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“I do!” she cries out, looking upset that I’d even suggest she’s being inconvenienced by my homeless, semi-jobless self currently living on her couch.
“I know you do. But Leo? Not so much.”
I am of course referring to her boyfriend, an absolutely gorgeous Italian she met down at the beach one day and brought home like he was a stray dog. That was four months ago and he hasn’t left, and if the sound of the two of them going at it on the other side of the wall is an indicator of what they have in common, I can see why she keeps him around.
As nice as the guy seems, there has to be at least a little irritation at having a couch-crasher with no prospects living in your space for—I glance at the date on my phone—over six weeks now.
I understand why he’s annoyed. I’d be pulling my hair out, ready to get the lazy bastard taking up my personal space out the door.
But Leighton insists I’m welcome, and honestly, I don’t really have anywhere else to go. I just don’t have the financial resources to find my own place.
So. Couch-crashing it is.
The frustrating part is that I’m a live-in nanny specifically so I don’t have to find a place to live. It’s supposed to come with the job. But Sandalwood is small, and a live-in nanny isn’t a cheap expense, so the number of people who, first of all, would need one, and second of all, can afford one, is miniscule.
The fact I was able to find a job here after college working for the Keifer family was a miracle in itself. Another miracle landing with a plop in my lap is incredibly unlikely.
“But I don’t blame your man,” I continue. “This is just…circumstance, you know? So I’m going to widen my search. At least outside of Sandalwood.”
Leighton huffs again where she lies on top of me but gives me an eye roll that says she understands why I can’t base my entire life around her.
What a goofball.
The truth is that Leighton and I have both lived in this beach town for our entire lives, except for the four years when I moved to Santa Barbara for college, and that’s only fifteen minutes away. If we have it our way, we never plan to leave.
The only problem? It’s a beach town, so cheap living doesn’t come easy, and I don’t come from a life of privilege with a family that will help me if I run out of money or don’t have somewhere to live. I am very legitimately on my own, which makes each step on the path of independence feel larger than the one before it.
But I have a plan. A well thought-out, intentional plan for making my life in Sandalwood what I always dreamed it would be. It’s just going to take some time for it to all sort itself out, so the idea of leaving that plan behind—abandoning ship—is just painful.
Not to mention, this is home. I like driving by the elementary school I went to, where I tripped on the first day of fourth grade and chipped my brand new adult tooth. I like that I have memories on nearly every sidewalk and park around town, and that I can walk those sidewalks now at twenty-five and bump into people I’ve known since I was too young to remember the first time I met them.
My life as a kid was messy and imperfect, but it was full of amazing people who made that messy, imperfect life a happy one. If I can just manage to hold on to this town a while longer, hopefully I’ll be able to continue living a happy life right here.
The more time that passes, though, the less that vision feels like reality.
Leighton and I spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around the apartment, listening to music with all the windows open, enjoying the late-spring breeze. Eventually, I head off to the temp job that has been keeping me afloat for the past six weeks.
Bartender slash waitress at The Lighthouse.
It’s only ten hours a week, and I gotta be honest, I’m still not sure if working here is hurting or helping me. I mean, if I ever needed a nanny, I’d consider it a stroke of luck if she could make me a bangin’ Long Island and clean a table fast as lightning. But I also know that to someone who is determining whether they want me to watch their kids full-time, having ‘bartender’ on the resume might not be the best look.
I adjust my uniform shirt in the staff break room, tucking it into my jean shorts and fixing the collar before I head out to the front to start my shift.
It might only be four, but it’s a Friday and things are already kicking. The dozen or so bar stools are mostly full with regulars I’ve known from living in the same town my entire life taking up quite a few seats. The handful of standing high tops are still empty, but the booths are packed with what looks like a massive group of tourists if their bathing suits and sunburnt noses and shoulders are any kind of indicator.
Since the owner, Soren, is behind the bar, I grab a pad of paper and head over to the first booth, taking down their orders before moving along the line to offer refills and collect empties.
That’s how the first few hours of my shift move by until another bartender slash waitress shows up at eight when things tend to really pick up speed. I always prefer to have the earlier shift even though the later customers tend to tip more. I’ll gladly pass on a few extra twenties if it means less grabby hands and inappropriate comments from guys old enough to be my father.
“Things going alright?” Coral asks as she ties a little black apron around her hips, her eyes surveying the crowded room.
I nod. “Yup. It’s been busy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
She grins. “Well get ready, sister, because I hear there’s a bachelor party coming in tonight.”
Groaning, I roll my eyes dramatically, but Coral just continues to smile and swats me with her small serving tray before heading off behind the bar to help Soren.
I think one of the things I have enjoyed most about working at The Lighthouse is the fact that Soren trusts all of us to do what needs to be done. We aren’t assigned to tasks or tables, but we know what we need to be doing and we make it happen. It’s like a dance, almost, the way we bob and weave around each other.
