Freshly moved into a tiny house at the back of a mansion I had no merit in earning, back to square one in my hometown. The irony is jarring. My friends are the mansion. I am the guesthouse.
I shut the water off and yank a pink towel from the rack, hastily drying off and ready to exit the guesthouse not long after arriving. Sulking wouldn’t get me closer to my dream of letting my mom finally retire, and Lottie wanted me to spend the day outside. So, if I couldn’t pursue the job I wanted, it was time I found one here in Seabrook. Descending the cobblestone steps and brusquely turning onto a wide road, I stride toward downtown where small businesses thrive during the tourist season. Somewhere, someone will surely hire me.
* * *
One of the things I missed most about home was the ability to walk everywhere. Within seconds, I remember why Seabrook is called “a storybook come to life.” The way the trees, seemingly as old as time, hunker down into the earth with muscular roots and weave through roads. A choir of birds sings as squirrels dart from branch to branch. Houses and shops lack street numbers, so hand-painted wooden signs offer names to reference instead. “Bristle & Brine,” reads a swinging sign to a boutique with robin’s-egg-blue-painted shutters.
Three blocks into the city, I lock eyes with my target—Seabrook Coffee House. A more recent addition to the city square, the name is a far cry from unique, but the shop itself makes up for it.
The white cottage house is nestled in a courtyard, led to by a brick street. Lush greenery hugs the roof like a sweater. As a child, I would hide behind the abandoned house’s bushes while playing tag with the local kids. Now, as a newly graduated adult, I swing the creaky red doors open to beg for a job.
A short, blond-haired girl peeks over the register at me and gives me an excited grin. She looks like she just celebrated the birthday that made her old enough to work here.
“Good morning! What can I get ya?” she says with a sunny smile.
An odd amount of shame creeps into my voice as I reply, “Morning! I was actually checking to see if you guys were hiring.” Perhaps seeing that I’d be coworkers with a high schooler after completing my degree at a prestigious university is what triggers it.
It’s just for the summer, I tell myself, making sure to liven up my expression so this cheery-faced girl doesn’t receive the brunt of my postgrad crisis.
The girl’s eyebrows crinkle like she’s trying to soak up the totality of my face before snapping out of it and blurting, “Yes! Let me just go ask the manager real quick!” I furrow my brow as she scurries to the back like a small mouse.
My ear unintentionally catches the sound of Sunny Teenager informing the manager that “a girl” is here looking for a job. There seems to be a tense exchange, whispered questions and responses, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
The manager is facing her, his broad shoulders blocking my view, but the sun beams through the window and highlights his jagged cheekbone. From the back, his hair looks messy in a way that suggests he was too busy to put effort into styling it.
The conversation between Tense Manager and Sunny Teenager ends, so I turn away sharply, hoping they don’t catch me eavesdropping. I’m facing the window, pretending to look outside, when I hear his footsteps approaching.
A calm, deep voice sounds off behind my left ear. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
The sound makes me time travel while standing in place. I spin around, still suspended in the second of shock, where my brain screams improbability.