When I first saw the apartment, I was hesitant about living on the first floor. But after considering the twenty other apartments I’d seen that weren’t nearly as nice, I decided the luxury on the inside was better than its level off the ground.
Perhapsluxuryis the wrong word. Stepping into my home, you are in the living room where I have a sofa, TV and bookcase. To the back left is a small galley kitchen, so tiny it can’t house standard-size appliances. So I have a two-burner stove, a modest-sized refrigerator, and a half sink. No dishwasher, of course.
The kitchen is separated from the living room by a half wall that creates an island. In the living room, my coffee table doubles as a dining table and my bookcase as extra storage. I have a secretary desk that was once my grandmother’s in the space where one would put a dining table. Beside it is a wing backed chair and a floor lamp that composes my reading nook.
Behind the kitchen wall is a bathroom with a shower, stall, and pedestal sink. The plumbing is ancient and echoes throughout the building whenever someone flushes.
The real luxury to the space is the bedroom. It’s not big or even nice, really. The luxury is the fact it exists. In my price range it was hard to find an actual one-bedroom. Every apartment I saw was a studio, and I really wanted a sleeping space separate from my living space.
Studio apartments are fine but when I’m paying nearly double the rent to live in New York as I was in Pittsburgh, it makes it hard to downsize completely.
Despite the spatial limitations, I have made a great space for myself here. I wasn’t supposed to paint, but I did it anyway. I didn’t want to start the next phase of my life staring at white walls. Instead, I painted the living room a fun purple, and I bought a turquoise sofa that cost more than my rent. The living room was inspired by the nineties television showFriends. They are the epitome of what a girl from Ohio thinks living in Manhattan is about. Some would saySex and the Cityor evenGirls, but not me. I am aFriendsgal all the way.
I even put a picture frame around the peephole on my front door.
Walking over to my speakers, I synch my iPhone and select an allegro by Joshua Bell. Mattie mentioned a few weeks ago he could hear my music through the floorboards. When I profusely apologized, he commented on how it actually helps him study. So now I take requests and let some of my favorite melodies drift upstairs.
Moving into the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and take out the makings for a dinner salad. When that is made, I take my bowl, a glass of wine, and a stack of papers to review and cuddle up on the couch. I’m content, having gotten myself into a nice routine. I like my home.
A lot has happened in my life over the last nine months. I’m still living in the year from hell. It’s been nine months since I lost my brother. Nine months since I crushed my hand. And nine months since that douche with a flute left.
But it’s better.
Don’t assume I’m leaping off balconies and singing in the street. I still haven’t picked up or played an instrument since those two times in Italy.
A time I try not to think of.
Whatisbetter is that I am taking control of the situation. No more lying in bed wallowing. It’s time I try to make something out of this mess that is my life. The first step was getting a new apartment in a new city. Next, was finding a new job. After that—I have no idea.
Looking over at the coffee table I see a white envelope peering up at me. I put my salad bowl down and reach over for it. Inside is an invitation to the wedding of Leah Marie Paige and Adam Geoffrey Reingold.
A smile crosses my face. Those two crazy kids are finally getting married. Since they called off their summer wedding, everyone wondered when they would set a date again. Looks like a Christmas wedding is in order.
I can’t help but think back on that July trip with mixed emotions. When I arrived, I was half broken, on the mend from having my dreams torn apart and the devastation of losing Luke. I was going through the motions of life but I wasn’t living.
Then I met a man. An intense, complex, emotion extracting, sinful man who made me feel more in four days than I had in six months.
And then he played me like a fiddle.
Stupid fiddle.
I explained all of this to my shrink when I returned to Cedar Ridge. I booked a three-hour appointment and unloaded. Every feeling, every emotion and every ache that has burnt me since that fateful night in January, was put out there.
She didn’t seem impressed I had finally decided to open up. Instead, Dr. Schueler said my rendezvous in Italy set back all the progress we made with my PTSD. She wrote out a stack full of prescriptions and sent me on my merry way.
I, in turn, went home, tore them up and packed my bags.
It doesn’t take a world-renowned psychiatrist to see I needed out of Cedar Ridge. There were too many memories. I need to be far away from there and Pittsburgh and the reminders of all that was lost over the course of a weekend.
Maybe it wasn’t Asher that made me heal the way I did.
Maybe it was Capri.
Whatever it was, I needed to get away. At least for the time being.
My parents begged me to stay, but they know their headstrong little girl better than to expect her to listen. I was determined.
Shortly before I left for Italy, I sent my résumé out to various schools in the area looking for a teaching job. Since my hand is shot, I’d only be able to teach courses like Music Theory and Introduction to Music. It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but it was better than living in my pajamas.
