Can I really do this?
Throwing the sketchbook into the trash, I slam the lid closed.
* * *
It’s after one in the morning and my muscles ache from the move, but I can’t sleep. The mattress groans as I roll over and stare at the dark ceiling. The house is quiet; Brie went to bed over an hour ago. Light from a streetlamp outside peeks through my slatted blinds, while a car engine revs somewhere in the distance. I try to swallow, but my mouth is full of cotton.
I throw the covers off my bare legs and creep out of bed and down the hall. Inside the bathroom, I grab a small paper cup from the wall shelf and flip on the light. It flickers in and out twice before buzzing to life. I glance at my reflection. The back of my neck tingles. A memory of Devin smiling at me through a mirror while a light winks overhead flashes through my brain. In the next instant, the image fades, and the only person I’m staring at is myself. The cup slips out of my slackening grip and bounces onto the tile floor.
I brace my hands on the porcelain pedestal sink, breathing hard.
Before I quite realize what I’m doing, I’m tiptoeing down the creaking stairs and easing open the front door. Chilly night air washes over the skin exposed by my shorts and T-shirt, but I ignore the cold. Scurrying over to the trash can on the curb, I hesitate for only a second before opening the lid.
I dig through bits of paper and refuse, holding my breath so I don’t gag. Where is it? Is it still here? My fingertips brush a coil of metal before finding worn, familiar cardboard. Hands trembling, I lift out my sketch pad and wipe it off with the hem of my night shirt. It smells faintly of fried chicken and coffee grounds, but I don’t care. Swallowing down a wave of guilt, I close the lid softly and walk back to the house, sketchbook tucked tightly against my pounding heart.
Devin’s not real, but I can’t let go. Not yet. The memory of finally finding someone after being alone for so long is like a drug: powerful and calming. And, despite my bravado earlier about being ready to restart my life, it’s scary as hell. I’m not the same person I was a year ago. So what if I hang on to the memory of what it felt like to be loved, cherished, and supported by someone who made me feel whole? Opening the front door, I close it quietly behind me and pad softly to my bedroom.
Some comfort’s better than none. Even if it’s as thin as paper.
A morning breeze whips tendrils of hair across my cheekbone as I stare at the stainless steel Smith & Boone sign above the building’s wide glass doors. Was it really over a year ago that I was standing in this exact spot, about to walk into the interview that would land me the job offer of my dreams? Somehow, it feels like last week. Or maybe several lifetimes ago.
The law offices of Smith & Boone are housed in a modern, three-story glass and steel building along the Cuyahoga River—an odd juxtaposition next to the century-old, converted brick warehouses, rusted train lift, and other emblems of Cleveland’s long-gone glory as an industrial powerhouse.
Pulling my phone from the inside pocket of my shoulder bag, I check the time: 8:12 a.m. I’m eighteen minutes early for my first day as a summer associate. My lungs squeeze. I should have been here last September, reporting in as a first-year associate, but thanks to the accident that didn’t happen. Now I’m back where I started—competing for a postgrad position against a host of hungry law students, each of us hoping to snag one of the precious few offers the firm will extend at the end of the summer.
And one of those positions already has my name on it, which means I’ll be the one to beat. The one the other summer associates will be trying to outdo. I’ll have to be on my A-game all day, every day if I want to stay on top.
Hungry gulls screech overhead as I amble past the door and round the corner of the building. Leaning against a railing next to a small visitors’ parking lot, I pull up my contacts and hesitate with my finger hovering over the screen. After a quick shake of my head, I tap Brie’s face and request to FaceTime.
Her phone rings once before she accepts.
“Hey! Looks like you made it okay,” she says thickly, propping up her phone. She’s sitting in her oversized pink cotton pajamas at our snug two-person kitchen table with a giant ceramic bowl in front of her. A crunching noise filters through the speaker as she chews. “How was the walk?”
“Not bad. Just a little over half a mile.”
She swallows and scoops another bite of what looks like Lucky Charms into her mouth. “I would have driven you.”
“Yeah, but that would have required you to get up early, and we both know mornings are not your friend.”