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XENIA
Moving into Velma’ssmall guesthouse didn’t mean giving up much. I’ve accumulated very little in my life. I’ve never had a pet or really any hobbies.
I could still travel. If I gave up the shop, I might explore the world. I’m not broke yet. I have funds from years of working and not living. If I weren’t so afraid of accepting failure, I could use my money to be happy. Instead, I refuse to let go.
I’ve had more customers over the last two days. When the muscled, tatted men and a ruggedly beautiful woman entered, I feared I was getting a protection shakedown from the local criminals. Instead, they simply ordered coffees, pastries, and sandwiches. They also left twenty-dollar tips. In all, seven different bikers have stopped by the shop each day.
In my heart, I believe Hobo is why I’ve seen an uptick in business. His skin was also covered in tattoos. These are his friends, and he wants to help me out.
Yet, Hobo hasn’t returned himself. Did he use all his money on the first day? I wouldn’t mind him coming in for a free meal if we could talk. His biker friends didn’t linger to chat. I wouldn’t have known what to say to them anyway. I’m even awkward with Velma.
I lost something when my parents died. I see myself different now. I used to think I was relatively smart to have kept my parents’ struggling businesses afloat.
I often wonder what Hobo saw when he looked at me. I was hiding behind the counter, crying over my mistakes. I must have seemed like a real pity case.
Yet, when Hobo entered the shop, he breathed new energy into me. Since then, I’ve felt hopeful. I’m again dreaming of doing more than settling.
I keep hoping Hobo will return, so I can feel that way again. However, late last night, I realized I was again pinning my hopes on something unattainable to avoid dealing with reality.
Since my parents’ deaths, I’ve been reading self-help books to figure out why I wasted so much of my life.Why hadn’t I broken free sooner?I could have worked my way through culinary school rather than waiting for my parents to pay. I could have insisted on more downtime for traveling, dating, and hobbies.
The power to control my life rested in my hands, yet I preferred sacrificing for an unattainable dream.
Needing to break free of such passive thinking, I agree to dinner when Alan from the accountant’s office texts me.
Hobo is another fantasy in my head. I’m absolutely infatuated with a stranger. There’s no denying he was handsome and kind. He also called me “pretty.” That’s all it took for me to build a dream of Hobo being mine.
Once again, I’m falling into my old bad habits. Rather than wait for Hobo’s interest to fix me, I choose to take charge of my life.
Not only with men, but the shop, too. I’ll go over my finances, look for local jobs, and prepare to get out of my lease. I’ll be proactive. I don’t need to have everything. I just need to live on my terms.
Driving to the restaurant chosen by Alan, I admire McMurdo Valley. The town remains the little piece of heaven I fell in love with so many years ago.
I’m feeling optimistic when I arrive at McMurdo Gorge Dining. The pricey restaurant has a wonderful view. I wear my nicest outfit not stuck in a box at the storage unit—a black shirt, slacks, and boots. When I was younger, I attended culinary events with my parents. I wore dresses and business attire. That feels like a lifetime ago.
I feel comfortable in my black getup. Earlier, Velma said I looked lovely, yet I sensed she was irritated about my date with someone who wasn’t Francis.
I’m a little disappointed myself. I’d rather be meeting Hobo for dinner. Of course, we wouldn’t go somewhere so fancy. Just a quiet restaurant where we could talk. I’d feel reborn in his presence.
Since my Hobo dream is another unattainable fantasy, I put on my best smile for Alan who is texting on his phone when I arrive. He looks up and smiles warmly.
Alan is a normal man. He doesn’t live in the woods or exude masculine power like Hobo. Alan has a steady job and eats at nice restaurants. He’s the kind of man my sister married. I see how happy her family is in their glossy Christmas cards.
As Alan’s gaze takes in the sight of me, I pump myself up with this new dream. He and I will look just fine together in our own Christmas cards. I can imagine our child having his thick black hair and my gray eyes. Our kid could be a whiz in the kitchen and with numbers—a perfect combination!
