My apartment building looked the same as always, which was somehow offensive given that my entire life had changed in the space of four hours since I’d left it this morning. The eviction notice was still taped to my door like a scarlet letter advertising my financial failure to anyone who walked past.
Inside, my studio apartment was already mostly packed into boxes and suitcases. I'd been preparing for this possibility all week, hoping I wouldn't need to actually follow through but unable to ignore the mounting evidence that Derek had screwed me over more thoroughly than I'd initially realized.
The packing had been depressingly efficient, mainly because I'd learned during college and various post-graduation moves that most possessions were ultimately replaceable and that attaching too much emotional significance to material objects was a recipe for expensive storage unit bills when you couldn't afford storage units in the first place.
I had one suitcase left for winter clothes appropriate for Vermont December weather, my laptop for job searching, and enough personal items for however long I'd need to stay with my parents while I figured out how to rebuild my life from scratch.
Everything else was either being donated to charity, abandoned to whatever happened to apartments when people moved out owing money, or packed into my car like I was a refugee from my own bad decisions.
I folded my professional wardrobe with extra care, running my hands over fabrics that had cost more than I should have spent but had made me feel powerful and confident during job interviews and client presentations. The navy blue blazer went on top of the stack, a promise to future me that this was temporary, that I'd need power outfits again soon, thatthis setback was just that—a setback rather than a permanent redefinition of my professional trajectory.
The black dress I'd worn to the company Christmas party last year, where I'd networked with potential clients and felt like I was exactly where I belonged professionally. The navy suit that had been my lucky interview outfit, the one I'd worn when Pinnacle had offered me the position that had just unceremoniously ended. The collection of blouses and blazers and perfectly tailored pants that had comprised my confident-professional-woman uniform—all of it cut to flatter my fuller figure and make me feel powerful. And none of it was needed right now.
I swapped it out with a box of casual clothes, carefully folded and packed like artifacts from a life I might or might not return to, depending on how quickly I could figure out my next move and whether that next move involved staying in Chicago or starting over somewhere else entirely.
Looking around my apartment, it looked like a crime scene, if crime scenes involved too much takeout Thai food and the kind of systematic organization that occurred when someone with control issues was forced to make rapid major life changes while processing comprehensive emotional devastation.
With a heavy sigh, I went about transferring the boxes I was taking with me downstairs to load up the Honda. After two trips, I was sweating like it was ninety-degree weather and not thirty degrees. But I still had more to do. I was focused. I was determined and I wasn’t going to cry again because this was just a detour.
Two
HOLLY
Early Start
I setmy alarm for 3 AM, because driving sixteen hours to Vermont was going to require an early start if I wanted to arrive at my parents' house at a reasonable hour. Stumbling around, I realized too late that I’d packed up the coffee machine and now I had zero caffeine intake and a drive in front of me that suddenly looked more daunting than a climb up Everest.
My gaze shifted to the couch, eyeing it up, wondering if it had enough change to buy a takeout cup from the vending machine downstairs.
I trudged to the couch, shoving my hands into the crevices, fishing for any forgotten change. My fingers brushed against cold metal, and I pulled out a handful of coins, counting them quickly. Enough for a single cup, at least on my way out. Ignoring the couple of boxes that were still piled up that I was leaving behind, along with the bits of furniture I’d purchased over the years, I got dressed in navy blue sweatpants and an oversized hoodie over my oversized tee. Slipping my sneakerson, I picked up my bag and shoved my phone and charger into it and grabbed the last bag to haul downstairs, the change jangling in my hoodie pocket like a taunt.Spend me and then you’re broke.
True. But I still have my fourteen bucks and the stash of cash in my wallet that I kept for gas. Luckily, as if I knew, I had filled up a few days ago and hadn’t really used much going to work and back.
I took one last look around the space that had represented my independence, my adulthood, my proof that Holly Winters could make it on her own in the big city without relying on family connections or small-town safety nets. The empty room echoed with the ghost of my ambitions and the sound of my heels clicking across hardwood floors during the confident years when I'd thought I had everything figured out.
"Well," I said to it. "At least I'll be home for Christmas."
And if that wasn't the most pathetic silver lining in the history of silver linings, I didn't know what was.
Shutting the door on my life as I knew it, I made my way downstairs and out to my packed-out car. It was pitch black, and I looked nervously around as the snow started to fall. Shoving my last bag on the passenger seat, I slid behind the wheel and revved the engine a few times to get it warmed up. My old faithful car gave me the goods, and I smiled and patted the steering wheel. “Good girl,” I murmured.
Locking the doors, I flicked on the radio and sighed as Christmas music blared out. I turned the volume lower, more for background noise, so my thoughts didn’t consume me. Maybe going home for the holidays wasn't the worst thing that could happen to someone who'd forgotten what unconditional love and support felt like.
With one last, lingering look up at the building that had been home, I gave it a small wave and set off, hoping to get as manymiles as possible underway before rush-hour started in a few hours.
The first two hours of driving were the worst. Chicago's early morning traffic was surprisingly heavy, even at 6 AM, and my car made concerning noises every time I accelerated past fifty miles per hour. The check engine light flickered like a malevolent Christmas decoration on my dashboard, and I found myself having one-sided conversations with my Honda.
"Come on, baby," I murmured as we merged onto I-94 East. "Just sixteen hours. You can do sixteen hours, right? We've done road trips before."
The car responded with a slight shudder that could have been the wind or could have been imminent mechanical failure. I chose to interpret it optimistically.
By the time I crossed into Indiana, the sun was starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that would have been beautiful if I weren't currently fleeing my life in complete professional disgrace. The Christmas music on the radio was starting to feel less mocking and more... well, still mocking, but in a gentler way. Like the universe was acknowledging my situation but suggesting that maybe Christmas miracles were still possible for people who'd had their lives completely imploded by lying ex-boyfriends and corporate restructuring.
I made my first stop at a gas station outside Gary, Indiana, not because I needed gas but because I desperately needed caffeine and a bathroom. The vending machine coffee cost $1.50 and tasted like it had been brewed sometime during the Clinton administration, but it was hot and caffeinated and exactly what my severely limited budget could handle.
Standing in the fluorescent-lit gas station convenience store, counting out quarters for a package of store-brand donuts, I caught my reflection in the security monitor. Even in my comfort clothes, I looked... well, I looked like someone who was handling a crisis with reasonable dignity. My hair was pulled back in a messy bun that was intentionally stylish rather than accidentally disheveled, and my figure looked good even in loose-fitting clothes.
"At least I look like someone who has her life together," I told my reflection, which seemed skeptical but didn't argue.
