“Sorry,” I said once I caught my breath.
“Don’t be,” she smiled, like the tears were totally normal and didn’t disturb her. That made me feel better.
With ten minutes left in our session she asked, “What do you like to do outside of work?”
“Um.” I swallowed, my throat still thick. I hadn’t maintained any hobbies since I started working sixty- to eighty-hour work weeks, unless you counted trying not to miss important events for my family and friends and attempting to get to the gym every once in a blue moon. Watching a few episodes of TV and drinking wine weren’t hobbies. “I haven’t had time for any hobbies in a long time.”
“If you had more time, what would you spend it doing?”
I looked down at my legging-clad thighs. “I’m joining the gym today,” I offered.
“That’s great.” She wrote something down in her notebook. “Before we meet next week, I want you to take some time to think about what makes you,you, outside of your career. Hobbies, interests, values… Ask yourself: What are your priorities that have nothing to do with your job?”
I looked at her blankly. I’d thrived for as long as I did at Peters & Dowling by wrapping myself, my time, my entire identity, in the job.
I wasn’t sure who I was without it.
She ended our session at exactly fifty-five minutes past the hour.
Already in gym clothes, I pulled my thick, honey brown hair into a high ponytail and walked down the stairs. I topped off my water bottle and grabbed my headphones and car keys.
The smell of cleaning products, metal, and sweat filled my nose when I walked into the gym, but disappeared as I moved through my workout. It was quiet at the YMCA today, which I loved. I had the entire corner of the free weights section to myself. Upbeat dance music blasted through my headphones, keeping me motivated.
After I finished my circuit of weighted squats, walking lunges,dumbbell bench presses, and planks, I stretched on a yoga mat and thought about my therapy homework.
Reading novels counted as a hobby. I opened a note on my phone and wrote that down. I loved musical theater in high school, but that wasn’t a hobby I had interest in pursuing as an adult, except as a spectator. My mind wandered to writing, the partially filled notebooks full of ideas I found under my bed and the flare of inspiration I’d felt when I read them. Why hadn’t I started that yet?
I went through my final stretches as quickly as possible and jogged back to my car.
Sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, I scanned the open notebooks encircling me.
I’d reread all my old ideas since getting back from the gym, but, unfortunately, none of them stood out as one I’d want to pick up with again now. It had been a fun trip through my past, though. A reminder that I had other interests before I became a corporate lawyer. I chuckled when I read a story about some huskies that went on an adventure in Alaska. The penmanship left something to be desired, telling me I must’ve been about ten years old when I wrote it.
Some of the notebooks from my college years were romance ideas: small town romance, unforeseen circumstances causing forced proximity. I was so full of hope back then. I had a boyfriend I liked a lot for a couple of years at UPenn, but we broke up because he moved to California after graduation. I’d always wanted to write a romance novel because they’re my favorite to read, but given my complete lack of a romantic life the last few years, and the toxic on-again, off-again relationship with Chris before that, I wasn’t feeling romantically inspired.
I slid my laptop toward me and opened a search engine. Feeling foolish despite being alone in the house with no one tosee, I typed ‘how to become a writer’ into the search bar.Only Google’s data records and I will know,I assured myself as I pressed Enter.
One of the search results was an online writers’ platform that ran short story competitions every month. They posted a number of prompts, and anyone could submit a story for consideration.
One of that month’s prompts was about grief, another called for a ghost story. The third one caught my attention: Write a story about a lover’s betrayal that isn’t cheating.
I pressed my lips together and looked up toward the ceiling. What was something a lover could do that would cost you more than your heart? Murder, of course. But that seemed too obvious.
What if they did something that landed you in prison? My brain called up a memory from a lecture in Corporate Law. Our professor spent the entire first class warning us against insider trading.“If you’re on a first date and they tell you they’re a day trader, run!”I could hear my professor laughing at his own joke, and an idea came to life in my mind—a female public company mergers and acquisitions attorney whose boyfriend snoops in her home office and trades on the information. He gets caught, and they’re both prosecuted for insider trading.
I’d read stories about things like that happening to people, and it always struck me what an enormous betrayal it was. When a person cheats, they break their partner’s heart. When they do something like this, their partner loses their career and potentially goes to prison. All because they trusted their own boyfriend not to read their private documents. Plus, they say to write what you know. And the plight of a female corporate lawyer was something I considered myself an expert on.
I opened a blank Word document and started typing. First, bullets with the general idea, and then a potential first scene. They’re at dinner, and he asks how her deal is going. He shows a bit too much interest, asks her too many questions, but she doesn’t pick up on it.
By the time I looked up from my laptop, my stomach was growling and the sky had turned pink outside.
A few days later, I slid the latest hardcover Edward Phelps romance novel back onto the wooden shelf between its neighbors, and then pulled it back out again, balancing it on top of the three I already clutched in my arms.Yep, I’m buying all four—Natalie said this one is great. I turned and walked slowly to the front of the store, scanning the neatly packed shelves full of colorful book bindings as I passed.
My hair was still damp from the shower I took at the gym, but I’d finished the last paperback I brought with me to the island last night, so I’d parked my car in Mimi’s driveway and headed straight to Edgartown Books. The bookstore had been my favorite since I was a child. My mind was full of memories set in this little, converted white house on Main Street: sitting cross-legged on the floor of the brightly colored children’s section reading with my mom, and then when I got a bit older, wiling away hours perusing the back covers of young adult romance novels. The inventory changed every year, but my fondness remained the same.
Despite the books in my bag, I felt light as I navigated the brick sidewalk back to Mimi’s. After a week on the island, I’d settled into a routine of my own making: gym or a walk or run in the mornings, writing in the afternoons, reading at night, with long phone calls with my mom or Natalie mixed in. I’d been off from the firm for a month now, and it felt strange and indulgent thatIwas the one who got to decide what I did each day.
I paused for a moment to admire the new dresses on the mannequins in the window display of one of my favorite boutiques. Martha’s Vineyard had been quiet and calm without the summer surge, but that would come to an end soon. Memorial Day weekend was just over a week away, and the island was already coming alive. Each day more stores in Edgartown washedtheir windows and opened their doors, and the flower planters lining the sidewalks in town filled with petunias and coneflowers, as if by some sort of magic.
