In this day and age, any job could be done online. Hell, you didn't even need a degree to do a lot of them.

But my father's one wish for me, after everything he'd been through, was to see me go to college. So I'd obliged. Not that it turned out any differently than any other thing I ever set out to do. Crashed and burn, tragedy heaped upon tragedy. If anyone ever truly examined my life, it could probably rival those books about series of unfortunate events.

I’d finished my degree though, a double major in accounting and graphic design. I know, the two things were so completely opposite that it was weird I excelled at them simultaneously. My dad used to say that the left and right side of my brain were twins, they couldn’t even tell each other apart. The thought makes me instantly sad.

It’s amazing what you can do with such different sets of skills though. By designing my own website and doing some social media marketing with killer graphics, I’ve accumulated over thirty different clients that I keep books for. The numbers calm me; they’re easy and always work out to what they’re supposed to be. No fancy stuff, no guessing, just formulas.

And there is the creative side of me. Some of my clients, including a nail salon, an Outer Banks tour company, an author who resides in Carova … they’ve spread the word about my graphic work. And over the last couple of years, my design business has grown to include dozens of clients. It’s the passionate side of my business, the fun part of my day where I get to imagine and create.

I set my own deadlines and work efficiently as my own boss. I’m professional, have a daily planner the size of my kitchen wall, and get joy from both sides of my business. It’s nice to be able to work from home, to run on the beach in the morning and have Rhett curl up at my feet during the day.

It’s especially nice because I don’t have to see anyone face to face. Sure, every once in a while a client will want a meeting, and I grudgingly comply. But mostly I can instant message or email anyone I need to talk to, and I have a business line that gets turned off from calls at six p.m. every day.

I’ve carved a life for myself, an island that I’m very happy to keep myself on.

The latest book cover I’m working on sits on Photoshop on my MacBook in front of me; a thriller about a man who may or may not have killed his wife. The day is cloudy and rainy, and all I feel like doing is curling up on the couch with tea and a comfy throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders. But I have to get this done; it’s the last thing on my plate for the day. Do I go edgy and dark, or suspenseful and thought-provoking? What I’ve learned from working with authors is that the cover means everything. It’s the first thing that potential customers see, the thing that pulls them in.

So I guess, books really are judged by their covers.

Thunder booms from outside, and my attention moves to somewhere outside the window.

Stevie Nicks sings right to my soul, and I find that I can’t keep focused on my work. It doesn’t happen often, but there are the days when I find all of my attention zapped. When I’m staring off into space for minutes at a time and don’t even realize it until the phone rings.

The radio drowns out as I realize that my house phone is ringing, not my business line, and isn’t that just weird. Walking to get the cordless, I see a familiar number flash across it.

Hitting the talk button, I put the phone to my ear with a small smile. “Hi.”

“Oh good, you’re not passed out from loneliness or flooded out. This is my weekly call to you so you can actually talk to a human being.” Aunt Carolyn’s singsongy voice echoed into my ear.

She was the one person left in my life who could make me smile just by the sound of her voice. She understood why I’d trapped myself out here, and why it was a lost cause trying to convince me to live a life like every other twenty-seven year old woman.

“Hey, I talk to people. Maybe not over the phone so much, but I instant message all day long. My fingers are very social beings.” Rhett followed me as I made my way over and lay on the couch.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Where is your cellphone by the way? I had a minor freak out when I called six times and you didn’t pick up.”

I looked around, seeing if I could spot it. “I don’t know, might be in a bag somewhere. I forgot the last time I charged it.”

My cellphone was always missing or off, I couldn’t be bothered with it. I only had a Facebook page for my business, and wasn’t friends with anyone I’d known in high school.

“You’re unlike any other human I know on this planet. Okay, so tell me everything that’s been going on.”

For some reason, I always want to talk to Aunt Carolyn. My dad’s only sister, she lives in Texas with her husband and two daughters. They’re adorable, and come to visit every year for about a week. And then it takes me two months to recover in silence from their bubbly chatter.

Aunt Carolyn’s the only one I have now, and has been like a mother to me for the duration of my life. Before she met Justin, she’d lived in North Carolina so close to us that I’d get to see her about twice a week. She was the only female figure I’d ever had, since my mom had taken off the minute she’d given birth.

I tell her about the minutiae of my life, the new jobs I’ve taken on and the foal that’s been futzing around the neighborhood. She talks about the girls first few weeks of school, and how happy she is to be back at work full time. Of course she throws in a good gossipy story or two about the community moms.

And even though it’s been at the forefront of my mind for days, I can’t bring myself to tell her about Carson. I don’t want to hear her advice right now, in fact, I don’t want to talk about it at all.

Giving it a voice will only drive the dagger in deeper, peel away the scab that has so thinly grown over the chunk missing out of my heart. So I don’t say a thing, just let the hurt fester; let those deep midnight black eyes burn a hole in the front of my brain.

“Hey, maybe you can come out to Texas for Thanksgiving?” Aunt Carolyn’s voice has a hopeful note in it.

She asks all the time, and all the time I make excuses. Of why I can’t go, why I have to work or someone needs help housesitting or something equally as trivial. The truth is, I can’t leave this place. Can’t bring myself to get on a plane, or go out in public. I’ve done this to myself, making my isolation a disease.

“Yeah, maybe I will.” We both know I won’t. That I can’t.

That’s the thing about being alone. Do it for too long and it becomes comfortable. Loneliness becomes your partner; you dedicate all of your time and energy to it. You build your life around it, secluding yourself so much that when it comes time to venture out again, panic seizes your chest. An elephant of anxiety sits on your lungs and heart, squeezing them until you retreat into your self-built paradise of seclusion, where you feel safe.

After saying good-bye and that she loves me more than chocolate, she always says that, we hang up.

And I go back to my isolation, elated and filled with sorrow at the same time.