I had taken the mature road and said yes to moving to California.
That lasted one day.
I spent hours researching places to rent before stumbling on crime stats which had me retracting my words faster than you could say ‘gunshot wounds.’
Apparently—it was too late. Mom had put a down payment on a small condo in the facility and bought us one-way tickets to Los Angeles. For weeks, I tried to find another job, but no matter how many interviews I went on, the reality was that nothing paid as much as the jobs in California.
The change brought on a wave of emotions. I was mourning a life I once knew. The nights were hard, lying in bed and counting down the days till this room became a distant memory. I’d fall asleep dreaming about a different time when things weren’t complicated and life was just…simple.
Flynn barely said a word; keeping quiet and distancing himself from me like this was all my fault. Instead of spending these last moments with Mom, he chose to hang out with his deadbeat friends down at the local billiard.
My time was filled with tying loose ends at my current job and countless interviews for this new role. The recruiter, Jan, prepped me as much as possible, giving me a head start when it came to the interview process and what the role entailed. I had passed the first round of interviews which were conducted over video conference. It lasted for two hours. Question after question. By the end of it—I was beyond exhausted. Never had I experienced an interview so formal.
So, it came to this—the final goodbyes.
Aside from when my grandparents passed away, I’d only ever said goodbye to one person: my father. I was seven years old when he officially left for good and barely knew the guy. He had worked on an oil rig somewhere in Asia and came home every couple of months. My grandparents didn’t approve of him. They thought Mom deserved better and someone not Korean. My grandpapa’s words to Mom still ring in my head: “You have Russian blood. How dare you dishonor us and marry a Korean!”
Despite his racial slurs and creating this great divide between himself and Mom, he loved me and Flynn like his own. His death was like the loss of a father, and at the age of fifteen, my coping mechanism was not of mature thinking.
I did things I shouldn’t have.
Boys, weed, and anything I could get my hands on that involved danger.
My dad made an appearance a year later, showed me photos of his new family like I would be excited to know that I had a sister he actually spent time with. Flynn was different. He craved a father figure in his life and begged to move to Hawaii with him. Stupid moron said no. Mom was thankful, and for the next year we dealt with Flynn and his anxiety. The doctor suggested he take medication and for that—I hated my so-called father and welcomed the goodbye.
This wasn’t a real goodbye though. This was a see-you-soon type of goodbye. Maybe that’s why I didn’t shed the tears or drink the entire bottle of wine like my best friend Phoebe. This trip to California would be short term—a year max. I would return once I had saved enough money to keep the house and maybe start my own business or something.
This isn’t a goodbye forever.
“I hate this…”
Phoebe throws a pile of clothes into the suitcase in her normally overdramatic way—before pretending to faint on my bed. The bed posts creak from the sudden weight of her body while I choose to ignore her plea to make me stay home; carefully organizing my precious belongings into a separate carry-on bag.
“You only hate it because you’ve got no one to vent to on Friday night while drunk on cheap champagne you bought at Billy’s.”
Phoebe sits up, then lays back against my pillow with her ginger hair a tangled mess. Whenever she got frustrated or angry, she would unknowingly bite her hair while silently trying to regroup her thoughts.
“That’s not true.” She shakes her head, spitting out a mouthful of hair. “You make a good vomit buddy. You’ve got my hair pulled back so tight that it’s such a neat spew into the toilet bowl.”
I throw a pair of socks at her face before plopping down beside her. “I hate this too.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do? Could you take another job or something?”
I wish it was that simple. I had worked two jobs for the past year to support our family. A full-time role at Mason’s Law Firm as personal assistant to Mildred Mason—one of Alaska’s top female lawyers. I took the job straight out of college and pretty much got thrown into the deep end. To be honest—I wouldn’t have it any other way. It distracted me from the real problems I was facing with Mom and gave me the direction I needed.
“The pizza shop can’t afford to keep me on for weekends anymore. Why pay a twenty-five-year-old wages when you can pay a sixteen-year-old?” I complain. “And Mildred is retiring.”
“So, get another job. There’s plenty of personal assistant jobs here.”
I laugh at her suggestion. “Uh, hello? You do know we live in a small town? It takes me ninety minutes each day to travel to work. There are no other jobs.”
“Surely, there’s something.” Phoebe leans over to my nightstand and grabs the local newspaper. “Okay, look. There’s plenty.”
“Fine, go ahead, tell me what I can do.”
