But as shameful as it may be, it’s a little hard to feel thankful when I open my eyes to the tiny, crusty cabin of the eighties sailboat that’s my temporary home. The full-sized berth I’m sleeping in takes up most of the space, the rest consisting of little cubbies and stowaway shelves I’ve stuffed with my belongings. The space is just tall enough for me to stand upright in, and there’s no kitchen. My refrigerator is a cooler sitting out on deck, and my counter is a shelf on the wall I’ve stocked with a cutting board, one measly chopping knife, and a few nonperishable provisions. Tap water comes from a hose off the back of the boat, and my toilet and shower are up in the marina’s ramshackle office.
I’m essentially camping for the next three months of my life.
Not that I hate camping. It used to be the highlight of my college summers—taking a week away from whatever soul-draining internship I had to stay in a state park with Kitty, my childhood best friend, staring at the stars and talking about our futures.
But back then, my future didn’t involve getting laid off from the premier marketing firm I’d sacrificedyearsof my life to, all because my manager took credit formy ideas and rendered me “non-essential.” My ideal future also didn’t involve my boyfriend of two years cheating on me, casting my social circle into awkward disarray, and me being so overwhelmed by it all that I escaped to rural Rhode Island on such little notice that the only lodging available was an ancient sailboat.
I don’t even know anything about boats.
A “reset,” I’d called it in my head. A chance to slow down, breathe pollution-free air, and make a little money while Suzanne works her magic with my resume and gets me right back to where I was. But as I lay here, sheets sticking to my skin, staring at the rickety wood cabin door across from me, I wonder if this reset is more of a regression.
Eliza Attleburn, summa cum laude, spawn of two first-generation doctors, the one who “thrives” under the lifelong pressure to succeed is…here.
At least Idohave this contract job. Anson Gold confirmed it yesterday, when he personally replied to my email and apologized for his brother’s—GraysonGold’s—behavior. He assured me his brother was misinformed, expressed his excitement for having me on board, and clarified thathe, not Grayson, is my boss.
Grayson might be in charge of the farm, but Anson runs the Gold’s larger name, marketing operations included.
I won’t lie and say I didn’t briefly consider leaving yesterday. I didn’t come here for more problems. An oyster farm gig in a quiet town should, in theory, be the easiest, lowest-stress job ever. A chocolatey, sugary, extra-sweet cakewalk. I’m used to Saturday fire drills, Sunday evenings in the office, and “I needed that a week ago” from pretentious, disrespectful men who think lip gloss makes me inferior. While this might not be a high-paced environment, Grayson has thedisrespectful menpart down to a science.
But my boat rental is locked in. And even if it wasn’t, I’m not a quitter. Never have been. If anything, asshats like him make me want to work harder so I can stick it to them at a later date.
Granted, that ideal just failed gloriously at my last job, but this is a new opportunity.
I stoke the thought, letting it spark a little fire in me, because I need to crawl out of this pit of despair. Before I can reconsider, I throw the covers aside, toss on my faded college sweatshirt, and head up on deck.
Everything is slick with dew, but the air is sweet and fresh. I pull a water from the cooler and survey my new home while I drink.
The sky is beautiful in a sleepy way, hazy clouds parting enough to let the oranges and pinks of the sunrise slip through. Around me, the docks are quiet, save for the gentle lapping of water against hulls. This marina is nothing like the yacht club I’d glimpsed on the other side of town. Its six tiny wooden docks host a collection of modest boats, many of which are too small to have sleep-in cabins. The twenty-foot sailboat I’m on is one of the biggest here, situated all the way at the end of dock three. When I face away from the marina, it’s like I’m on an island, nothing but calm, blue water and the greenery of the salt pond stretching around me.
The oyster farm is visible to my right, a few homes line the shore, and the channel connecting the pond to the ocean is somewhere across from me, but compared to the city, it feels like I’m at the edge of the world.
With plenty of time to waste before work, I sit down on a damp cushion and open my socials. That pit of despair I’d just tried to seal opens right back up when I spot a photo of my two closest city friends, Sami and Jane, looking cute atthis new West End coffee shop. No doubt this is the tenth time they’d posed for this, their half-laughing smiles too perfect, but the pang of FOMO grips my chest and squeezes tight.
I should be with them.
But being with them wouldn’t make me feel any better.
In fact, being with my city friends recently has only made me feel worse. That’s what happens when your friend group is built around your ex. I knew it, too, the second I realized Kyle wasn’t the marriage material I’d always dreamed about. That’d been about eight months ago, but I never acted on it, telling myself I was seeking a standard too good to be true.
Now, two weeks removed from him and not nearly as heartbroken as I should be, I’m certain I was just operating under fear of change. With work draining me dry, I’d clung to the small, daily comfort of a stable, predictable personal life.
I really thought I was better and smarter than that.Strongerthan that.
Truly a bold thought to have while curled up on a worn boat cushion, lamenting over missing a café selfie before the sun is even up.
Screw this.
Whatever I’ve been doingclearlyisn’t working. I need to get out of my head. Before I can overthink it, I dart into the cabin, ditch my phone, and pull on my most secure bikini. Grabbing the goggles I haven’t used since college, I march back out on deck. Without my sweatshirt, the morning air is chilly, but it feels good to have something other thanmyselfto occupy my thoughts.
At the back platform, my blurred reflection stares up at me from the water as I braid my hair. Suddenly, I don’tfeel like a twenty-six-year-old career woman, but the sixteen-year-old girl about to start high school swim practice at the lake. I was good back then, ranking in the top twenty for the state, before ending my short career for an un-turn-downable academic scholarship.
I’m completely unprepared for how the frigid water steals my breath when I jump in.
It’sicy. A Siberian pond.Colder than the little lake in southern Massachusetts ever was. I’m in dire risk of turning into one of those Florida iguanas that freeze so hard and fast, they fall out of trees.
Survival instincts send me scrambling to the platform, ready to heave myself out. But when my fingers grasp the wood platform, I pause.
Take a shaky, tight breath.
