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It was a vacation disguised as a job.
And I was a woman who had never known an actual vacation. There had simply never been any money for it.
My mom, feet and back aching from running around all day, would sometimes climb into my bed after a hard shift, reminding me that the mind really couldn't tell apart a fantasy and a real experience if you made it feel real enough, so we could go on vacation in our minds.
We would do it, too. We'd close our eyes, take a few deep breaths, think about white sand beaches with water so clear you could see the bottom. We would splash in it for hours, then climb out, exhausted, resting on chaise lounges, drinking coconut-flavored drinks, eating fresh local fruits, not a care in the whole wide world.
It would work, too.
We would both open our eyes half an hour later, lighter, shoulders not so slumped, souls just the slightest bit calmer.
We'd never known a vacation.
And here I was, taking one for granted.
My mood hung all around me, my own personal dark cloud full of unending rain that kept me from relaxing in the tub, made all the food in the fridge taste blander than plain rice, kept me from admiring the beautiful view.
The only thing capable of taking me out of my own swirling, lonely thoughts was Bentley and his persistent need for snuggles, and his ability to know just when he needed to do something goofy to pull me out of another ugly thought spiral.
I needed to shake myself out of it.
It was a friendship doomed to end anyway.
It wasn't like me to get so damn attached.
What could I say, I was lonely.
I had latched on.
And I had started to depend on the connection, the conversations that could start early in the morning and could go late into the night with only the briefest of lapses when one of us was busy with something that required our attention.
I had gotten two weeks of that.
Constant, steady connection.
My soul had been so starved for it that it had gorged, overfilled, became fat and happy on it.
Then a famine came through, taking away all forms of sustenance, leaving me aching and empty and so, so unhappy thanks to having known such fullness.
The clawing, constant need was ever-present, sapping all of my energy, draining me of any comfort, leaving me tossing and turning in bed at night until a concerned Bentley would crawl up the bed, curl into my neck, rest his head on my shoulder, and let out a sigh that I swore said I get that you are unhappy. I have done everything in my power to help. You are exhausting me. Please sleep.
And so I did.
Before I knew it, Marie was at the door, much to Bentley's delight, all wagging tail, happy yips, and wet kisses with no understanding of personal boundaries.
I left with a heavier pocket but no lighter a load to carry as I made my way back toward my end of Navesink Bank, making a quick pit stop at the grocery store, spending a small chunk of the money meant for my savings on the makings for baked ziti.
When all else failed, food helped.
Maybe that wasn't the healthiest of mottos. Let's face it, though, I rarely had enough money to allow me to binge unhealthily whenever the mood struck, so I went ahead and allowed it when I felt like I genuinely needed it.
I took a steadying breath as I moved down the hallway, willing myself not to stare in the direction of Camden's apartment.
I had never been known for my willpower, though. My mom and I once decided to try a diet out when we had both put on a little bit of unwanted weight. I lasted all of twelve hours before I was digging into something that absolutely did not fit into my meal plan. My mom stayed on for three months and lost thirty pounds. I kinda just learned to love the fact that I would never be one of those girls on the beach with the completely flat tummies with the outlines of muscles and the hint of ribs. I was okay with a little padding.
So of course my eyes went to the door. Only looking away when I was in front of my own apartment.
I almost missed it, so not expecting anything there. But as I was digging for my keys, a hint of black, masculine block print caught my eye.
My head whipped up, finding a cell phone number scribbled there.New phone. Long story.And then there was an impatient line sectioning that off. A trio of rushed question marks were below it.
He'd lost his phone.
Or had broken his phone.
The idea had never crossed my mind. But it happened. I once dated a guy who went through a phone every four or five months. People who could afford new things didn't tend to take the best care of what they had. Since they always knew it could be replaced. Because I would have to work with a split screen or having no phone at all for months and months if something happened to it, I was always extremely careful with my phone.
