CHAPTER EIGHT
Skye spent the following day at the Rimrock Mall, going from store to store asking for job applications. Some sales associates told her she needed to fill out an application online. Others handed her the forms, and she sat at one of the food court tables and filled out each one, leaving the address section blank and explaining that she was “between apartments” at the moment. If that didn’t jeopardize her chances, her overqualification as a store manager did, since many of the positions she was applying for were part-time sales or stock. Skye figured she’d be able to work her way up to assistant manager or keyholder quickly.
Even the plus-sized clothing stores eyed her warily.
Never mind that she’d won Manager of the Month three months in a row. Never mind that her store maintained its figures, financially speaking. She was a thirty-six-year-old, graying-haired, overweight, practically homeless woman. She wasn’t projecting asset. She was projecting desperation. She was projecting loser. She was projecting I need you way more than you need me. Which was probably what had made it so easy for Vance to lure her in six months ago. That, and Vance had promised her that eventually she wouldn’t have to work at all unless she wanted to, because he was “well-off.”
Stupid, stupid Skye for believing him.
Why didn’t she ever learn her lesson? Skye Littleton had always let her fantasies get the best of her, only to be let down. She’d been doing it since she was nine years old, when she erected a lemonade stand, complete with a yellow patio umbrella and pretty, flowered Dixie cups, with ambitions of netting one hundred dollars by the end of her first business day. After three days, she’d counted nine dollars in quarters. When she was twelve, she’d entered a magazine-selling contest, thinking that if she sold enough subscriptions, the grand prize would be something like a trip to New York for a tour of the publishing company, where she would be named Junior Executive for a day, and in ten years, when she graduated college, there would be a job waiting for her. She came in third and won a large candy bar, which she ate alone, in her room, in one sitting, already full with disappointment. The grand prize turned out to be nothing more than a giant teddy bear.
At age seventeen, when Donnie DiMarco said hello to her for the first time after class and walked with her to her next one, she had proceeded to send him secret-admirer notes and carnations for the following six days, although her identity was far from concealed. After thoroughly planning the wedding in detail, her hopes were shot after her future husband let her down in no uncertain terms and wouldn’t so much as look in her direction in the hallways.
And when Professor Schumacher wrote an encouraging note on her term paper in college, she dreamed about making commencement speeches at graduation rather than explaining the actual Bs and Cs to her parents, who demanded honor roll. (Her sister Summer was a straight-A student, of course.)
And let’s not rehash her current situation, thanks to Vance Sandler responding to her comment on a group Facebook page. And freaking the fuck out on her birthday.
Back in her hotel room, exhausted, she watched reruns of Fixer Upper on the HGTV channel and considered moving to Waco, Texas, to ask Chip and Joanna Gaines to find her a house. She’d seen couples snag a cottage on Fixer Upper for as little as ten grand. She didn’t need much more than a two-bed, one-bath with a screened-in porch. Maybe, if she moved to Waco instead, she could even work at their Magnolia store.
Stop it, Skye, she chided herself. You don’t need any more fantasies.
She called Julie to update her on her disastrous confrontation with Vance and her decision to remain in Billings.
“Are you crazy?” Julie practically yelled.
“Probably,” said Skye, eating a dinner consisting of a burger, fries, and Coke from Sonic. So healthy. “But why should I give Vance the satisfaction of knowing he played me?”
“You shouldn’t,” said Julie. “But you don’t have to stay in Billings-fucking-Montana to do that. You can get a new job and a new place and have a fabulous life right here in Rhode Island. Maybe move closer to the water or live in Providence or something.”
“Doing what? More retail? More staring at an empty online-dating inbox? I can do that anywhere. Jules, I have to do this. I have to start from scratch. If it doesn’t work out here, then I’ll leave. But I have to try. I have to figure out what I really want. I haven’t asked myself that in so long. At least not realistically.”
Julie sighed. “OK, Skyebaby. You know I’ll always support you. I just miss you, you know?”
“I miss you too, Jules. Thank you for caring. And understanding.”
“You talk to your sister yet?”
Skye huffed. “No. Not in the mood for the I-told-you-so speech.”
“She might surprise you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You should do a Facebook update too.”
“Why?”
“So people don’t think you were eaten by a bear or something.”
Skye snorted. “I don’t think there are bears in Billings. Anyway, let them think whatever they want. I’m not in the mood to fill people in on my pathetic life.”
“You’re not pathetic!” yelled Jules. “You’re doing something very courageous. Crazy, but courageous.”
“Or just plain stupid. We’ll find out soon enough.”
When Skye ended the call, she extracted her laptop from her carry-on and flopped back on the bed. She filled out the online applications and went to an employment website looking for matches to her skill sets and qualifications, temp jobs, anything that could give her momentum. Two hours later she turned up the volume on the TV, which she’d kept on but muted since her phone call with Julie. Beachfront Bargain Hunters was on. She flicked the TV off at first sight of the gulf view from a high-rise condo in Galveston, Texas, threw the remote on the floor, and turned to her side, crossing her arms and folding herself into a fetal position. This was reality. She was never going to be more. She was never going to have more. It was time, once and for all, to stop dreaming of more. To stop wanting more. To stop wanting anything.
No. No, no, no.
She sat up. “No pity parties allowed,” she said to Chip, who was curled up on the edge of the bed. He picked his head up, looked at her apathetically, and lowered it back on top of his paws. Retrieving her laptop, she opened a Word document and started at the blank page. Then she typed:
IF MONEY WASN’T AN OBJECT, WHAT WOULD YOU WANT TO DO OR BE?
She stared at the screen. Then she stared at the black screen of the television. Then she stared at Chip. Then she started at the curtains hiding the darkness outside.
She turned the TV on again. A commercial for Property Brothers was on.
And then she typed:
I want to be Drew and Jonathan in one. And Chip and Joanna. And Dave and Kortney.
I want to be a fixer-upper.
She wasn’t even entirely sure what she meant by that second sentence, why she’d worded it that way instead of something like, I want to buy and renovate and sell homes. She didn’t even know how one got into such a business. Where was she supposed to start?
And then she had an idea.
She texted Harvey: Is there a class I could take on learning how to paint?
Minutes later, Harvey replied: I’ll do you one better. Come work for me.