One Month Later

“Hailey are you sure about all of this?” asks my mom, for what feels like the thousandth time.

She follows me into a studio apartment on the fifth floor of our building. Our footsteps echo across the bare floor of the empty room. I set my brand new key down on the counter of the miniscule kitchen.

“Yes, Mom,” I sigh. “I’m sure.”

I walk over to the window and stare out at the same street of apartment complexes and dilapidated townhouses I’ve been looking at for most of my life. From this new height, everything looks as fresh as the just-dried coat of paint on my walls.

They really are my walls. I signed the lease on the unit two weeks ago. I wander around the tiny space, unable to keep a smile off my face as I step across my hardwood floor. I walk into the bathroom and poke my head into my shower, then catch sight of myself in my mirror. I pause, staring at the reflection. Just like the street outside, I look different now too.

The dark circles under my eyes that I thought might have become permanent features of my face have finally disappeared. I went out and bought some young professional-esque additions for my wardrobe, adding things like blazers and ankle boots to my limited roster of t-shirts and jeans. In some sort of symbolic gesture about change and reinvention, I even cut most of my hair off. The strawberry blonde waves now only reach just past my shoulders.

I found the guts to send some writing samples off to Angela Croydon. She met with me a few days after I quit Dark Brown and once we’d discussed some ideas I had about updating her online image, she offered me a job as her social media manager. We’ve been working together for about three weeks now. I’m able to do my job from home most of the time, and can plan my schedule around looking after Amanda.

“Are you really going to have enough space for things in here?” asks my mom from where she’s opening and closing all the cupboards in my kitchen.

“You know I’ll still be making dinner at home most of the time,” I remind her. “I’m not moving across the country. You’ll still see me pretty much every day when I’m around to take care of Amanda.”

“Which is why I don’t understand moving into an apartment that will cost you—”

“Mom,” I warn, and she sighs in resignation.

“You’re right, you’re right. We’ve been over this.”

She opens up the mini fridge and shakes her head at the limited room inside.

“It still doesn’t make much sense to me,” she continues, “but you’re twenty-two now. I understand that you need space.”

When I announced that I was leaving Dark Brown and putting off university for an indefinite amount of time, I expected to have to face the showdown of the century. I actually considered pretending to go to work every day until I was sure I at least had another job lined up, but something Mel said just wouldn’t get out of my head:

What I am saying is that you shouldn’t let someone else’s insecurities hold you back.

My mom was never trying to mould the perfect daughter. She didn’t expect me to go to university so she could parade my degree around and brag about my success; she just wanted to make sure the raggedy, threadbare sweater her life became was never mine to wear. She gave every scrap of herself up to building my future instead of patching the holes in her own.

We just so happen to have very different ideas about how those pieces should be sewn together. The gratitude I feel for her is deep enough to swallow me up, but I couldn’t let the chance to live my definition of happiness pass me by because it wasn’t the same as hers.

I told her all of that, and while she’s grumbled and groaned and sat in nail-biting anxiety through the entire process, I haven’t been disowned, no emotional breakdowns have occurred, and there have been no plates thrown across the room during furious screaming matches.

My decision to get this apartment did bring us pretty close to that, and while I agree that spending this much money to move only two floors away seems pointless in a lot of respects, I needed to put a lockable door between my Then Life and my Now Life.

We both turn as someone starts knocking on said door.

“All ready to move in?” calls Greg, the building’s superintendant.

We’ve lived here long enough that we’re on first name terms, and when he found out I was moving into my own apartment, Greg offered to help us get all my stuff upstairs.

We spend the rest of the day piling boxes into the elevator and manoeuvring furniture around the tiny room. After eating dinner together at home, Mom leaves me to myself in my own apartment, and I flop onto the bed I haven’t put sheets on yet.

Despite the fact that the room really isn’t big enough for it, I bought myself a double. It’s just a mattress on the floor, but at least now when I want to bring someone home for the night, I won’t have to introduce him to my kid sister and insane dog before we squeeze onto a tiny twin-size.

That is, if I ever want to bring someone home.

I grab my phone off my bedside table and see that there are two new messages from the Tinder guy I went out with last night. It was the crucial third date, the deciding moment on whether or not more dates would follow, and my decision is definitely no. He was a good looking guy and the conversation always flowed, but I’m still chasing static and sparks and the starry-eyed shock of connection. I want someone who can make me feel starving and full all at once.

We kissed a bit at the end of the night, and that’s when I knew I didn’t want to take things any farther. It was a Steve kind of kiss, not a Jordan one.

Resisting the urge to smack myself in the head for putting Jordan at the top end of my make out rating system, I dial the guy’s number and brace myself for letting him down.

