Bess
“See you, May,” I said, dodging around a scarecrow.
It was October, and the entire hotel, including the staff corridor, was decorated for Halloween coming up in a few weeks.
“You coming to the staff party tomorrow?” she yelled back to me after I rounded the corner toward the lockers.
“I think so. I’ve never been before, but I’m changing things up, so I guess. What do you think?” I called back, grabbing my purse from my locker.
“I think you should go, because you deserve to have a good time. But don’t wear those shoes,” May said, her voice clear and too close. She’d sneaked up on me and was standing on the other side of the locker door when I slammed it shut, looking at my Nikes.
Shit.
“Brooks and I are going to eat pizza and watch horror movies tonight. I don’t know of a better time, but I’m seriously considering going to the party tomorrow.” I hustled to head out to my car, not giving her a chance to nag me about it any further.
I was back to my old life. I worked hard, serving both breakfast and lunch at the hotel, went to meetings, and spent time with my dog. My greatest pleasure came from eating scones with Ernesto.
Okay, I was doing a little more socializing. I’d been to May’s house for tea, Ernesto’s for a big Sunday-night dinner, and was trying to make peace with it being more than normal to see movies and grab dinner with a friend or two.
I’d even taken a trip. Camper had suggested that we take a few days and get to know each other again. She’d apparently won a trip through her job—with Jake—to a posh hotel in New York City, and took me as her guest. Even though the whole trip stank of Lane’s doing, I couldn’t help but have a blast.
We’d taken a regional jet out of the small local airstrip, landing in the Big Apple just in time for rush hour. Even that had been awesome to see. Cars honking, taxis blaring by, people everywhere, bicycles whipping by our cab’s window—it was a living, breathing zoo of humans. We arrived at our hotel right on Central Park South, and as soon as we’d entered our elegant suite and I saw the million-dollar view, I’d known.
When I turned and glared at Camper, she made puppy-dog eyes at me and said, “Don’t say it, don’t ruin it. Let’s just have fun. You deserve it, okay?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “Okay,” and I’d meant it. I’d never really been anywhere, other than Florida, and I was going to enjoy this getaway. Especially spending time with my old friend.
We spent the first whole day checking out the Statue of Liberty from Battery Park before taking the subway up to the Village, where we had amazing Italian food and even better conversation.
Sipping on sparkling water with huge lemon slices floating among the ice cubes, Camper asked, “So, do you ever look back and regret meeting me or doing what we did back then?”
“No, of course not. I was long gone, checked out emotionally before I even met you. I would’ve found my way to all of that even if I didn’t meet you.”
She leaned in and wrapped her hand over mine on the table. “I’m sorry I didn’t take better notice or help.”
I gripped her fingers and said, “And I’m sorry for dragging you down and then locking you out.”
Then at the same time, we both said, “Enough!”
“Right, we’re here to have fun!” I insisted.
We’d spent the rest of the time taking in more sights and a Broadway show. On the last night in New York, we’d stayed in the room, giggling in our pajamas with mud masks on our faces, courtesy of the hotel spa.
Over our room service dinner, Camper had gotten serious again and said, “I wish we’d known back then we could have this much fun without all that shit.”
“Yeah, I know. But we still have now.”
That was it for the heavy stuff. We went back home the day after, feeling connected and positive.
Now as I made my way to my car after work, I reminded myself of that feeling. I needed to keep it going. Often it took a daily or hourly reminder, but I was trying.
Of course there were meetings, and they helped. I was back at the church for the nighttime gatherings, pouring strength into others and dipping into theirs when I needed it.
My biggest problem was, I still preferred the isolation. There was solace in the time I was left alone with my memories of the first trip I took to Florida, or the words imprinted in my mind from the letter Lane had sent with the necklace, or the shorter ones that followed.
I hadn’t talked to Lane directly since the night he watched me pull away in the town car, but there were packages. A small box arrived every month by courier. Each one included something small for Brooks like a doggy bowtie covered in oranges, a lemon for me, and either a bag of sand or seashells. One even contained a sealed bottle of ocean water.
There was always the same simple apology note.
