My thumbs fire off the response before my brain finishes processing:
Thank you. I accept. I’ll be ready tomorrow. What time should I arrive?
The reply comes in under a minute:
UNKNOWN
A car will be sent to your address at 10:00 a.m. Pack for an extended stay. Further details will be provided upon arrival.
I set the phone back on the counter like it’s the most precious item in the universe.
My body is coming apart at the seams. Every cell in me is vibrating. I press my hands flat against the laminate and bend forward, taking deep, shaking breaths.
I can’t believe this is happening. It’s completely overwhelming.
Relief. Terror. Relief. Both at the same time. Both true. Both real.
I was going to call him. Twenty minutes ago, I was going to call Landon.
The horror of it hits me like a truck.
Now there’s another way.
Branches of light grow in the dark pit of my stomach.
My first thought is to call Maren. I owe her a piece of this joy.
She answers on the second ring.
“I got it,” I say before she gets the chance to say hello.
My voice is high-pitched and squeaky. Hardly my own. But I’ll take it.
“What?”
“The job. They changed their mind. Or the other person dropped out. I don’t know. Either way, I got it. I’m moving in tomorrow.”
A half-scream, half-laugh echoes through the phone.
I hold it away from my ear and grin. For a moment, an emotion blooms that I almost don’t recognize.
Hope.
Tiny. Fragile. Already bracing for impact.
But it’s there.
Maren arrives at seven the next morning.
She lets herself in with the spare key and finds me standing in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by everything I own, which, when you lay it all out, is not much.
“Okay,” she says, setting down two coffees and a bag from the bakery on the corner. “Let’s do this.”
We pack in two hours.
Clothes, which consist of my meager work-appropriate outfits, casual pieces, and the old BU sweatshirt I refuse to throw away. Toiletries. A few books. The portfolio of lesson plans. My dad’s flannel shirt, folded carefully at the bottom of the suitcase where it won’t get wrinkled. Rather, where it won’t getmorewrinkled.
One suitcase. One bag. That’s my life, compressed into two containers that I could carry onto a bus.
