But I could also have a different life. A life that smells likesea salt, where the hours move more slowly and my morning soundtrack is the whir of fishing boats. And maybe there is a museum somewhere in that life, or maybe there’s not. Maybe my days are filled with fifties music and slow, easy voices and cranky old women who don’t trust my flimsy modern car.
The details of that life might be different—maybe some of them are a little better, maybe some of them are a little worse—but the end result is the same.
I’m happy. Really, truly happy.
Jim’s voice suddenly echoes in my ears.There were thousands of things I wanted to do, I’m sure. But you can’t do everything you want to do in life.
I didn’t understand, back then, what he meant. Now, standing here in the Met with David holding his hand out to me and Leah and Katarina smiling at me behind him, I think I do.
There are thousands of things I could do with my life. Millions of different winding paths I could take. And there might always be one that’s brighter, or warmer, but at some point, I have to stop wandering around and chooseone.
And this path... this brilliant, sparkly future life standing right in front of me...
This is not the one I’m going to choose.
“Emily?” David says. “Are you coming?”
I blink. David’s hand has dropped back to his side, and all three of them are smiling at me, waiting.
After a moment, I smile back at them. There’s a strange, perfect quiet inside my mind, like when a snowstorm finally comes to an end.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m coming.”
My heels click on the marble as I head after them down the hall. I’m going to spend this amazing night with the three of them, exploring the Met without a single tourist in it. I’m going to drink champagne, and munch on hors d’oeuvres, and soak in every second of this incredible experience.
Then, in the morning, I’m going to dismantle this beautiful dream.
35
Three days later, I wheel my suitcases into my Airbnb in Waldon and collapse onto the couch in an exhausted, sweaty heap.
Oh, man.
Those three days werelong.
Withdrawing from NYU was easier than I thought it would be. Two apologetic emails, one awkward phone call with an NYU admissions officer, and it was done.
Leaving the internship was far more painful. Benedita seemed truly disappointed in me, even though she said she understood, and I couldn’t articulate my reasons for leaving well at all. After I left her office, my chest got all tight and panicky, and all I could think of was what people would say when they heard that I had quit.
“She chose some randomguyover her internship,” said Fallon’s voice.
“They’re not even planning to havekids,” Martha added.
“Lollll,” chimed in Divya.
But I gritted my teeth and told myself to smarten up. I’d made my decision, and I wasn’t going to change it based on other people’s opinions. And anyway, I wasn’t just leaving for a guy. John was only part of my decision. An important part, yes, but still only a part.
Wrapping up the rest of the New York stuff was pretty easy.My parents had already picked up my stuff from my old house in Waldon, so they brought it to the airport for me to pick up when I landed in Halifax, along with my car. I thought they might be disappointed that I’d left New York, but to my surprise, they both seemed kind of relieved. My mother even made a comment about how happy she thought I’d been in Waldon. And I haven’t bothered telling Fallon or Martha or Divya, so I don’t have to worry about them judging me.
Relocating back to Waldon was a bit trickier. My old house has already sold, according to the online real estate listing, and trying to find an affordable apartment in small-town Canada these days takes significantly longer than seventy-two hours. Until I have more time to look, I’m stuck in a tiny Airbnb that reviewers described as “cramped” and “inconvenient” and “yikes.”
I look around, and it is indeed cramped and inconvenient and yikes. There are only two rooms—a tiny bathroom and an equally tiny bedroom/living room/kitchen/entranceway/laundry room—and the distinct smell of weed is wafting in from the apartment next door. But it’s cheap enough that for now I don’t care.
I crack open the bottle of red wine I bought on the way home (my only stop on the drive from the Halifax airport) and dial the number to the local pizza place. I order a large pizza, then take a swig of my wine and ask Johnny, the pizza delivery guy, if he can bring me whatever chocolate bars they have in the shop as well.
I can’t afford pizza or wine or name-brand chocolate bars, not after losing my deposits for school and paying for the flight home, but tonight, I’m just not going to think about it. Because if I think about it—if I think about how I’ve got literally nothing right now, no job, no money, no permanent place to live, no boyfriend—I’llprobably wind up curled into the fetal position on the floor, sobbing into my wine.
Instead, I’ve elected for positivity. Stupid, totally irrational positivity.
