Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I hold my head in my hands.
How can one thing simultaneously feel like the right and wrong answer?
Chapter Eight
Megan
It’s too early for the leaves to fall.
I tug my sweatshirt closer to my body as a barrier to the breeze. The temperature must’ve dropped ten degrees since I set out on a walk of Peachwood Falls a couple of hours ago, and I wasn’t prepared. I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to grab a jacket.
The quaint town is reminiscent of a backdrop in a cheesy cable drama. I looked for a coffee shop, Peachwood Falls’s version of Luke’s Diner, but came up empty.
There is only The Wet Whistle.
I stroll down a residential street and take in the small homes on either side of the road. They’re modest with cozy porches complete with swings. Many chairs, coffee tables, bicycles, and topiaries are wound with twinkling white lights. I imagine the townspeople congregating on their porch swings after dinner and waving to one another while the children play.
It makes me smile.
My phone buzzes as I turn onto the street that leads back to the hotel. A glance shows Calista’s name.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, you. Sorry I missed your call earlier. I was … busy.”
I roll my eyes. I know what that means in Calista’s language.
“How did it go?” she asks. “Tell me all the things.”
I sigh and step over a puddle.
I left my room two hours ago to sort out all the things, as Calista put it. But, to my surprise, there’s more rolling around my head than I realized.
The more I walked, the more my brain felt like an overstuffed coat closet. Finally, today I opened the door, and it all fell into a cumbersome heap on the floor—or sidewalk, as it were. Things I thought I had put to bed resurfaced and demanded attention.
I’ve accomplished much in my life—more than I ever dreamed. I never imagined I would live in Los Angeles or have a worldwide magazine interview me about what inspires my creative direction.
I didn’t even know I had creative direction.
The past ten years have been a whirlwind, and not a day went by that I didn’t feel like an impostor. So how did I, Megan Kramer, from a single-parent household in Dallas with average grades, get a corner office at the trendiest at-home salon experience company?
When I started to believe it, it was yanked from me.
An uncertainty I’ve tried to ignore—an unsettledness about my life's direction, goals, and possibilities—roared to the forefront this morning. I realized that as much as I didn’t want to be anyone’s nanny, I was excited to stay with the Marshalls. I was excited about the break from life.
For the chance to gather my thoughts. To regroup. To breathe and focus on something besides my problems for a change.
But, thanks to Chase Marshall, it’s just me and the gaping holes in my life once again.
“It didn’t go well,” I tell Calista.
“What? Why not?”
I bite my lip. “You know, I don’t know. He said he couldn’t trust me because he doesn’t know me, but I don’t buy that.”
My stomach swirls as if hit with a shot of adrenaline.
The way he wouldn’t look at me. How he asked me to wait. His preoccupation with my car. It doesn’t make sense.
“I can’t figure him out, Calista. But I’m also not going to expend the energy to try. He’s another guy in another city who wants to be a pain in my ass.”
“Good for you.”
I laugh.
“What are you doing now?” she asks.
“What do you mean? What am I doing this minute? Tomorrow? In life?”
“I don’t know. Any of it.”
I snort. “Well, the answer is the same. I don’t know.”
“Want to stay with me for a while?”
My shoe slips on the damp pavement. I catch myself before I topple to the ground.
“No,” I say, getting my footing once again. “Thanks, though. I’m going to grab a sandwich from The Wet Whistle and then call Maggie and tell her I’m not coming back. Then I’ll book a ticket back to Dallas.”
“So you haven’t told Maggie?”
“No.” I make my way across the street toward the restaurant. “I didn’t want to have that conversation with her family there. It was awkward enough the way it was.”
But, also, it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Being with them made sense—it felt natural. Mom and Maggie have been friends for so long that I’ve always considered her and Lonnie distant family. I felt so welcomed by them. But how did I not know their oldest son was such a … jerk?
Ugh.
“You know I’m a phone call away if you need help figuring things out. I’m here for you—whatever you need, friend,” Calista says.
I grin. “I know. Thank you. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“I gotta go. I haven’t eaten today, and I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving,” she says, chuckling. “Call me later.”