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One
-Lola-
Most people decideto make a significant change when a new year starts.
They spend the entire month of December planning who they want to become in the coming year, searching for ways to lose weight, get a new job, or meet the love of their life.
Some people go so far as to write down the exact path they’ll take, the road to success. They need to prove to themselves they have the ability to change, to become someone new.
I don’t have time to wait for the new year to roll around.
Six months ago, I decided that change needed to be made, and today I’m taking the final step of my transformation into “New Lola.” It’s funny to me how things can be toxic in your life, that it can build slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice how bad it’s gotten, and then one tiny grain of sand tips the scale in a direction that necessitates immediate change.
I guess that’s why they call it a “wake-up call.” It wakes you up from the daydream you’ve been floating through and shows you the worst-case scenarios. It shows you what will happen if you don’t change and what you’ll become.
My wake-up call came in the form of my phone ringing.
It didn’t drive me to start my business—no, this has been in the works for years, slowly building to this day.
It was what drove me to sayno more.
Normal people don’t answer numbers they don’t know. But when you’re the daughter of the mayor and in charge of the “family” and “crisis management” aspect of his image, you answer every call.
But that call? Sometimes I wish I had let it go to voicemail.
“Hello?”I had asked, tentative and anxious, like I am every time my phone rings with an unknown number. “This is Lola Turner.”
“Lola,bellissima.” My stomach churned because I knew the voice.
It was a voice I remembered from almost exactly one year ago.
A voice that has never boded well for anyone.
Johnny.
Two
-Ben-
I wake to loud banging,metal on metal, and instantly roll over to grab the sock-covered baseball bat beside my bed. It’s sat there, blissfully unused for the better part of five years, since I moved into this space. I’ve never had an issue with someone breaking in, but I always assumed it was a matter of time.
Living on the Ocean View boardwalk, where obnoxious tourists overdrink and let go, means I’m basically begging for one of them to decide what’s mine is theirs.
Once my fingers wrap around the cool metal, I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and look at the blinking alarm clock on the bedside table.
That can’t be right.
Seven in the morning?
Who robs a tattoo shop at seven a.m.?
Two a.m., when the bars close and the shop is dark, sure.
Three a.m., when the boardwalk lights shut off, the drunks feel comfortable in intoxication, and the cover of the night feels like a welcome mat for shenanigans? Definitely.
But at seven a.m.? When the oldies are already out, power walking the boards and feeding the seagulls before the heat starts? When the rich stay-at-home moms are running with expensive strollers before they make their stop for smoothies and coffee?
It doesn’t make sense.
