“I think you’re lucky. You don’t have to make excuses anymore to stay in a career you clearly hate.”
“Clearlyhate?How would you know what I hate?”I protest.
“Stella, c’mon,” he laughs humorlessly. “When you talk about work, it sounds like you’re talking about dental hygiene or waiting in line at a government office. There’s no passion in itat all. I’ve seen you hurl insults at me with more energy.”
“I don’t… I didn’t…”
Caleb takes a deep breath.
“Look, you can lie to me all you like. But don’t try to lie to yourself. Trust me, it’s a losing game.”
I thumb through my mental rolodex to find some evidence to prove him wrong—any evidence—but come up short. Is Calebright?If I really think about it, Idokind of hate my job. I hate zoning out over the computer for hours learning about the career evolution of a bunch of dead white dudes. I hate staying up late grading papers written by horny freshman who care more about keggers and rushing than the nuances of impressionism. There hasn’t been a weeknight in four years I haven’t gone to bed dreading the next morning: the workload. The sterility. The grey Chicago sky.
When I left for college, I wanted to be an artist, not a professor.But I didn’t have the luxury of a safety net—I needed something practical. A trodden career path. And I was so busy trying to succeed, I never took the time to ask myself if I actually enjoyed it.
I bury the sudden urge to throw my broken phone athimfor being so infuriatingly spot on, and try a different approach.
“It’s not that simple, Caleb,” I tell him with frustration. “I can’t justnotwork. I’m not a Warren.”
“Clearly not,” he laughs, but for some reason, it doesn’t sound like an insult this time. “But you’ve got the world open to you. Sure, you’re a pain in the ass, but you’ve also got talent. Education. A sister who loves you no matter what. If you ask me, you need to stop thinking about what you don’t have and start focusing on what you do.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“Freedom.”
Our bodies are closer, now, in the way they always seem to become, and his salty, woodsy smell is amplified by the rain that still gathers at the tips of his hair.
“The ability to choose your own path. Guys like Harry Warren are born with their whole life planned out for them. Inherit the company. Spend their entire lives pushing papers to turn a billion dollars into billions more. But you? You have nothing stopping you from doing whatever it is you want. Don’t you see how lucky that is?”
I look down at my cheese-grated shin to avoid staring at the adorable way his curls are sticking to his forehead. I chose academia because it was safer than becoming an artist. Because it came with prestige and a paycheck and the possibility of putting “Dr” in front of my name on every form I sign until the end of time. But what do I have to show for my choice? A Master’s degree in a subject I’m lukewarm about? Four years of living like a hermit and grinding myself down to something unrecognizable?
I chose the steady path, the responsible path, because I didn’t want to risk falling on my face. But I’m still in the same place I was before I started. Give or take thousands of dollars in student loans.
Maybe Caleb is right.
Maybe setting aside your passion is the biggest risk of all.
“I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear it from,” Caleb cocks his head down until I’m forced to look at him. “But you can’t waste your life doing something you’re not crazy about just because you think you should. And just so you know, if you think anyone’s going to lose respect for you just because you’re not spending your whole life researching dead artists, you’re crazier than I thought you were.”
A laugh ripples through me, fighting for airtime with my tears. I let it win until I feel a snot bubble creep out of my nose.
“You really are disgusting, though,” Caleb smirks as I wipe it away with my sleeve. I punch him lightly in the thigh.
“Leave me alone,” I whine. “I’m trying to have a meltdown here.”
“Well, when you’re done packing a sad, whaddya say we head back down for a couple coconuts?”
“Packing a sad?” I ask skeptically. “Is that some Kiwi term for losing your marbles?”
He chuckles, the skin around his eyes crinkling to highlight their striking blue.
“Something like that.”
I look down at Caleb’s open hand, his fingers resting only a few inches from mine. If this were a Lifetime movie, this would be the scene we’d all been waiting for: the one where the clouds part and the sexy hero reaches towards the once-reluctant object of his affection, pulling her close just as the cinematographer angles in on the ray of sunshine that’s perfectly haloing their heads. She would forget about all the terrible things he said to her, and he would forgive her for being soclosed off, and they’d ride off into the sunset on his shining black stallion, their arms wrapped around each other, never to be parted.
But thisisn’ta movie. And just because Caleb came back for me after what I said to him yesterday doesn’t mean anything has changed about Patricia’s ban on fraternizing with the crew. So instead, just as the magnetism between us feels so strong I can barely keep myself from throwing myself at him like a waterlogged jungle cat, Caleb stands.
“We should really get back,” he says, taking a step towards the slick, chalky mud. But the spell is broken.