“How are you with gutting fish?”
“The same you are with gutting fish.”
She takes a giant swallow. “Gross. Okay, so fish guts ain’t your thing. Here you go…” Her eyes scan the paper, quietly reading before speaking. “Looking for a physically fit young woman to help with caring for ailing father.”
“Pass.”
“Why? The money looks good.”
“Because it’s caring for Old Man Wilson and we all know his wandering hands are no accident. I think his daughter has some sort of advertisement discount for the amount of times that job has been posted.”
“Who would have thought an eighty-year-old man would be so frisky?” Phoebe questions with a cheeky grin. “He had an eye for your red miniskirt. By the way, can I have it?”
“Not any of the women that applied for the role, clearly.” I move to the closet, opening a secret compartment and removing the miniskirt, throwing it at Phoebe. “All yours. The last time I wore this was in high school. Smoking weed under the bleachers with Bobby Houseman.”
“Those were the days.” Phoebe continues to troll the newspaper, turning the page with frustration and causing the paper to crumple between her fingers. Her frown turns into a smile, and I wait eagerly for her pathetic attempt to sell me a role that involved selling my soul to the devil.
“You like to dance, right?”
“Sure, with my clothes on. So, if you’re trying to get me to take them off and casually stand by a silver pole, keep turning that page.”
“You know me too well.”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“I don’t want you to go, Milly.” Her voice is raspy, pleading for something I can no longer control.
“I have no choice. I can’t support paying for Mom’s care and keep the house. Besides, it’ll be nice to start fresh somewhere.”
She turns to face me, throwing the newspaper onto the floor. The bed creaks again; annoying yet comforting because it was my bed. The same bed I had slept in since I was a kid.
“You’re lying. You hate fresh starts. You’re a homebody and moving to a different state—especially California—terrifies you.”
I nod my head quietly. I did hate fresh starts. I was a homebody. For the past four years I’d done nothing but study and work. I had zero social life besides hanging out with Phoebe and my boyfriend Liam. My weekends consisted of more work, taking care of the house and making sure my brother stayed out of trouble.
I had worked hard on bettering myself. Providing for Mom in her time of need. So what if I wasn’t hitting the clubs and partying like everyone else my age. I had been there, done that. Illegally, yet still, it’s not like I haven’t tasted what it’s like to walk on the wild side.
I walked.
I fell.
And now I’m back up.
“I have to do this.” I bury my head into Phoebe’s side, knowing I would miss her like crazy. “You can come visit, and I’m sure I’ll come back home for the holidays.”
“It’s not the same. I’m selfish and need my best friend.”
I smile into her shirt, inhaling the smell of cinnamon. A scent she purchased online after reading some article on how to attract men. As silly as it may seem—it was so Phoebe. Naïve and waiting to land her prince charming.
“I promise nothing will change between us,” I reassure her.
“Pinkie swear it.” She holds up her pinkie finger and I raise mine to link with hers.
“I pinkie swear it.”
The radio plays in the background, the local station playing the usual Friday afternoon ’90s mix. I grab the hairbrush from the top of the suitcase and sing to the tunes of Backstreet Boys. Phoebe can’t help herself, jumping off the bed and dancing in the room while we both belt out the chorus—off key—laughing until my brother bangs against the wall.
The song ends, the same time that we both stare at each other with clouded eyes. I’m the first to turn away, avoiding the sadness that I’m forcing to bury deep down inside because if I allow myself to feel the extent of it—I would never leave.
I try to distract myself by folding a sweater, until Phoebe’s arms wrap around my waist, her face buried into my hair. The sweater slips out of my hands as I pull her into me while we both begin to cry.
Phoebe pulls away first, wiping my old ragged t-shirt of the stains she left behind. When we both wipe our faces with the backs of our sleeves, we smile—staring into the mirror and laughing at our panda eyes.
Phoebe was more than a best friend—she was my family.
I look at the time on the wall—it’s just after four in the afternoon.
“Phoebe, I got one more thing I need to do before I leave.”
You could see the sympathy in her eyes. It wasn’t only saying goodbye to Phoebe, but to my boyfriend—Liam. I had been dreading this since the moment me leaving became a reality.
“You think you guys will last?”
Here’s the thing about hope: we cling to it and wish to the stars above that it’ll all work out. Liam wasn’t the type of man to force me to do anything, quite the opposite. He supported my decisions even if it meant leaving him behind.
“I sure hope so.”