Only that involved meeting people outside of work and dating, which meant apps and filling out profiles and…
Going out with someone who’s not Noah.
Between getting settled and starting a new job and the three-and-a-half hour drive that’d turn seven going both ways, he and I agreed long-distance sucked and would only strain our almost relationship, so it shouldn’t feel like such a big deal. And I’d juggled not one, buttwoeligible bachelors during my wild summer of no regrets. Kind of, anyway, granted I could hardly compete with the residents.
Or so I thought before Noah Drayton parked me and our golf cart beneath the swaying branches of a willow tree and slid his hand up my skirt.
I bite my lip and clench my thighs, my heart racing in excitement rather than a prelude to a panic attack. They’ve been creeping into my life and robbing me of air when what I have to accomplish overwhelms me, in the shower before work or under my covers late at night, but my life will ease up once I finish my current project.
I just have to make it another month.
As soon as it’s there in my brain, striking an overly familiar chord, my chest tightens uncomfortably, a steady throb forming beneath my temples.Tomorrow,next weekend,just one more month—the finish line kept moving. Never closer, always further.
It’s the same dangling carrot mantra I recited to myself before hitting that burnout wall and getting fired, and dang it, I don’t want to be a donkey anymore.
There has to be a happy medium, but my overachieving ass can’t seem to find it. My people-pleasing tendencies inevitably took over, then I’d fall into old patterns, agreeing to more tasks than anyone could realistically do in a day to ensure my new coworkers remained stress-free. Which meant dipping into the hours meant for sleeping, something I absolutely have to do in the near-ish future.
The women in the photo would be ashamed of how tightly I’ve packed my schedule with work, work, and more work. No chill time in the evenings, and what even is a weekend again? On top of being preposterously busy, their disappointment is another reason I’ve sent a few of their calls to voicemail recently.
Via text, I could do a better job of pretending everything washunky-dory, super cool slang I picked up while living the retired life.
Longing winds my heart round and round before it constricts, barbed with wondrous memories I lose myself in a little too often.
I yank my attention away from the photo that kicked off my most recent trip down memory lane and return to my computer screen, my fingers itching to indulge in my most recent compulsion cycle.
It’ll do the opposite of helping, but what’s the point in resisting, when I’ve already thought of Noah Drayton and his sustainable landscaping anyway?
With a click and a few keystrokes, I arrive at his website and the portfolio of his projects, ready to flip through photos I’ve studied dozens of times, my pulse already tripping over itself.
I lean closer to my screen, upset at my eyes for taking so long to refocus, even though that’s what led me to look away in the first place.
There in the background, sits the willow tree.
Ourwillow tree.
Noah’s voice fills my head, and my past and present longing for him collide.“Tell me what’s broken, andwe’llfind a way.”
This time, I’m afraid it’s me. I’m…broken.
No matter how many task items I check off and regardless of how great an article or event turns out, I no longer get that jolt of dopamine and hit of satisfaction of a job well done. Instead, every ounce of my adrenaline goes toward rushing around like a headless chicken, and when I finally reach my apartment to recharge my batteries and fill my well, I spend the entire time surfing Noah’s website or fighting that fist of anxiety at my throat over my workload.
I could come up with a dozen more reasons why accepting this job was the right call, but much like my excuses for not answering the phone, it won’t change how I feel: torn and unresolved, the strings in my heart twanging with the desperation of a country song.
But if I’m being totally honest, the main reason I’m being such a wimp and avoiding calls has more to do with the heated words Grandma Helen and I exchanged while I packed my belongings. She pointed out Jan would undoubtedly make an exception for me to stay in the retirement village after everything I’d done to keep it afloat, and I replied that she certainly didn’t seem too put out when I gave notice. Although she did wish me luck with my future endeavors before she motored off into the sunset, nearly running over my toes for the last time.
My grandma had aimed pure exasperation my way. “You’re leaving behind a man who loves you, Mia.”
For the record, there’d been no such declarations from him, although the hope and desire that flooded my body at my grandmother’s words left me afraid I’d already fallen. It only fueled my urgency, knowing the longer we went, it’d only get worse.
“I see the way you both light up around each other, the laughter and giggly whispers, the tender care,” Grandma Helen continued. “Don’t you realize how difficult that is to find in this world? It’s everything we’ve wanted for you, and here you are, throwing it away.”
Stung by the implication I’d discard something so precious to me like that (and battling a strong case of denial over the depth of my affection for Noah) I reacted in kind, unleashing the subject I held back on all summer. “You haven’t dated anyone the entire time I’ve been here—not this summer or any of those that came before—all over some brutish narcissist who never deserved you, so I’m not sure you want to go there, Grandma.”
The ire she’d aimed at Mom over the same subject flared, my entire body tensing as if that would help. Then she clamped her jaw shut, no longer speaking to me but tossing items to pack, her movements sharp and robotic.
Such a fun way to discover my mom learned the silent treatment from her own mother, and Grandma Helen held black belt status.
We went on like that until there was nothing of mine left to pack. Our strained final dinner was nothing short of torturous, and once we moved into the living room, I couldn’t take it anymore.
