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"You just want to get home to your battery-operated boyfriend in your nightstand. Don't pretend like it's not true," she teases, dangling my single status over my head.
"I won't deny it just like you can't deny you keep his brother in yours," I throw back. My statement comes with a pull on her arm, setting my half-full beer cup on top of the keg for someone else to finish. Thankfully, we thought ahead and can walk home from here. Well, in Rory's case, stumble home.
Itrymybestto support her tall frame as we wander the six blocks to our apartment building. Bricks reaching up towards the sky frame Market Square. Downtown is crawling with historical significance and thousands of stories to tell. I love walking down here, especially when the spring ocean breeze funnels through, cooling off bustling patrons out on the town for the evening.
We stop at a bench facing the bay to catch our breath and regain our drunken composure for the rest of the way home. Twinkling white lights reflect on the calm ocean water, dancing slightly with each ripple from the shallow wind. I can’t imagine a more beautiful place to live.
The rest of our walk to the apartment goes quickly. You know how after you drive the same path repeatedly, your brain blacks it all out and you end up home, with no clue if you hit an old lady with your car on the way? It does the same sort of thing when you walk the same path all the time. This explains why I am standing outside our apartment building with zero recollections of what happened along the way. At least I know it’s impossible that I ran over an old lady. Rory is still with me, clinging to my arm, her shoes dangling from her other hand. When did she take those off?
Instinctively, I check the mail, even though the box was empty this morning. We wind up the stairs leading to the third floor and make our way to the end of the hall. Both of our apartment keys dangle from my jean belt loop. I use hers to free the lock, and I give the sticky door an extra shove to get inside.
Rory's small apartment mirrors mine, divided by the hallway. The apartment leaves little to the imagination, essentially an open concept with the most privacy in the bathroom. You can’t see the bay from here because if you could, I wouldn't be able to afford the rent.
Rory groans when I lead her to the bed. She lands on her stomach, so I guess that’s how she’s sleeping tonight. That’s probably best in case she needs to vomit up the party in her stomach. I take the shoes from her hand and struggle to pull her blankets somewhat over her. I give up.
Her degree hangs on the wall framed with pride. Mine is still in the mailing envelope in a box under my bed. Forever in the population of twenty-somethings who paid thousands for a college degree that only gathers dust.
My self-loathing takes me hostage, dragging me across the hallway to my apartment and the remnants of food in the refrigerator. Leftover macaroni and cheese? Nah, that was dinner last night. Plus, it’s an amazing hangover cure, so I should give it to Rory for tomorrow.
Old pizza from the shop around the corner? I don’t feel like running the oven this late at night and I can’t eat it cold.
I settle on making a salad, even though the grumbles in my belly think it sounds so unsatisfying. One of the best parts of having a turtle for a pet is they love to eat the produce you bought with the best of intentions and never eat. Sorry Hammie, I’m eating the lettuce for once.
The salad serves as a vessel to transport salad dressing and croutons into my stomach while convincing myself I’m being healthy. If it were up to me, I would live on coffee and oxygen, but unfortunately, it’s not possible. I have goals to reach and dreams to chase. No time for meal breaks.
The clock on the microwave flashes midnight. Not because it’s the actual time, but because I haven’t fixed it since I moved in. I have no clue what time it is when I finish my meal. My phone lights up, a soft vibration sliding it slowly across the table.
Holy shit. He replied. I try to muster the strength to read the response. Full-blown panic mode activated. Party Carter was channeling her inner impulsive tendencies. Real Carter is super pissed at her about it. Alcohol and horoscopes are a combination I plan to avoid from now on.
My finger hovers over the notification. I could swipe, hit clear, and go to bed. Or I can swipe and see what weird reply his team sends in response to rude messages.
Decisions, decisions.
The words from my horoscope come back to haunt me, echoing between my ears“be brave”as I swipe to read the message. The app takes its sweet time loading and I chew the inside of my cheek to keep myself from screaming at it.
If you think you can do better with your community college degree, be on set Monday at 6:30 am and prove it. You’re hired as my second shooter. Don’t be fucking late. Put your camera where your mouth is.
Speaking of mouths, mine is hanging wide open in straight disbelief. Did he scope out my profile and see where I went to college? Or is he just making assumptions about me? Either way, he isn’t wrong. Elysian Technical School, class of 2017, go Rocketeers! Aim for the stars and all that jazz.
How dare he assume I wanted a job with him! As angry as I want to be at his condescending words, part of me is freaking out at the opportunity. Being a second shooter for a magazine spread could bring me serious exposure. Not to mention the look on BK’s face when I prove him wrong, just like he told me to. If I'm being honest with myself, that might be the most tempting part of it all.
I reread his message and tap out a response, eating my pride and admitting how excited I am about the chance to work with him. He thinks I won’t show up, and that makes me even more determined to have him eat those words. I’m not ready to give him that satisfaction yet, plus I want to see the look on his face. I delete my response, throwing my phone against the couch.
I hurry to my dresser, leaving my half-eaten salad abandoned on the table. My lackluster party clothes were replaced with even more lackluster leggings. I lace-up my sneakers. I need to run.
The fog settling on the street echoes the fog in my mind about the job offer from BK. I already know that I will be there, no question about that. Challenges give me the invitation to make people rethink their assumptions about me. And I love proving people wrong about me.
My feet lead me around the inlet where the fog hangs heavier over the water. Something about fog seems to eat all the sound in the world. It is eerily silent. Equal parts soothing and unnerving. Being alone with your inner monologue can have its downfalls.
I did attend ETS. How could I ever think that I would be suitable to even shoot for a magazine spread? My camera setup will look like a disposable Kodak next to whatever immaculate equipment the professionals use. Do I bring my camera? Do they provide one?
If I go into the fog, would anyone know I was there? Will this business devour me like the fog, swallow me whole without a trace?
Enough, Carter, you can freaking do this! This could be what launches your career. That goal you have been fighting so hard to reach since you graduated from community college, which BK so lovingly rubbed in your face. No more self-wallowing. It’s time to prepare for what is destined to be my moment to shine. I have sacrificed so much to get here, there's no time to be afraid of it now.
My run back home is faster, my stride ignited by the knowledge that I am embracing this challenge full force. I take the stairs two at a time and am busting into my apartment within minutes. I don’t even stop in the kitchen to get a drink, going straight into the bathroom.
I peel my sweat-soaked clothes off easily, thankful my sports bra has a front clasp because when they get sweaty, they are worse than a straight jacket to escape from.
