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Chapter Three:
Love Language
Job hunting was exhausting. There weren’t many options in my field of work, but that wasn’t what made it hard — I really didn’t want to go back to billing and coding anyway. The money was better than the twenty fast food restaurants that were hiring, but this was about more than the money for me. It was about giving myself some direction, some purpose. Maybe finding a job that could be a career. A rewarding one. Something that might make it worth dragging my ass out of bed every morning.
Unfortunately, I’d never been more lost in my life. I had no idea what my life was going to look like in a week, let alone a year, and it was making me feel untethered. I was exactly where I knew I needed to be, taking the necessary steps to move forward and put my past firmly in the rear-view, feeling more confident that I’d made the right decision with every day that passed ... but where was it all leading?
To an early grave, probably. The stress will kill you, that devilish little voice reminded me. And you’ll be homeless in a couple of months if you don’t find anything. That’ll be fun. What are the survival chances then? Sounds like the beginning of a CSI episode. Do you know how cold it gets here?
Fair point.
Son of a fuck.
With that in mind, I doubled down on my quest to find gainful employment. I applied for medical billing jobs — despite my reservations — two bars, a restaurant, a front desk position at a dental office, a job selling life insurance door-to-door, and a job dispatching for a contracting company. I applied for absolutely anything I was even remotely qualified for, which left out the home health aide openings, the two listings for experienced paralegals and the warehouse looking for a night manager. Everything else got at least a glance from me, including the flight attendant gig I’d applied for in a moment of desperation despite my utter and crippling fear of airplanes.
It was right around then that I realized it was time for me to take a nap.
I clearly wasn’t getting anywhere good, and that fact didn’t change for two solid days.
On day three of my job hunt, I came across yet another home healthcare opening and did some research. The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I was, and how unqualified was I, really? It didn’t seem like I was having any luck with the jobs I was qualified for, so at that point, I didn’t think it mattered. I was willing to try just about anything to get some money coming in and buy myself some time.
The description for this particular job was short, but it sounded like it could be right up my alley: full-time, live-in, good pay, and I’d get to take care of someone, which was something I’d always wanted to do. I’d known since I was young that I wasn’t cut out to be a doctor, but this was different. Just a nice old man looking for someone to help him with daily things so he didn’t have to move to a nursing home. It didn’t say anything about special medical needs or sponge baths, and the more times I read through it, the more excited I became at the thought. I could help someone stay comfortable in their own home and feel fulfilled every day at work. I knew it would be more complicated and demanding than that, but I decided not to dwell on the negative and just apply. Given the fact that no one had called me but Kylie, I figured there was a good chance that this wouldn’t be any different, anyway.
What are your strengths? Easy.
What are your weaknesses? Peasy.
Why are you interested in this position? Lemon.
Why did you leave your last job? Sque— why did I leave my last job? Seven Hells, where do I begin? So there was this douchebag named David, we dated, lived together, got engaged and then he dumped me ... oh wait, the job thing. Yeah, he was my new boss. Guess you could say I didn’t mesh well with upper management. Instead of typing any of that, I went with something much more professional, just a quick little line about living in the same town my entire life and needing a change of scenery. It may not have been the best answer I could’ve given, but it was honest, and I was through playing pretend.
By the time I got to the last page of that extensive application, I was absolutely done with job hunting for the day. The questions had steadily gotten more in-depth and weirder, especially given the position, but none topped the very last one.
What are your love languages?
Love languages? What kind of job application asked for love languages? I double-checked the job duties and made sure there wasn’t something specific I missed the first twelve times and relaxed slightly when I still found nothing weird in the description.
Maybe Mr. Charles Bishop just wants to know the kind of person he’s hiring? Is that a thing? Do I have the luxury of caring whether or not that’s a thing at this point? I bit my lip and tapped my finger on my laptop next to the trackpad, then followed the link to the website and started the quiz. If nothing else, part of me had always been curious.
Instantly, I was prompted to admit I was single, which only made the whole process lonelier than it needed to be. Here I was, about to figure out my love language, and I had absolutely no one to speak it with.
The longer it went on, the more I realized that I actually did need a hug thanks to the seventeen thousand ways it asked me, and in the end, I wasn’t surprised at all by my result. Physical touch. Seems fitting I’m losing my damn mind since no one has touched me like that in years. I wrapped my arms around myself and nearly didn’t submit the application — did I really want some cute little old man to know how badly I craved to be touched? How lonely I really was? I came here to ignore all of that and move on, not advertise it to my next employer before I even had the chance to look them in the eye.
Fuck me running.
I gave myself a quick little pep-talk, clicked submit, then slammed my laptop shut and collapsed back on the hotel bed as I let out a sharp breath. Kylie’s ringtone interrupted the swirl of anxious thoughts racing through my head, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear her lecturing me or begging me to come back to that suffocating spit of land we called a town, so I flipped my phone upside down and effectively smothered myself with the pillow.
Sorry, Ky.
If something didn’t change soon, I’d have to go home — but going home would mean begging David fucking Sorrin of all people to give me my job back, begging Kylie to let me crash at her place for god-only-knew how long, and begging myself not to have a mental breakdown on a daily basis again.
It would mean settling in a small town and probably never leaving again. It would mean more looks of pity no matter where I went, because everyone in Point Isly would know that poor Zeppelin Bryce tried and failed to leave.
No. I refused to believe that’s what all this would amount to. I just had to have faith in myself and a little faith in the universe and everything would work out eventually.
The alternative was un-fucking-thinkable.
