CHAPTER THREE
I cry as I ride to the brewpub, wash my face in cold water in the bathroom sink, and do my shift in a daze.
I can’t believe what just happened. Did I really just throw away eighteen months with my boyfriend for a job?
I decide not to go to New York a dozen times during the dinner shift. But then a group of college students stiffs me with a buck-fifty tip for a table of four, a woman yells at me for a screwed-up order that was the kitchen’s fault, and a customer pats me on the butt.
I want to take a chunk out of the customer’s arm with my teeth, but I just chew my lip and keep moving. I have to keep moving. If I stand still, I’ll break down again.
The same fear and exhilaration I felt when I quit my reporting job hits me and I can’t bring myself to eat on my break, so I nurse an Arnold Palmer on the curb behind the brewpub and check Facebook on my phone. Jeff has already updated his relationship status to single.
Jackass. But I feel the tears flow again.
I also see a message from Stella. “I saw Jeff’s status. Looks like it didn’t go so well. Chin up, beauty, you’re going to love NYC!” Even through the tears, I smile. Stella always seems to rebound from the bad boys she dates as if they were nothing worse than a hangover.
I drag my feet during my end-of-shift sidework, hoping the business of mating ketchup bottles and refilling salt and pepper shakers will keep me busy until after my mom’s in bed.
I’m in luck. Her bedroom light is off, so I tiptoe to my room, knowing that I’ll be up and out of the house again before she gets up. But that means tomorrow night’s going to be rough.
***
“How could you just do this without even discussing it with me?” my mom cries. And she’s just getting started. Years of practiced, impassive expressions in her family counseling practice have made her more prone to outbursts, in my opinion.
But what do I know? I’m not the licensed therapist.
“I am discussing it with you. Right now.”
I move to drain the pasta before it gets gluey, stepping carefully around her in our small apartment’s galley kitchen.
“But you’ve already made up your mind,” she accuses. “I can’t believe Dan didn’t say something to me first.”
“You mean, ask your permission?”
Mom backpedals. I’ve already played my “I’m twenty-two, not a child” card twice tonight. She knows it trumps her “Because I’m the mother, that’s why” card.
“I need you here. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t stand the thought of losing you too. And if you go to New York, you won’t be safe. You won’t have me to take care of you.”
I clench my teeth, biting back a comment that will only hurt her. After Dad died, I took care of her more than she took care of me. I plunk our dinner down on the table harder than I intend and the sound echoes off the walls.
Mom sees I’m not swayed, so she plays the pity card, sad eyes and all. That’s practically an ace. “I’m your mother. Shouldn’t my opinion count for something?”
“You’ve never been to New York,” I remind her. “And neither have I. We’ve never been much of anywhere since…”
I don’t want to say, “since Dad died,” or, “since the accident.”
My father was a private pilot—his passion, his hobby and his death sentence. He got caught when the weather came in and the clouds rolled down. With nowhere to land but vast stretches of forest, he tried and failed.
“We don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to go anywhere. You can find a new opportunity in Eugene. Or even Portland.” She frowns at the mention of the biggest city near us, a hundred miles north.
But her words ring hollow even as she says them. If I stay in Eugene, I’ll still reek of coffee, failure, and frustration. Or I can spread my wings like Stella and get a bitchin’ job and a punk boyfriend (Blayde? Knyfe? What’s with that name?).
And maybe change my future.
A knock startles me as I’m setting the table and I fly to the door, eager for something to defuse our argument. Dan stands on our doormat, hands tucked behind his back, looking hopeful.
Defuse? This is more like throwing a match in a room full of dynamite.
“Hi Berry, I was wondering if—”
“New York? What were you thinking?!?” My mother is behind me, hands on her hips, staring Dan down. He takes a step back and ducks his head from the daggers in her eyes.
I edge to the side, out of the line of fire, pushing the door open wider. I think my mom would like to slam it in his face, but I’m not going to let her bully us.
“Meredith. It’s good to see you.” Dan’s eyes crinkle as he smiles but she huffs and stalks into the kitchen, so angry her face is purple.
“Um, not a good time right now. We were just talking about New York.” I remember my manners and hope he’ll take my side in this fight. “You want to come in?”
Dan hesitates as he enters our apartment, as if a lion might be lurking around a corner. He’s half-right—my mom can be pretty fierce when she’s angry. I guess I prefer angry to the years when she was withdrawn or just plain sad.
Dan turns and hands me the bouquet of daisies he’d hidden behind his back. “You’d better hold onto these, Berry,” he whispers. “If I give them to your mother, she’ll probably throw them in my face.”
My mom rounds the corner from the kitchen, her face pinched with anger. “What makes you think you can just come in here and take my daughter away? What makes you think you can fly back into our lives after all this time?”
“I tried to call you,” Dan protests.
“And I didn’t call you back. That should have been all you needed to know.”
“Meredith, I didn’t mean to disappear. When I came to Eugene, you wouldn’t see me.”
“But then you stopped coming. Or calling. So what makes you think I want to see you now?” My mom’s blinking fast and I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
Dan raises his palms in surrender. “Meredith, I didn’t come to fight with you. You were one of my best friends. I wish we were still friends. I wish—a lot of things. And so I came to promise you I’d take good care of Berry if she wants to come to New York.”
“Beryl.” My mother and I correct him in unison and I give her a tiny smile of gratitude. Then I look at the flowers I’m holding guiltily, as if I’ve already accepted his offer to go to New York.
In my mind, I have.
“Sorry, Beryl. And Meredith, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. I honestly didn’t expect to run into Beryl at the coffee shop, but when I heard she was stuck here—”
“Wait. What? Stuck? Beryl isn’t stuck. She’s just figuring out her next opportunity.”
My mouth forms a surprised O. My mom has given me endless grief for working at the coffee shop instead of going back to get a master’s degree in something, but now I’m hearing her defend my two food service jobs as if I weren’t marking time toward a life of ordinary.
“Maybe this is it, then,” Dan says gently. “I wanted to give Beryl a chance to try something new. You know New York was a great move for me. I regret the way things ended between us, Mer. There’s no reason we should have stopped being friends after Clint died.”
“Friends.” My mom is still suspicious.
“Mom, I need a challenge. And if it sucks—”
“If it sucks,” she grimaces at the word, but I can tell Dan and I are winning this fight, “will you promise to come home?”
“Yes.” I promise. I don’t know if that’s a lie.
***
I fire up my laptop and buy a plane ticket that kills off a quarter of my savings. It’s late, but I take a chance and call Stella. She answers on the third ring and I can hear her voice echo above loud music.
“Sorry to call you so late.”
“Honey, it’s early!” Stella shouts in my ear. “So what’s the story?”
“I’m coming. I’ve got a plane ticket and enough money to last until my first paycheck.”
“That’s fantastic! How did your mom take it?”
“She wasn’t thrilled. You could have guessed.”
I think of my mom’s strangled expression when Dan and I piled on the promises that I’d be safe to finally convince her. I could have played my “I’m an adult, you can’t tell me what to do” card, but ultimately I wanted her blessing.
“Do you have to pack much? When do you get in?”
“I get there Sunday morning. I’m taking a redeye. That means I’ve got four days to pack, quit the coffee shop, quit the brewpub and I’ll show up for work with Dan on Monday.”
“I’ll message you my address.” I hear pounding in the background. “I gotta run. Somebody wants in the bathroom. Text me if you need help.” Stella abruptly clicks off the line.
Help? I need help in about a million ways.