Jess
One Hour Earlier
As I began the short trek from my apartment to the leasing office, I thought about what I had just allowed myself to do.
I’d given a biker a chance to date me.
A biker.
You know, the very kind of person that had participated in burning down the last place I worked at. While I was in there.
How crazy was that? Sure, Phoenix, at least before today, had been a real gentleman and sweet. And then, lo and behold, out of the comfort zone of his biker buddies and alcohol, he suddenly turned into a brooding, annoyingly anti-social, awkward guy.
I wasn’t interested in Phoenix, the man. I was interested in the ideal of Phoenix. Maybe the ideal of Phoenix was still there, or maybe Phoenix the man was still interesting, but the odds were too heavily stacked against that. There just wasn’t a plausible scenario in which that could be true.
Which was why I was headed to the leasing office of my apartment—because I wasn’t going to base my future on implausible or unlikely scenarios. I was going to base it on what felt right and most likely, and right now, that was getting out of a crime-ridden, biker-infested, war zone of a small town. I was going someplace that, almost by default, would be safer than this hellhole.
I pushed open the door to the leasing office and had to grab it before it slammed into the wall. There was already a spot where people less considerate than I had slammed the door, but it didn’t look like management cared in the slightest. There was no one at the receptionist’s desk, and when I peered into the actual office, there was someone on their phone, a woman in her upper forties.
“Hello?”
The woman looked up in surprise, as if she had forgotten that they were open at this time.
“Hi, umm, hi, how can I help?” she said, scrambling to look like she was on top of things and professional.
“I’m dropping off my two months’ notice that I’m leaving,” I said, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper that was my official note.
The woman took it and stared at it with absolutely no attempt to hide the confusion on her face, as if I had given her something that was written in Arabic. She looked at the computer and back to me.
“You could have just... emailed me?”
I shook my head. The woman didn’t even know the rules of her own place.
“My lease agreement states I have to provide written documentation confirming that I will be leaving at least sixty days before my lease expires,” I said. “So, this is it.”
The woman looked at the piece of paper again.
“Jessica Walters...”
It was painfully clear she had no idea who I was or even her own procedures. That was so typical of this place, it was embarrassing.
“OK, we will take care of it,” she said, but she didn’t even sound sure of herself. I made a mental note to myself to follow up in a couple of days when someone besides this woman was working so that I could make sure the damn thing got processed.
“Thanks.”
I headed out the door, expecting to find some new relief, some freedom that I could finally take advantage of. I would finally be free from the shackles of Springsville, Ashton, and small-town, crime-ridden, biker-infested Southern California.
But there was just one problem.
I didn’t feel that at all.
I felt like I had just made a mistake that, while I had time to correct, was still one, nevertheless.
Maybe moving to Ashton would be the right choice. But I hadn’t been “shackled” to Springsville. I’d settled in here because I’d found a job here without the temptations of downtown Los Angeles or other big cities. It had worked well for me. This desire to go out, to get away... that could very easily have just been my subconscious wanting to go back to the temptation that had so utterly wrecked me.
Fucking hell. At least I have a couple months to figure out what I want.
Or who I want.
