After we hung up, I placed my phone on the nightstand, stood, and spun in a circle, unsure where to start. I dropped to the floor next to my bed, slid a plastic bin out from under it, and popped the top off. It was filled with an array of summer clothing—a few sundresses and pairs of shorts, some open-toed shoes. I removedthe contents and stuffed them into a duffel bag. It would be mid-July before I went back to work, so I’d need them.
Next I pulled out a smaller plastic bin. This one was coated in a thick layer of dust and it took me a moment to remember what it was.
My notebooks!
I ripped off the cover. My fingers ran across the notebooks, journals, papers, and folders of different colors before picking up a yellow spiral notebook with a worn, cracked cover. I opened it to the first page and discovered the story of two college students that fall in love while co-starring in a student play. They’re friends, but they’re both dating other people. Drama ensues. A smile spread on my face as I flipped the pages. It wasn’t bad. After ten pages of notes, it ended. An idea that never got off the ground.
I picked up another journal and opened it. And then another. They were all the same: an idea for a novel or a movie, some bullets, and then nothing but empty pages waiting to be filled. I sat on my floor until I’d read through them all. The smile that widened on my face with each new idea felt foreign to my cheeks.
The notebooks spread around me on the floor reminded me that something I loved before work took over was books. The first love of my life was reading, and the second was coming up with stories in my head.
During college, I’d looked into creative writing courses almost every semester before dismissing them as impractical. After briefly entertaining the dream, I would always go back to Plan A: social studies degree with high honors, law school bound. Despite my interest, being a writer had little chance of resulting in the success I craved.
But now I let that pull to do something different than practicing corporate law—something I might love—take hold. Even if I could only do it for a few months, the idea stirred some long-latent excitement in my body. I removed all the notebooks and packed them in a bag to take with me to my parents’ house, feeling like itwas some sort of kismet that I opened this box before it ended up in storage.
I paid the hefty fee to terminate my lease, put my furniture in storage, and packed the rest of my belongings into bags and boxes that would fit into my dad’s SUV.
Two days after my mom first suggested it, I waited for my dad in the lobby of my building, self-consciousness gnawing at me. I thought about how I would describe this scene in a screenplay:A thirty-one-year-old woman waits in the sleek, marble lobby of a high-end apartment building surrounded by mismatched luggage and plastic bins. Other tenants scrutinize her on their way to and from the elevator bank. She looks like she’d like to disappear into the folds of her baggy sweatsuit.
I didn’t have a clue what the next scene would look like.
7
“How are you feeling?”
I zipped my dad’s oversized windbreaker all the way up to my chin and lifted my gaze from the wet pavement to my mom. We crossed the street into the cul-de-sac neighborhood across from ours before I responded, “A lot better, honestly. I’m sorry that pretty much all I’ve done is sleep for two weeks.”
It was the truth. Despite the fact that I was still grappling with my decision and had to self-soothe with breathing exercises almost every day, the four-mile walks with my mom, using the little home gym in the basement, eating healthy soups and high protein meals, and sleeping eight to ten hours a night had all had an irrefutably positive effect on my body. I didn’t feel like I was constantly on the brink of tears either, which felt like a huge win somehow. Even the scale was a few pounds lighter this morning. It was small progress given I’d gained thirty since starting at Peters & Dowling, but I was happy about it, nonetheless. Mostly because Ifeltbetter.
“You know we don’t mind. You haven’t been able to sleep like that for six years, so you have a lot of catching up to do!”
I smiled at her as gratitude washed through me.
We spent the rest of the walk talking about the book she’d just finished for her book club. She always gave everything away, but I didn’t mind. I’d probably read it anyway.
Drew drove home from Boston for dinner that night. At my mother’s insistence, I suspected. Unfortunately, his wife couldn’t join us—she was out of town for a medical conference.
It was the first time I’d seen Drew in person since my career imploded, and I was nervous to tell him. He didn’t know how much his opinion of my success meant to me. Probably because I’d spent my entire life pretending I didn’t care what he thought. But deep down, I did. Deep down, I still felt like the little girl who couldn’t figure out the math problem at the kitchen table, waiting for her genius older brother to tell her she was smart, too.
Drew and I lingered in the dining room after eating, my parents busy in the kitchen assembling some kind of dessert. My hand ghosted over the smooth surface of the new table my parents bought a few years ago. They didn’t have that kitchen table where Drew and I did our homework anymore. I couldn’t decide if I missed it.
“Do you think you’ll go back?” Drew asked me. “To your firm, I mean?”
A line formed between my eyebrows. “Of course I’m going back.”
Ever since Mallory threw me the lifeline of taking a medical leave instead of quitting, I hadn’t considered leaving my job altogether. I didn’t need to anymore, now that I had this long break.
And then, defensiveness set in. Did he think I’d just quit?
I almost did, but he doesn’t know that. I don’t think.
I wasn’t in the mood for his thinly veiled judgment. But when I looked at him, it wasn’t judgment emanating from his facial expression—it was concern. Somehow that felt worse. Like I’d already tanked my career anyway, and he felt bad for me.
My eyes narrowed in on him. “Why wouldn’t I go back?”
I waited for him to say something off-putting, like how I might be better off with a clean slate somewhere else, instead of goingback and having to prove to them that I could handle the workload without having another mental breakdown.
Before my brother could answer my question, my parents returned with a tray of Drew’s favorite cookies. He grabbed four, said, “Thank you,” shoved a full one into his mouth, and walked toward the front door. I rolled my eyes, and a smirk broke through my irritation. The thirty-four-year-old professor still ate like a thirteen-year-old boy that just got home from track practice.
