Alex: Great!!!!
Emily: I’m so excited for you! I think this is exactly what you need. It’s going to change your life.
Oh God. So many exclamation points. But I remember, now—I remember sending those texts. I recall the buzz I felt last night when I made the announcement, when I bought the ticket. Ididwant to do it. And in my wildly drunken state it seems that I, too, thought it was a good idea.
“Alex?” a voice calls through the door. It takes me a second to recognize who it is.
What the hell?
“Harriet?” I stand, flinging the door open, and come face to face with my sister.
Her eyes are wide behind her black-rimmed glasses. “Are you alright? Mum said there was some sort of emergency. What’s going on?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pushing past her into the living room. “Everything’s fine. I just did something silly while I was drunk.” My empty bank balance flashes into my mind again and dread creeps over me. I sink down onto a chair, pushing the thought from my mind. This has to be a bad dream, surely.
Harriet drops onto the sofa beside my parents, still looking bewildered. Dad pulls a tiny box out of his pocket and hands it over.
“This is for your birthday, sweetheart. Open it.”
I hesitate, then take the box. Inside is a silver necklace with a book charm on it, and I smile. I do love my books; I’ve always wanted to be a writer. This is a nice surprise, because the last time I mentioned to my parents I wanted to write novels they brushed it aside and told me I wasn’t being realistic. But now that I’ve made this Facebook announcement about wanting to write, maybe they’re finally taking me seriously. Are they giving me their blessing?
“It’s because of the bookstore,” Mum explains. “Well, itwas.”
There’s a ripple of disappointment in my chest. Of course.
“I know you’re not feeling great about things right now,” Dad says. “But we’re proud of you, Alex. Assistant manager is a good job. You’re hardworking and you don’t expect too much.”
I frown, glancing down at the necklace. I know he’s trying to pay me a compliment, but somehow it feels like he’s pointing out a flaw. So I was assistant manager at our crummy little bookstore. Big deal. It’s hardly the writing career I imagined myself having at thirty.
I look at Harriet for support. Her hair is wound up tight in a bun on top of her head like always, her brow furrowed in thought. Of course she doesn’t get it; she’s worked at the same cafe since leaving high school and never complained. Is it just me who’s so ungrateful?
Dad smiles at me warmly and I feel a pang of guilt. “Thanks, Dad,” I mumble. They’re so proud of me and I quit, just like that. Did I make a big mistake?
“Thirty is a big milestone.” Mum pats me on the arm. “It can be a bit scary, but you’ve achieved a lot, darling. You have a lot to be proud of.”
“I do?”
“Yes!” Dad chimes in. “You have your flat.” He gestures around the room and I wince. The peeling salmon-pink wallpaper and stained carpet do nothing to support his enthusiasm. Why on earth is he mentioning my flat? It’s a tiny, run-down crapheap and I don’t evenownit.
“And you live alone, an independent woman!” he adds with a proud smile. Mum is nodding in agreement, her eyes gleaming.
I exhale. Yes, I’m a single woman who lives alone. What a bloody achievement. And now I don’t even have a choice in the matter, what with Travis taking off.
“Yes, well. Thanks.” I eye them warily. They must be quite panicked about this New York thing if they’re feeling the need to scrape together this pathetic highlight reel of my life. But in all honesty, it’s just making me feel worse. Because none of the things they’ve pointed out are what I imagined for myself at this age. They’re all piling up to create a very dire picture indeed.
“And of course you have your degree,” Mum says.
God, they’re still going.
I mean, okay, the degree is good: a Bachelor of Communication. I worked hard for that, even if it wasn’t quite what I’d wanted to do. What Ihadwanted to do was get a degree in literature then a Masters in Creative Writing, but my parents assured me that was pointless and wouldn’t get me a job. I compromised with the communications degree, figuring I could still write. And while I did work at the local paper for a while, five years ago they had huge budget cuts and I was made redundant, forced to take a job at the bookstore. I’ve been there ever since. So again, not something I’m extremely proud of.
Mum leans forward to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry about what happened with Travis, darling. That was awful. And on your birthday, of all nights.”
Harriet screws up her face. “Yeah, that sucks. What a dick.”
I give her a thin smile, swallowing against the bitterness in my throat. Because that’s the icing on the cake, isn’t it? My writing career is non-existent and my flat is awful, but at least I had Travis. And now I don’t even have that.
“Do you like the necklace?” Dad asks.
