Page 6 of Fate Fiction

I needed warmth.

I needed sunlight.

I needed to run through a field singing a dramatic song about the life I wanted to live.

If I shut my eyes and blocked out the sounds of the traffic below I could envision myself dressed as a damsel locked in a tower of her own making.

My phone chimed with a text.

Nick

that was fucked up.

i thought we could at least stay friends.

I hated myself for the way my heart lifted at the sight of his name on my phone. This push and pull of emotions wasn’t sustainable. I deleted the messages and tossed my phone onto an armchair across the room.

The belief that my life needed to exist in cinematic moments started to cloud my judgment. I envisioned a dream world parallel to reality where life was a scripted and choreographed scene with flattering lighting, a memorable wardrobe, and a rousing soundtrack.

My life should be filled with emotion, dramatics, and witty lines delivered with snappy comedic timing. I needed to reframe my present reality. I wasn’t going through a complete quarter life crisis, I was at a pivotal turning point in my young adulthood!

Romanticizing your own heartbreak only goes so far.

My emotions ebbed and flowed as I laid on my bed. Why was I so heartbroken all of a sudden? I should be skipping through the streets celebrating the shedding of a parasite.

The plaster walls of the apartment ping-ponged between signaling freedom and a prison. As they slowly closed in on me, my opinion on them favored “prison.”

Actually, the entire city of Boston was far too small. I started mapping out entire branches of the Green Line I would need to skip to avoid seeing Nick’s friends. If I left for work an hour earlier I could avoid the possibility of running into one of his coworkers on my commute. I tried envisioning a future where I could never step foot near Fenway again out of fear of running into him stumbling out of a bar.

Maybe I should avoid the entire state of Massachusetts, just to be safe.

I had to get away, at least for a little bit. The first step would be peeling myself out of my bed, and that task felt herculean.

Sprawled out on the mattress like a half-dead starfish, I stared out the window letting my cheek rest on the pillow dampened with tears and snot. I had to get up and do…something.

I stood and stretched, and shuffled downstairs to my living room. The world outside my front window was moving on. People on my street were running errands, getting coffee, living their lives and I should too.

A massive rectangular shadow darkened my view. A rolling truck engine hummed on the street. There, passing by, cast in the glow of a late Spring afternoon, a beer truck with a white sand beach, clear blue water, and the words “escape” plastered on its side rolled past. It had to be a sign from the patron saint of heartbreak flashing before me. That settled it. I had to get my ass out of Boston, as soon as possible.

Spontaneity was a foreign concept to me.

I’d never danced in the rain or taken a real chance on anything. Yet here I was, sitting at my kitchen table on my laptop feverishly looking up last minute trips to anywhere but here. Something overtook me. It was either the convergence of emotions or divine intervention from a beer truck.

The only thing my search gave me was a healthy dose of sticker shock. Flights from Logan in the coming weeks were absurdly expensive—like most things in this city. I had my phone’s calculator open beside me adding up projected costs and the numbers kept ticking higher. Between travel points, my tax refund, and a little finagling with my bills this month, I could probably work something out. At least that’s what I was telling myself.

My fingers flew over the keyboard, rabid with an energy I hadn’t felt in weeks. Google. New tab. Expedia. New tab. Pinterest. New tab. “Visit Bali on a budget.” “Visit Tulum on a budget.” “Visit the Bahamas on a budget.” “Visit somewhere tropical on a budget.”

The searching met the finish line. There, it sat before me, blinking in perfect pixels.

My escape.

An all-inclusive package at some three-star resort in Cozumel, where I could lounge on a beach chair and drink margaritas and read and write all day and not once think of Nick or any horrible thing he’d ever done.

I added extra options—the unlimited drink package was a necessity—and I selected flights. The cost ticked higher and higher, I whispered an apology for the pain my credit card was about to go through.

Right before clicking the green “Book Now!” button, the logical side of my brain finally took over. Spontaneity had run its course. There was another, less fiscally devastating, option for me to take advantage of.

Red Dock Lake Camps.