—Lana Parker, “Should You Say the L Word First?”
As soon as I collect my iced hazelnut latte from the barista at Constellation Coffee, I hunker down at a table in the back of the café, prepared to settle in for most of the day.
I have a column to write.
And a grand gesture to pull off.
Well, to be totally honest, I’m not sure it really counts as a grand gesture. It’s not running through the airport or interrupting a press conference or holding a boom box over my head. But I am determined to get the truth, my truth, out there for the world to see.
After a long sip of my coffee, I flip open my notebook, the one I had with me in San Clemente. I read over my notes, and even though they’re just my stream-of-consciousnessthoughts, I decide to use them as is. I add another note about what I learned on my solo vacation—that I am enough on my own, that eating in public by yourself isn’t that hard, and that when you have the resolve to turn down a hot surfer’s advances, you might actually be cured of your quick-fire relationship tendencies.
And then I think of my conversation with my mom. Strangely enough, she was right: I have always been capable of standing on my own two feet, even if didn’t realize that I was. I’m ready to share with my readers, and admit to myself, that my mom did, in her mind, what she thought was best for me. And that if I accept my mother for who she is instead of being angry at her for who she’s not, we might actually be able to have a real relationship.
I sit back in my seat and stretch my arms. I’ve already hit my word limit and I haven’t even gotten to the most important part. I know this isn’t what Natasha’s expecting from me, but I know she’ll publish it regardless. If she can’t get her clicks from the voting, then she needs something big. And this could be it.
My fabulous readers, I have come to the end of my journey. My final task feels like a somewhat arbitrary one. How do you know when you’re okay being alone? I checked off the other boxes. I even accomplished some things that weren’t on my original list (did I mention how hot the surfer was?). But that isn’t how I know I’m okay with being alone, that I’m ready to be alone.
I know it because I’m about to confess somethingthat could cost me everything. And it’s scary. Of course it is. Putting yourself out there, especially on the internet, is always scary. But I know I have to do it. If it all blows up in my face and I’m left alone and destitute, I will be okay. Because I’ve always been okay. I just needed a little push to realize it.
I know, I know, get to the juicy confession already, Lana, please. No one cares about your self-help bullshit.
Ready?
Here goes.
A few days ago, Seth Carson told the whole world (or a group of LA’s fifty top influencers and a few fellow journalists) that he didn’t complete his task and therefore forfeited the competition, declaring me the winner.
Well, I didn’t complete all my tasks either.
At least, not in the spirit in which they were given.
Because I didn’t actually have a one-night stand. I slept with someone. Yes, it was just the one night, but I couldn’t ever dare to call it a one-night stand.
Because I love this person. I have loved this person since I was fourteen years old, and I have never stopped loving him. I don’t think I ever will.
And I’m pretty sure he loves me too. But I also know how badly I hurt him. For that, I could not be more sorry. I can only hope he can find it in his heart to forgive me, but if he doesn’t, that’s okay. I will hold on to that love and I will find a way to be okay.
(But seriously, you know who you are, and I’m so sorry and I’m so in love with you so please forgive me.)
I proofread the piece once before emailing it to Natasha, worried I might change my mind if I think on this for too long. All I get in response is a one-word email:Received.
Great.
While I have my computer open and coffee at hand, I send a few outreach emails, mostly to people I’ve met at networking events over the years, but also to editors at a couple of sites I admire. I’m tired of writing about things I don’t care about, and if Natasha isn’t going to fulfill her promise, then I don’t see why I should plan on sticking around.ATFhas always felt like a family, but just like a family can be, it’s also been a little bit toxic and a whole lotta manipulative. I love my colleagues, but Natasha is meant to be my boss, not my friend. She’s the one who blurred those lines; I will be the one to remove myself from the situation.
Once she publishes my final piece, that is. If I quit before it goes live, I can easily see her refusing to run the column, just to spite me. Inspired by my own proactive job-hunting though, there’s one more thing I need to do. I log on to my blog site. Now that I’ve redesigned it, it looks and feels like a site people might want to read. The final step is to let folks know that it exists. I copy the URL link and navigate over to Twitter. Taking in a steadying breath, I paste the link and add a brief intro and hitTweet. I know if I actually want to drive readers to the site there’s a lot more I’ll need to do, but it’s a good first step. It’s not a career and it likely won’t make me any money, but it’s something for me. And I’m proud of it. It will give me something to focus on while I wait to hear back about potential job prospects and make other plans for the future.
Hopefully these new plans will also include Seth, though that remains to be seen. But even if he does decide to move on, I’m grateful for the time we had together and for the lessons I’ve learned over the past couple months.
Look at me, evolved as fuck.
—
Because I’ve beenavoiding the office and all communications from Natasha, I don’t know exactly when, or even if, my lay-it-all-on-the-table article will go live. It could be its normal Friday time slot, or maybe, because she just wants to be done with us, Natasha could decide to publish it early. Turns out, my gut is right and Natasha sends me a terse email Wednesday night, letting me know our final pieces will be published at eight a.m. the following morning.
Luckily, it’s still early enough in the evening that I have time to run to the grocery store to stock up on the wine and Ben & Jerry’s I know I’ll need to survive the next day. Halfway through my shopping trip I put the wine back and grab some bubbly and orange juice instead. If I’m going to be day drinking, I might as well be classy about it.
I get into bed early, knowing full well there will be no sleep happening. As I hunker down and turn onTed Lassofor my hundredth rewatch, I do the best I can to at least rest, pausing every so often to respond to the steady stream of texts coming in throughout the night.
