Chapter 4
I blink. I re-read his message.
He hasn’t forgotten me?
Butterflies appear out of nowhere. Manic, hard-flying, all-over-the-place butterflies. I don’t know how to respond. The last time I flirted was at Illinois. I’m good with knowing what the next trend in handbags is going to be, not how to be seductive and coy. I can go on for hours about the finer points of Altuzarra saddle bags, but I have no clue how to respond to a hot hockey player saying he hasn’t forgotten me.
I reach up and push a lock of my choppy, layered black hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear, and stare at my phone in a state of panic. I need to reply. I must reply. If I don’t reply, Hunter will think I’m not interested.
Wait.
Am I interested?
I hit pause on the thoughts ping-ponging around my brain. Did I not just think of how the timing is all off on this? How his career is in a downward trajectory? How I don’t have a job? How my dream career turned out to be a nightmare? That I don’t know what to do now that the one thing I’ve worked for since I was sixteen, the only goal I’ve ever had, is nothing like what I thought it would be?
I stare down at Hunter’s message.
One that very clearly says he’s interested.
I hold the phone to my chin, tapping it lightly, my mind sifting through this realization. Men have never been a distraction for me. I haven’t been in a serious relationship because that required letting guys get close. Investing time and commitment in them. I wasn’t interested in that. I knew being involved would distract me. Getting into fashion was everything, and that’s how I operate. I go down a checklist. I make things happen. I prioritize.
Love and romance have never been priorities.
Or even on the list.
But the second Hunter crashed into the boards in front of me, he shattered not only the glass but my ideas on romance as well.
And maybe it’s time to shatter my own wall, too.
I lower the phone and type without analyzing it:
I haven’t forgotten you, either.
I hit send, knowing we’re crossing a new line with the flirting. Yet from the reaction I’m having, I know there’s something I need to take a chance on here. I’ve lived my whole life organized and planned and checking off items.
Until today.
A message drops in from Hunter:
When are you going to be back in Chicago?
I smile and type back:
I’m here right now. I’m going back in a few days to pack up and will drive back on Sunday. You?
He responds:
Early Sunday evening. Want to meet me at my hotel on Monday night for a drink?
Old Taylor roars to life for a moment, going through a check list of why this is all kinds of bad decision-making, a wrong turn on the highway of life, a doomed-to-fail crazy idea:
You’ve both been upended emotionally.
You both have careers in jeopardy.
I should figure out who I am before I try to figure out who I am with Hunter.
You’ve never been in a serious relationship. This isn’t the time to start.
New Taylor rallies with completely different answers:
You are both going through emotional upheaval and career crises; it will be nice to have someone who understands.
I can figure myself out while I date.
It could only be one date anyway; there might be nothing there besides physical attraction. I’ve spent about ten minutes with him. Hunter could be boring. Have values opposite of mine. Only talk about hockey. But I won’t know unless I go.
This isn’t a made-for-TV romance script. I’m not going to fall for him over cocktails.
You don’t have to date him, sleep with him or marry him. You can do one. Or two. You don’t have to think about a ring.
I pause on that last one. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. The last time was with a guy I was seeing at Illinois, but we were more friends than boyfriend/girlfriend. I frown. Well, that’s how it was for me. I remember Jake’s face when he started talking about would happen after we graduated, and how I looked at him like he was mad and told him I was focused on finding a job, not a relationship. Jake asked how we would work and then it hit me: Jake saw us as a couple. Where I saw him as a guy I was seeing. I mean, he was sweet. Cute. It was nice to have someone to be intimate with while navigating the last year at Illinois.
It was never more than that for me. Jake was fun. But I never saw us going anywhere. My career came first. That was the priority. Jake ticked all the boxes for what I needed at the time, and I proceeded with one thought in mind:
Jake was temporary.
But I was so much more to Jake, and I never even saw it coming. When we first started hanging out, I made it clear I wasn’t looking for a committed relationship. He said that was ideal for him, too, and we dated for a couple of months.
Before he fell in love.
My heart broke when I saw the crushing blow I delivered when I told him I didn’t see us in the same way. I couldn’t lie to him. I couldn’t pretend I loved him, or that I wanted to try a serious relationship with him. My heart held nothing but fondness for him, and that was all. There was no great love story, and when Jake hurled the insults at me when he walked out, including the, “You’ll be sorry you let me walk away,” I knew I wouldn’t.