“Hey, Matt? It’s Hailey.”

He doesn’t make things any easier when he tells me he’s glad I called and that he was just thinking about me.

“I, uh, have something to tell you,” I begin. “I just thought it would be better to say this over the phone instead of with a text. I’ve had a good time with you so far, but I...”

I draw a blank. I didn’t think to plan what I’d say in advance.

“Oh,” he says flatly, “so it’s that kind of phone call?”

“You’re a great guy, really,” I tell him, and have yet another urge to smack myself in the head. “I know how awful and cliché that sounds and I kind of hate myself for saying it, but it’s true. You’re great. Any logically thinking girl would be bending over backwards to date you— Okay that came out way more sexual than I meant, but the point is, but I’m not looking for something...something so...”

I hear him laugh into the phone as I struggle.

“Logical?” he suggests.

“Yes,” I agree, “something so logical. That doesn’t even make any sense, does it? That’s not how these things are supposed to work.”

There’s a pause at the other end of the line.

“The best things are the ones that work even when they don’t make sense.”

I almost drop my phone in shock. I wasn’t aware I was going out with some kind of sage. Once again I reflect on how insane it is to turn this guy down.

“That’s very observant,” I manage to reply.

“Observant enough to make you want to give me another chance?”

I make a spluttering noise and he laughs again.

“I’m just kidding. I get it, and I admire you for refusing to settle. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You too.”

“Guess it’s time to start swiping again,” he jokes, and now I’m the one laughing

We say goodbye after that and I end the call.

My apartment is dark now, lit only by a soft glow from the lights of the building across the street. I still have to buy myself some curtains. I get off the bed and turn on the floor lamp from my old bedroom, then settle down in my new armchair and open up my very outdated laptop.

My blog went live a week ago. It’s still very barebones and definitely a work in progress, but I figured I had to start somewhere and I was done with putting it off. So far all I’ve got up is my inaugural ‘Hello internet, hear me roar!’ post. I have three followers, but I’ve been trying not to let that get me down. I’m concentrating on networking for the time being, and I’ve already found a few food blogger friends.

I scroll through a few news feeds and post some comments before deciding to call it a night. I dig out my sheets from one of the few boxes I have left to unpack and get them set up. My muscles ache from all the moving and my eyelids feel heavy, but three hours later I’m still lying wide awake in bed.

Trying to fall asleep in a new place has me tossing and turning, sweating under the covers despite the fact that it’s mid December and the heating in here is sketchy at best. I throw the blankets off me and tug my pyjama shirt over my head. Lying there half naked in the dark, I start to get all hot and bothered in a completely different way.

I run my fingers along the skin of my stomach, imagining that they belong to someone else. Slipping my hands down to trace the inside of my thighs, I picture a dark-haired man spreading my legs and urging me on. I try to stop his voice from turning into Jordan’s husky growl, to keep his hands from pinning me to the bed with Jordan’s firm grasp, but I can’t.

It’s him. It’s always him.

* * *

The next day, I’m hard at work racking up followers for Angela Croydon in my makeshift home office. It consists of a foldable side table pulled up in front of my armchair. My phone beeps to announce a new text and I welcome the distraction; I haven’t left my laptop all morning.

The message is from Mel. Since our heart to heart during my Dark Night of the Soul, we’ve moved from being a step above acquaintances to full on friends. She’s asking if I’ll be stopping by Cuppa Joe today. I text her back.

I wasn’t planning on it, but now that you mention it, a change of scenery might do me some good. If I have to look at one more Pinterest board today I think I might just snap.

I pack up my computer and take it with me over to the cafe. I still have a few more hours to put in today, but my creative juices are severely depleted and need to be replenished by caffeine.

I think about Matt the Tinder Guy’s words of wisdom as I ride the bus. I hadn’t seen my turning him down as ‘refusing to settle’ but I realize now that it’s kind of true.

I don’t want the cardboard cut-out version of Mr. Right. I don’t want to go into a relationship with a checklist and choose to be with someone just because I can tick off every box. I want something that shatters every formula and algorithm, something that works even though it doesn’t make sense. If nothing else, my time with Jordan has left me with impossibly high standards even he himself ended up being unable to fill.

Lucky me.

The bus pulls up at my stop and I cross the street over to Cuppa Joe. This part of the city has evergreen boughs decorated with big red bows attached to all the streetlamps. Strings of white and green lights hang between them. Mina and Mel have gotten into the holiday spirit too, and the windows of Cuppa Joe are filled with poinsettias.

There’s a large white sign set up among all the red flowers, and as I get closer I try to make out what the black lettering says, figuring it must be some kind of festive message or a new promotion. When I finally get near enough to read the words, I stop dead in my tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.

