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My shoulders tense as my defenses rise. “She’s real. I’ve just run into some roadblocks in getting her to agree to do this.”
Her eyes narrow. “Explain.”
So I do—because whether I like it or not, I did get myself into a mess, and Shawna’s right that she’s the best in the business. She doesn’t say anything while I speak, but she does occasionally jot down a note or two in a small notebook she pulls from her oversized purse.
“So, if I understand correctly, you still stand by your original position that you won’t do this unless”—she looks down at her notes—“Alayna Pritchard does it with you. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
She stands up from the stool she was sitting on. “Alright. I’ll be in touch. And the next time I call, Dom, you better answer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walks out of my house with purpose and her phone already to her ear. I’m a little terrified of what she’s planning, and I doubt she’s going to change course just because Laney refuses to be my partner. But I still refuse to do this with anyone but her, and for more reasons than I initially had.
Eleven
No one ever suggests that journeys of self-discovery are often fraught with a lot of things you don’t like. I didn’t have any Elizabeth Gilbert moments of deep perspective-finding; Eat, Pray, Love my journey was not.
Maybe I still could, but after a week of “exploring” and trying to have fun on my own, the only real thing I discovered was that I loved my alone time and my independent hobbies, like painting.
People can be really overwhelming—and that’s saying something when I’m used to the football crowd.
I did all the things you see in movies.
I tried yoga—and somehow fell asleep in child’s pose and woke up with a snort because I’d fallen into such a deep sleep I was snoring and drooling on my yoga mat.
So yoga’s out because I’ll never show my face there again.
I tried going out to eat by myself at a nice restaurant that I’ve been wanting to try. Things were going fine until the elderly couple beside me decided that it was too sad for “such a beautiful young woman to be dining alone” and then promptly spent the rest of dinner showing me pictures of their grandson who was my age and was quite a catch—their words not mine.
I tried joining a bowling league because bowling always seems like a fun idea. I was kicked off when my thumb got stuck on the release and the ball ended up popping off my hand. Instead of flying down my lane like I’d hoped, the momentum of my body and my swing caused the ball to cross three other lanes and for everyone around me to glare at me in reproach. Yeah, no. I was not repeating that ever again.
My last attempt was going on a hike. Getting close to nature always seems like a good idea in movies, but I came home with a minor sunburn and itching like crazy in what turned out to be poison ivy. Needless to say, it confirmed that I’m not an outdoorsy girl. Put me in a tropical paradise and I’ll relax under a palm tree with a mimosa in hand. Put me in the wilderness and it’s a completely different story.
But despite failing spectacularly at all those individual things, the week wasn’t a complete bust because it had taught me one very valuable lesson.
I could do things on my own. I wasn’t lost without Dom. I missed him, but my world didn’t revolve around him in the same way I’d always thought it had. I now knew with a certainty I hadn’t possessed before that failing at something—whether it was yoga, dinner for one, hiking, or anything else I deemed to try in the future—wasn’t a failure. It was a lesson. It was trial and error to find what I liked or didn’t. I could have fun by myself.
Apart from that, I also met people I never would’ve met before, like the waitress who commiserated with me after the elderly couple finally left. Apparently they were regulars who tried to pawn their grandson off on everyone. We got to talking, and it must’ve been all the wine I was drinking but I confessed to painting on the side and even showed her a couple of pictures I’d snapped on my phone of paintings I’d done. Turns out, her uncle owns an art gallery here in LA, and now I’m on my way to meet with him.
I haven’t told a soul. I can only imagine the shriek Tessa would produce if she heard I was going to show an actual art professional my paintings. I doubt anything will come of it, but my motto this week has been to say yes. Yes to new experiences, yes to new opportunities, no matter how uncomfortable they make me.
And talking about my art makes me extremely uncomfortable.
I arrive at the gallery a few minutes early and take a deep, steadying breath. My stomach is in knots as I grab a few of my canvases. Very few people have seen these, but they’re a few of my favorites. Despite the fear stiffening my muscles, I walk toward the door and push it open. A small bell dings, and a man calls out from a back room.
“Be out in a minute.”
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking around at the artwork on the walls. One wall is full of portraits that look like photographs, but on closer inspection, I discover they’re drawings. My stomach tightens even more with imposter syndrome. My paintings aren’t nearly as good as those.
Along another wall, there are painted landscapes that are done in watercolors, and yet they appear vibrant and bold. Sunsets, night scenes, and a beautiful sunrise over a mountaintop that has me staring wide-eyed.
A deep voice startles me. “Like those?”
I snap my gaze to meet his. He’s much older than I am, and if I had to guess he’s closer to his fifties, but still in good shape. His blue eyes sparkle as he smiles. “Cat got your tongue?”
I give him a bashful smile. “Sorry. They’re beautiful.” I gesture to all the work in the room because I couldn’t pick a favorite to save my life.