Because I never loved him.
Maybe I’m not wired for love and romance, I muse. Maybe that is why my career always comes first.
Maybe Hunter isn’t either.
I mean, he’s a professional hockey player. Yes, my friends have great athletes who don’t stray, but isn’t that unusual? Don’t a lot of these guys cheat, anyway? Or enjoy being single?
Hunter has never been snapped with a girl on his social media. He’s more outgoing than Beckett. He’s always posting fun pics on Instagram about his life as a hockey player. Snaps of him on the team charter, views from the city he’s in, restaurants he’s eating at, stuff like that. I know from his Snapchat that he likes steak and sushi. He loves fishing. Bike riding. Being with his family back in Canada in the summer.
And what does he know from mine? That I love my friends. Chicago. Fashion. A big medium-rare filet and glass of red wine. Pasta. Nachos.
Hmm. We both like steak. I grin at the absurdity of this. Certainly, that is enough to make me fall in love and embark on my own love story, right?
Old Taylor would have weighed out more options and thoughts and developed a pro-and-con checklist before entertaining accepting an invitation for drinks.
New Taylor, who hasn’t even been in existence for twenty-four hours, has a different idea.
One that doesn’t involve a list.
I type back:
I would love to.
And I hit send.
~ ~ ~
“If the world seems cold to you, kindle fires to warm it.” — Lucy Larcom
Snow whips across my windshield at a furious pace. The last part of my drive has been of the “both hands on, Spotify off” variety. I knew I was going to hit some weather before I reached home, but this was stress-driving for the last two hours. By the time I pull up the driveway along the side of my parents’ house, I’m mentally exhausted from the five-and-a-half-hour drive from Minneapolis.
I’m also dirty. Ugh, I want a bath. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve reached the northern suburb of Chicago where I grew up, grateful to get out of my car and hoping the snow stops before I have to complete the drive into the city. I spent all of Saturday and this morning packing up. Half of my stuff is in trash bags, so I wouldn’t have to buy moving boxes. Luckily, I was renting an apartment with furniture provided, so I didn’t have to worry about moving big items back.
I pause for a moment as I look at the picture-perfect brick Hartigan home, the roof dusted with a thick layer of snow. The driveway is shoveled, as is the curvy, winding sidewalk, one shielded by huge trees and lush flower beds that bloom from spring until autumn. An American flag flies out front, whipping in the harsh winter wind.
I have so many memories of growing up in this house with my older brother, Jason. Of running through that grass in the summer and collecting fireflies at night. Having snowball fights with him. Becoming friends with Livy and Collins and having them spend the night, where we’d stay up in my room laughing and gossiping for hours or crying when one of our hearts was broken by some boy at school.
I smirk. Okay, so I wasn’t the one crying. I was always consoling, but still. This house is full of all kinds of memories. My parents are hardworking, active people. Mom is an editor, Dad is a commercial real estate agent. They started in their fields after graduation and never strayed from their plans.
They preached over and over to me and Jason that you must work hard if you want something, whether it was to be good at tennis or excel in school. You make plans. Prepare. Take logical steps to achieve what you want. I can’t remember a time when they didn’t model that behavior for us.
Nobody in our house ever quit.
When I first told them how miserable I was and that I wanted to quit, I’ll never forget the disappointed and shocked expressions on their faces. They told me not to, that I had worked so hard to land this dream job, that I never should have expected it to be perfect or easy. Dad lectured me about obstacles. Turning a negative situation into a positive one. Mom countered that tough times don’t last forever, and this was an opportunity for growth if I set my mind to it.
And after a year, I could look for a new position while working my current one and move up the ladder.
Quitting was not the Hartigan way, I was reminded.
Until now.
I wonder how I should approach this conversation. I somehow doubt I could walk in and say, “Hey, guess what, everyone? As a way of broadening my horizons, and doing something no Hartigan has ever done before, I quit my job! I see this as a true test of my resilience and problem-solving skills, which are sure to flourish due to my new life-changing situation. So, cheers to me breaking new ground and going on an exciting adventure to discover myself!”
I snicker aloud at that thought. They would be grabbing their smartphones and searching for a life coach and a therapist for their wayward daughter who obviously lost not only her job but her mind as well.
But in all seriousness, I’m going to crush them with disappointment, and my heart aches at that thought.
