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My stomach, which already felt as though it was about to drop through the tiles floor, clenches and starts the frantic gallop of thoughts as I try to come up with an excuse for not having as many pieces as she wanted.
“I’m sorry that there hasn’t been the volume of content that you wanted, but I’m confident that I can hack out some really great pieces before I leave and can continue to send content when I do leave. I’m eager to make sure that you’re happy from your time with the agency.” I feel as though I should stop talking because her face quickly turns to a face of pure boredom.
“I’m not worried about the volume of writing you have done. I am far more concerned with the fact you hit my brother with a golf cart and didn’t tell me and that you think it is professional to sleep with your client’s brother.”Oh shit.
I’m so surprised at the fact that she knows everything that I can’t find words to say. I feel myself floundering like a fish out of water, my brain slowly trying to come to terms with what is happening. I am about to be fired. Everything is over. Time to go home.
Only, I don’t have a home. The closest place I have to being able to call a home is my father’s house.
“I know it looks bad. But I have been trying to help your brother out as much as I can to make up for the injuries and the fact he can’t work at the moment.” She doesn’t soften or even pretend that she is at all worried about my excuse.
“You didn’t tell me and that is the issue. If you had come to my office and said what you had done was a massive accident, then I wouldn’t mind as much, but it is clear you have just decided to hide it or lie to me and as your client, I’m not comfortable with that.” She shuffles pieces of paper around on her desk. “I’m happy to cut you loose of the job contract and think it would be far better if you go home or move on to the next job or whatever it is that you do.” She doesn’t look up from what she is reading on the desk in front of her. Our conversation is obviously over.
It feels unfair. The articles that I wrote for her last night feel heavy in my hands. However, she’s right and I should have seen this coming. I was in a lose-lose situation because if I had told her then I would have been fired sooner but waiting only ran the risk that eventually she would find out and surely enough want me to leave. This is completely out of my control and from the way she doesn’t even bother to look at me as I place the articles on her desk and turn to leave, there is absolutely nothing I can say or do to change her mind. How can she be so cold and dismissive? While her brother is full of compassion. If I hadn’t already known they were siblings, I never would have guessed it. They’re poles apart.
I don’t think about where I am going until I find myself back in my room, in front of my open case. Time to pack. I’ve lived out of this case for the best part of four years. Always moving from job to job or a friend’s sofa to family’s spare room. I think I’m getting tired of it now. It’s not like I can’t afford to stop and take some of the lower-paying writing commissions. I’ve just always strived to make the most money. I’ve got enough money for a down payment on a house and enough years of income to prove I can afford it. God knows where I should go.
It doesn’t take me long to have all my things together, having had the practice in the art of packing. Putting my bag in the trunk makes me realize that I need to leave. It’s time to say goodbye to Tully. Whether I like it or not, the time is here and I need to gut up and get it over with.
It feels unlucky to come out to the middle of nowhere, finally meet someone worthwhile, and then have to leave before it’s really been long enough. Only I do know the idea of saying goodbye and driving all those miles home makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to leave him. I doesn’t feel as though it’s run the course it’s meant to run. It could very well just fizzle out and not be amazing anymore, but it’s not that time yet and no one knows when that will be.
The hopelessly romantic thoughts carry me the short drive to the pub and leave me sitting in the car in a teary-eyed mess. No matter how I look at it, this isn’t going to feel any better so if I just get this over with really quickly and get on the road, I’ll be one step closer to feeling okay again.
It’s great logic, but when I let myself into the pub with the spare key and find him sitting at the bar writing in his books where he keeps logs of everything, I feel stupid for thinking this could be done quickly. To do that, I’d have to just say goodbye and actually walk out and watching him reminds me that that’s going to be the hardest thing about this week. In reality now, comparing the sorrow with losing the job and leaving Tully, the two just don’t measure up to each other.
“Hey, you. You’re early. How did the meeting go with my sister?” He doesn’t turn his attention to me fully, scrambling to finish what he is writing.
I sort of thought he would know. However, they aren’t close so why would she tell him? They don’t talk, he’s told me as much. “She fired me.” The words that had been bouncing around in my head feel strange coming from my lips. But oddly satisfying. At the very least, I’m finished worrying about being caught which is one small silver lining.
He drops his pen and turns to me, and the shock and worry on his features mean more than they should considering it hasn’t even been a week since we met. Sitting down next to him doesn’t feel new and when he grabs my hand it doesn’t feel like something that should be ending. “She found out about the accident and that I’ve been coming here and seeing you and didn’t like the fact that I lied, but I have a feeling she would have fired me anyway.” The look on his face confirms what I said.
“I didn’t think she would have found out.” He squeezes my hand and I want to dive into the warmth that it brings. “What are you going to do?”
“I guess I will come back and visit you at some point. When I’ve settled down wherever. I’m going to have to because you need to take me fishing and hiking and do all those things that you were doing before I turned up and broke bones.” It feels lame and I find myself struggling to find what to say. What do I do? Just hug him, say see you later, and go?
“You going to go stay at your dad’s?” It’s a perfectly good question but it makes my heart sink. What do I expect him to say?
“Yeah, I’ll ring him on the way there.” Looking down at the keys in my hands, I feel the first awkwardness since I met him. Maybe this just wasn’t meant to be.
“Okay, would you let me know when you’re there?” Another infuriating question despite being a perfectly fine one.
“Is that it?” This isn’t how I pictured this conversation. For all that I’ve felt the last few days, this is how I’m leaving?
“What do you mean? You need to leave, don’t you? What do you want me to say?” His annoyance doesn’t faze me; he’s upset, whether he is admitting it or not.
“I want you to tell me not to go.” Because what if we gave whatever is happening more time and it turned out to be worth it? What if it worked?
“Rachel, will you stay here?”
“Yes.”
