I have anexcitinginterview coming up. Suzanne says I’m well-prepared. Grayson is calling me again tonight. The festival was a success. Dave hasn’t tried to sabotage me since I got him the mealworms.
Everything’sgood.
But even after mentally chanting this for ten minutes asI tidy the house, my stomach still feels like it wants to simultaneously implode and explode. It isn’t just anxiety. It’s heavier than that.
It’sdread.
Like driving to Boston in two days is stepping off the edge of a plank into shark-infested waters. And it’s getting harder and harder to ignore, to compartmentalize into athey’re-just-feelingsbox and override with reality.
It’s like my body doesn’t know the difference between being chased by a bear and taking a goddamn step forward.
“You’re not being chased by a bear,” I state aloud. Then, hoping a cool drink can settle me, I yank the fridge open and pull out the first bottle my hand lands on.
It’s one of the beers I bought for Grayson.
Grayson, who I’ll talk to in—I check my watch—fifteen minutes. Who’ll inevitably make me smile. Who I won’t tell about my interview because…
Because I don’t want to hurt him. Disappoint him. Acknowledge the possibility of me leaving out loud, because that makes itreal, and that’s…god, that’sterrifying.
You’re not being chased by a bear.
The reminder runs across my mind as the bottle’s chill seeps into my hand. Except this time, the sentence keeps going.
I’m not being chased by a bear…up to my interview. No one’sforcingme to go. No one’sforcingme to look at options outside of Anson’s offer. No one’sforcingme to do what I’ve always done—to stay the course, to do something that makes me feelthisshitty.
The simple, obvious revelation seems to loosen some of that dread. With it comes another one.
“I don’t want to leave,” I whisper.
Expectations, pros and cons, college-grad-Eliza’s plans all shoved aside—I really,reallydon’t want to leave.
Dave waddles into the kitchen, beady eyes on me like he’s studying the misery plastered all over my face. Or he just sees a human-shaped blob. Whatever it is he sees, it makes him toddle all the way over to stand at my feet.
“Quack.”
For a moment, I stare down at him. This little emotionally abusive beast who I’m still half-afraid of, but have come so far with.
Then I shove off the refrigerator, drop the beer on the counter—because Grayson will enjoy it more than me—and beeline it to the couch. Thirty seconds later, I have Anson’s proposal pulled up on my laptop screen. I’ve already read the PDF twice. I go ahead and read it a third time, my gut slowly unraveling.
It’sdifferentfrom what I’ve been working towards.
But it might be agooddifferent—just likeIam, down here.
And maybe I should start caring about that more.Folding it into my definition of success. Or, at the very least, give it a shot and see what life could feel like.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that lifebeforeGarnet Shores didn’t feel as good as it does now. A fact deeply intertwined with the man who—no matter how much logic or therapy or willpower I throw at it—I willneverbe able to forget.
I thought I owed it to myself to stick to my goals and plans, and inevitably let Grayson go.
Maybe I owe myself the opposite.
32
GRAYSON
“I’ve setyou up for failure.”
It’s the first thing Eliza says when she picks up. The sound of her voice alone is enough to ease some of the heavy pressure constricting my ribs. Then her words, spoken with conspiratorial glee, effectively distract me from the afternoon’s events.