They’re instructions, and they’re for me: ‘Hailey, scan this.’

Underneath is a QR code.

I peer past the sign into the cafe, expecting to find Mel standing there laughing, ready to explain whatever joke this is, but I can’t see anyone. Stepping back, I look around the street. There’s nothing here but the sign.

I shift my purse around and pull my phone out with the caution of someone being held at gunpoint. After scanning the code, I’m brought to a blank webpage with a few sentences of text.

Just wanted to make sure you had a QR code scanner. This could have ended up being really anticlimactic if not. Come inside. There’s something else for you to see.

I feel as dazed as if I’ve just woken up from a coma. Part of me wonders if I might even be in a coma. Everything has the shifting uncertainty of a dream right now.

I pull open the cafe door and hesitate in the doorway. The entire store is empty. There isn’t even anyone at the counter. I step inside, feeling like the sole survivor of an apocalypse. My footsteps echo over the soft sound of some female folk singer coming from the stereo system overhead.

“H—Hello?” I falter.

That’s when I notice the second sign, propped up on one of the tables.

‘Hailey, scan this too,’ it reads, with an arrow pointing down at another QR code.

Seeing as it’s the only clue I’ve got as to what the hell is going on, I do what the sign says. A new webpage opens up. This one is almost as empty as the first, except that instead of a few sentences, there’s an outline of a box with a few puzzle pieces underneath it.

A little bouncing arrow points to one of the pieces. I tap my finger down on it, and another arrow pops up pointing inside the box. Getting the idea, I drag the puzzle piece upwards and it snaps into place in the left-hand corner of the box. A pop-up appears on the screen.

I think people’s lives are like puzzles, it reads. You’re born with all these pieces and a vague picture in your head about what you’re supposed to do with them. Then you spend the next several decades trying to fit them all together.

The pop-up fades and an arrow points to another puzzle piece. I drag it up to the box and a second message appears.

Most people have to work the puzzle out on their own, cramming pieces where they don’t fit and hunting around for the corners and edges, all while trying to create that perfect picture they’ve got in their mind. Sometimes you get stuck. Sometimes the final image looks nothing like how you imagined it in the beginning. I know I sound like a motivational poster right now, but I kind of think that’s what life is all about: trial and error, figuring things out for yourself.

I continue putting puzzle pieces into place, reading through the pop-ups as they start to tell a story that makes my chest tighten and my hands shake as I clutch my phone.

My own life didn’t go quite like that. I wasn’t building the picture in my head; I was building the picture in my dad’s. Every piece I was handed already had a carefully assigned place. There was no risk. There were no mistakes. I did well in school. I got into a good university. I continued to do well there.

Sometimes I dreamed about making my own path, about smashing all those pieces up into dust and starting from scratch, but there was always something that stopped me: my mom. Since I was a kid, my mom has had problems with her blood pressure and her heart. She’s been dangerously sick a few times and needs to have a very stable life. I was always told that following my parents’ plan for me was important for keeping her healthy.

I realize now how insane it is to tell a little kid that he has to study for his test or his mom will end up in the hospital, but after being told time and time again that I had to make her happy if I wanted to keep her safe, I believed it. Sometimes I wasn’t even allowed to see her if my father decided it would make her upset. During the time I did get to spend with her, she was frail but caring in a way my dad never was, and I loved her more than anything.

I never really got a lot of chances to be creative growing up. Everything I had to do was already planned out. When I went away for school I had a lot more freedom. I realized how much I liked technology and design. I just couldn’t get enough of it. The control my father had over me wasn’t as strong anymore. So far away from everything I’d left behind, his threats about my mother’s health didn’t seem to be as real.

I had new puzzle pieces now, ones that didn’t fit in the picture I was building. I decided it was finally time to build my own. I turned my back on my dad. I left everything behind, and for the two semesters I spent at design school, everything was fine. It was better than fine. I was finally doing something for myself. My father was furious and I was sure I’d disappointed my mother, but despite that, her health was the same as ever. As long as she was okay, there was nothing my dad could do to make me change my mind.

Then I got a call. My mom had had a stroke and her life was on the line. I flew back to see her that night. She was unconscious the entire time, but I sat and held her hand for hours. I tried to stop myself from believing it was all my fault, but the guilt crushed me. I still feel it every day. When it became clear she’d recover to at least some extent, my father had her moved to a private recovery centre. He hasn’t let me see her. I’m still not sure where she is. He said the only way to ensure she got better was to keep her away from me, and that the only chance I had at seeing her again was to come work for the company and fulfill the plans my parents always had for me.

So I did it. I took every piece he gave me and I put them into place.