My older brother Jason’s SUV is parked ahead of me, which brings me a momentary distraction from what I’m going to have to tell Mom and Dad. I love Jason and his wife, Carin. And my nephew Samuel, who will turn two this fall. Carin is the older sister I never had, and we are super close. I know she and Jason will understand my decision, and I exhale a bit in relief knowing I will have their support.
Okay. Time to rip off the Band-Aid and get this done. I open the door, and snow immediately whips me in the face. I close my eyes for a second, the raw wind so brutally cold, but reality at the same time. The weather is bad, but it’s real.
Much like the news I’m about to deliver to my parents.
Old Taylor rears her head for a moment. How can I tell them now? Shouldn’t I have a plan of action to present to them first?
New Taylor tells her to shut up.
I’m an adult. Paying my own bills. If I want to quit my job, I can.
Oh, yeah, I already did.
Time to march in there and tell them what happened. Not explain. Not justify. Tell them.
End of story.
I walk up the path to the back door. I don’t take time to hesitate. I’m going all in like a bull in a china shop and knocking on the back door.
A few moments later, my dad opens the door, his mouth falling open at the sight of me.
“Surprise!” I yell with forced cheerfulness.
“Taylor?” Dad gasps as he opens the door for me. “This is a surprise! What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too,” I tease as I wipe my boots on the back doormat before stepping inside.
As soon as I enter the mudroom, the scent of roasted chicken fills the air. Mmm. Mom is an amazing cook, and I’ve missed her meals so much. I know that’s the reason Jason and Carin have a standing appointment for Sunday dinner.
Dad gives me a huge bear hug. “You know I always love seeing you, but this is unexpected. Is everything okay?”
That’s Dad. Zeroing in on the problem within two point five seconds of greetings being exchanged.
“Everything is fantastic,” I say.
So that might be a wee bit of a lie.
Or a big fat one.
But I am glad to be free of a job that made me miserable, so that saves it from being a one hundred percent lie.
I take off my parka and hang it on a peg rack behind me. Then I sit down on the bench with organized cubbies underneath for shoes. I take off my boots and shove them in the “Taylor” spot, as Mom hates shoes being worn in the house.
“Taylor!” Mom cries excitedly as she sees me. “What on earth are you doing here?”
My mom, who gave me my jet-black hair and deep blue eyes, embraces me warmly. I close my eyes and hug her hard. I need this hug. I need this comfort before I say what I have to say to them.
“Come on in the living room. We’re all here,” she says, taking my hand in hers.
I walk through the expansive kitchen, one Mom and Dad remodeled last year to open it up like an episode of an HGTV show, so the living room is now one big open space. It has a rustic farmhouse feeling, white furniture, and shiplap walls, and they are slowly turning the house to reflect that same décor vibe, which matches them perfectly.
“Hey!” Jason says, getting up from the floor, where he is playing with Samuel. “What are you doing here?”
“Tay!” Samuel says, wobbling toward me on his chubby legs.
I quickly scoop him up, and he shrieks with happiness. “Aunt Tay missed you so much!” I say, kissing his chubby cheek.
I place him on my hip and turn to my sister-in-law, Carin, who is also staring at me in surprise.
“Taylor!” she says happily, giving me a half hug. “We were so not expecting you to be at the back door. This is the best surprise ever!”
Samuel begins playing with my necklace, and I let him, as holding him somehow makes me feel less vulnerable.
“What brings you here on the fly?” Jason asks, studying me.
“I have some news,” I say.
“News,” Samuel repeats.
“Yes, Samuel,” I say, nodding. I look directly at my parents, deciding getting down to business is the only way to go. “I quit my job. All my stuff is in my car, and I’ve moved back to Chicago. How are you guys?”
The chipper hosts of some HGTV home renovation show are the only voices heard in the room now.
“Whoa,” Jason finally says.
“Trucks,” Samuel says. “I want trucks.”
“Okay,” I say, my heart pounding so loudly I can barely hear his request. I place him down on the floor and take a seat on the white slip-covered sofa.
“You . . . quit,” Dad says, as if he can’t process the idea.
“Yes.”
Mom sinks down on the sofa across from me, absently picking up a navy and white throw pillow and holding it to her chest. “I don’t understand. We talked about this at Christmas. I thought you decided to stick it out.”
Defensiveness rises within me.
“I did,” I say, working very hard to keep that tone out of my voice. “But nothing has changed. I was underpaid and undervalued. I worked long hours and saw no room ahead for advancement. At what point does living a misery-free life take precedence over sticking it out?”
