“Too bad you didn’t come next month. We could have gone to the Seaside Carnival.”
She laughs. “Maybe next year.”
“Are you sure you had fun?”
“Trust me,” her arms fall as she laughs, “I had a great week. There was . . . A lot of fun. But for real,” she turns serious, “promise me you’re not going back to your hermit ways, that you’ll try.”
Glancing down at myself, I bite my bottom lip. Leggings and an oversized sweater that falls off one shoulder isn’t exactly something I would call trying. But, it’s a giant step up from my normal sweats. And I actually put on some makeup today. By myself. “Just don’t go thinking I’m going to be putting on dresses and curling my hair every day.”
She tilts her head to the side, that all too familiar look of disappointment sinking in.
“But, I promise, I will try.”
“Good,” she gives me a tight hug before grabbing her carry-on, “‘cause I threw away all of your sweats.”
“You what?” My hands curl into fists, but she simply laughs, waves, and heads toward the TSA line. Shaking my head, I watch her go.
My stomach still hurts a bit. My eyeballs are still sore, but that’s masked by the tears filling them. It’s going to take a lot of recovery to get back to my schedule.
Isleep for what feelslike two whole days before I start to feel like myself again. Well, I try to sleep for two days, but there’s so much noise next door that it’s so broken up, it only feels like one day. Waking up Monday evening, I sigh. “Well, guess it’s time I get back to it.”
After making a chai tea, I head to my office and turn on my computer. The amount of emails and messages has me shaking my head ten minutes later and heading out of the room.
I strip off the sheets in the spare bedroom, clean the house top to bottom. I head to my bedroom to change my sheets and freeze staring at my closet.
“You bitch.” The words tumble out of my mouth as I drop my pillow and walk like I’m in some blind trance straight toward my open walk-in closet. My sweats are all gone. Gone. She actually did it.
In their place are a bunch of dresses. I shake my head, picking up one and glancing at it. It’s a pretty, little, black number with a distressed hem that totally looks like me. There are gray ones, a few more black dresses, even a flowery one.
Part of me wants to scream or throw a fit. Be pissed. Instead, I laugh. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes. She actually threw away all of my sweats and replaced them with dresses.
“I love you, too, Viv,” I whisper into the closet as I hang the dresses back up and head back to my room.
After stripping my sheets, I decide to do something else for Viv and head outside. I spend the next two hours taking a long walk on the beach. It’s calming, feeling the cool, wet sand between my toes, watching the waves roll onto the shore when no one else is around. Taking a deep breath, I relax, knowing I made the right decision moving here. After rinsing off in my outdoor shower, I head inside to make a sausage and caramelized onion quiche. Plate in hand I head back to my office.
It takes a few hours to respond to everything before I grab my calendar and start scheduling all my new requests. I get out comps for a few pre-mades I sold while Viv was here, then dive into a new concept for a mafia romance series for one of my longest standing clients. Romance novels may not be everyone’s thing, and I in no way believe in that whole love at first sight or happily ever after bull, but designing their covers pays. I’ve worked hard for years to build my client base and make a decent living off my art. And it offers me the flexibility I need. By the time I look up and stretch, the sun is starting to peek through the window.
“And, that’s a day.”
I stand up, stretch out my neck and back again, then bring my dirty dishes to the kitchen. Glancing out at the beach as I dump my dishes in the sink and rinse them off, I sigh.
I promised Viv I would try.
Rolling my eyes, I head to my room to change. I squeeze into a pair of gray leggings and matching sports bra, then pull my hair into a ponytail. Tugging on my sneakers, baseball cap, and sunglasses, I shrug.
It’s not really a change. No sweatshirt covering my arms and torso, that’s about the only difference.
“Baby steps,” I tell myself as I head toward the back door. Maybe I’ll smile at a few people, try that whole friendly thing.
Sucking in a deep breath, I open the door and head outside. First day of my new life and all.
The warm sun wraps herself around my bare arms. I shrink back a step. A cool breeze floats up from the beach. I take another step. I have sunscreen on. SPF 50. I applied it twice. I’m fine. It’s one run and still early in the morning. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet.
Tugging my hat a little lower over my face, I head down the steps, then out to the promenade. With each step, my confidence grows. I smile and nod at a few passing people. They smile back. A few even wave or talk to me.
It’s one run. One little run. But I’m doing it. Out in the sun with my arms showing. One step at a time. After a few miles, my arms don’t burn. I’m not doubled over in pain. Tilting my chin up, I increase my speed and go a little farther.
I’m smiling by the time I head back home.