The puzzle on my phone is almost filled in, forming an image of the Knox Security building, the large sign above the doors looming like a bad omen. I move the final piece up to the box but it won’t snap into place like the others. The size isn’t right, and neither are the colours. A new pop-up appears.

That’s you, Hailey, in case you haven’t figured it out. You’re the piece that doesn’t fit. You appeared in my life like something rare and wild and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t let you go. I tried to shove you into a picture you were never meant to be a part of and I hurt you when I did.

The pop-up fades and then so does the puzzle. A new one appears in the box, this time with only a piece here and there. A longer message appears on top, and I scroll through it.

I’m going to live my own life now, a normal life full of mistakes and uncertainty. I’m already working to build it. I left my dad’s company, if you can believe it. This time I’m staying away for good. I’m still trying to track down my mom, but I’ll find her. I have to. Whatever role I played in her illness, I know now that talking to her is the only way to make it right.

I’m not asking you to let me into your life again. I know I have no right to do that. I just wanted you to know that none of this would have been possible without you, and that I think about how lucky I am to have met you every single day. You make everything around you better, Hailey. I was weak and scared and I can never apologize enough for what I did to you because of that, but I meant it when I said you made me want to be better, and now I know that I can be.

Whatever happens to both of us now, I just want you to know that there will always be a spot in this puzzle that’s shaped exactly like you.

I stare at the screen, squeezing my phone so hard I’m scared it’s going to break. My eyes are starting to sting and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

There’s a sound of footsteps from over near the kitchen door. I keep my back turned as they come closer and then the clatter of a plate being set down on one of the tables rings out. The footsteps stop and the room goes quiet enough that I can hear both of us breathing, but still I keep my back turned.

The crooning folk singer fills the silence. I take a deep breath and put my phone back in my purse.

“That,” I begin to say, pausing to swallow down the lump in my throat, “was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever read. A puzzle piece? Really?”

I turn around and he’s standing there, blurred by the tears I can’t hold back. I drag my sleeve across my eyes and do my best to manage a scowl.

He’s staring at me like I’m a solar eclipse, some cosmic event that makes you drop everything to run a catch a glimpse of the sky. He looks at me the way he described in his message, as if I’m something rare and wild. For the next few moments, we just stand there, taking each other in. The grimace I’m trying to keep up fades, and my face becomes a canvas for all of the longing that’s pulsing in my veins.

“I didn’t know how else to explain it,” he murmurs. “I just wanted you to understand.”

“Understand what a spineless little cretin you were?” I ask, wishing my voice wasn’t coming out so thick.

“Yes,” he responds, “totally spineless. An absolute little cretin. I have several other names to call myself if you want to hear them.”

He sounds completely serious, and it shatters my resolve. I crack a smile.

“Write me a list sometime. I’ll keep it on hand.”

I take a step towards him, but he stays where he is, as if I’m a shy animal he doesn’t want to scare away.

“Jordan,” I tell him, “I’m not going to say everything’s okay. It’s not. I want to try to make it okay, though.”

I move closer, close enough that I can reach up and place my hands on his shoulders.

“I missed you,” I whisper, “in spite of everything. You gave me more than I’ve ever had from anybody. You made me want better things for myself, too. I don’t want to try to find someone else who can give them to me. I want them with you.”

I brace myself against his shoulders and stand on the tips of my toes to place a quick kiss on his mouth. He hesitates after I pull away, then leans forward and kisses me hard, his taste sweet and familiar on my tongue. I feel him wrap his arms around my waist and I melt into him.

He breaks the kiss and then brings his lips to my temple, pressing them softly to the slight hollow. A shiver passes through me and I tuck my head under his chin, pressing myself even harder against him and closing my eyes as I breathe him in.

“You said to come find you when I was ready to be the real Jordan,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “I am.”

He reaches up to stroke my hair and I commit every detail of this moment to memory before opening my eyes again. I notice the steaming hot latte sitting on the table next to us.

“What’s that?” I ask, not moving from our embrace.

“Hmm?” he mumbles.

“That mug?”

“Oh, that,” he answers, squeezing me one last time before stepping away. “It’s a recipe Mel and I made up. Well, Mel did most of the work. I still don’t know much about coffee.”

He flashes me one of his crooked smirks, the first time I’ve seen him smile today, and I feel a sharp tug inside me at the sight. He picks the mug up and offers it to me.

“It’s called the ‘Hailey I’m Sorry I Was a Complete Fucking Asshole.’ Mel says she’s just going to call it the ‘Hailey’ when she sells it to customers, though.”

I indulge him with a laugh and accept the drink. Bringing it to my lips, I inhale the milky scent before taking my first sip. It tastes like cinnamon and brown sugar and coming in out of the cold.

“Any good?” he asks, looking expectant.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Very good.”