Hello, Old Taylor, how nice of you to appear at this time and start justifying yourself, I think in disgust. UGH.
Dad sighs heavily. “Misery sounds a bit overdramatic.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Taylor, I think you might have had an idealized version of what life would be like post-graduation,” Mom says slowly. “You romanticized working in fashion. The reality is that it’s hard work and a pressurized industry. But you are so smart, so good at what you do, I hate to see you quit on something you’ve always dreamed of.”
New Taylor evaporates the second I hear those words. Old Taylor takes over, and I automatically default to defensive mode.
“It’s not my dream anymore,” I say. “I hated that job. I hated going to work, I got sick to my stomach every Sunday knowing I had to return to Melon and George on Monday. I couldn’t face it another day, so I quit. I walked out the door, and I haven’t looked back.”
Dad grimaces. “So, no notice?”
“Nope.”
“Well, that reference bridge is blown up, which is something you shouldn’t have done,” Dad points out.
Shame burns through me. I know he’s right about that. But I also know Lorna wasn’t going to give me a good reference anyway.
“I’m starting over,” I say.
“Oh, Taylor,” Mom moans, putting her head in her hands. “You’ve worked too hard to make such awful decisions. Your father and I stayed in our first jobs for years before moving up the ladder. You needed to do the same thing.”
Her words hurt. I clench my hands in my lap. “Well, they are my decisions to make, not yours.”
“People quit jobs all the time,” Jason says, coming to my defense. “It’s Taylor’s first job. She can quit it if she wants to.”
“You aren’t helping,” Dad says.
“I’m telling the truth. You guys act like this is going to alter her life forever, and it’s not. Even if it does, it’s Taylor’s choice to make.”
I love my brother.
“He’s right,” I say. “I know this isn’t what you both wanted, but this decision was for me.”
“The only reason we didn’t want this for you is because we were terrified you were going to toss aside your dream,” Mom says, putting the pillow down next to her. “You didn’t have a realistic expectation of what a real workplace was like.”
“My dream wasn’t what I thought it would be,” I say, standing up.
“Maybe Melon and George wasn’t, but what about other companies?” Dad asks. “You could have tried to get a job with a competitor before abruptly quitting.”
“I did!” I cry, anger taking hold. “I couldn’t find anything else, and all I saw was no light at the end of the tunnel. Do you have any idea how isolated and depressed I felt in Minneapolis? How I felt I was letting everyone down because the one thing I’ve wanted since I was sixteen turned out to be the opposite? You don’t. You don’t understand what I went through. Nobody does.”
“We do, but our job as parents is to guide you from making bad decisions,” Mom implores.
Ah. I can see this is Mom’s fixation point. I’m making mistakes.
And we are going to have this conversation on a repetitive loop, so I make another decision, this time guided by New Taylor.
“When I was sixteen, yes,” I say, “but not at twenty-three. I’m going to leave so this can sink in. In your eyes, I failed. In my eyes, I saved myself. Hopefully, you will see that by the next time I stop by.”
I get up and storm back out to the mudroom, where I angrily shove my feet back into my boots.
“Taylor, where are you going?” Mom calls out after me, following me to the mudroom. “You don’t have a place here already, do you? Did you keep that a secret, too?”
I stand up and slip on my coat. “I’m going to stay with Collins for a while. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Then I storm out the back door, into the rapidly falling snow, and tears begin to stream down my cheeks. I get into my car and slam the door shut, shivering and crying and falling apart.
I turn on the engine and wait for the heat to fill my car, but I swear I can’t stop shaking. They are so disappointed in me. I saw it in their faces. Heard it in their voices. The daughter who knew what she wanted, who made plans to achieve it, landed at her dream job and recklessly threw everything away.
I have no plan now.
Which seemed so liberating on Monday.
Now it’s terrifying.
My phone buzzes inside my purse. I blink back the tears and retrieve it.
It’s a text from Hunter.
I suck in a frozen breath of air. My heart pounds again, but this time, for a different reason. I tap it open:
I’m back in Chicago. Are you?
I reply:
Yes, I’m in the north suburbs now.
Hunter is typing…
Short notice. Care to have a late drink tonight? I could use the company. I’m already sick of Beckett, haha.
Every nerve I have goes haywire. Hunter wants to see me.
Tonight.