Going Nowhere
Authors: K. M. Galvin
Copyright © 2013 by Kelsie Galvin
Editing and formatting by Nadia Said
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission
-
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a revie
w
-
in writing from the author.
Events in the work are fictitious. Any similarities to any persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental and not intentional by the author
Table of Contents
P
ROLOGUE
Three
weeks ago
“We’re sorry Ms. Finnegan, but at this time we will not be able to make you apart of our team at the South Carolina Historical Society. We thank you for your interest and wish you luck!” The cheery voice on the other line said, like she wasn’t delivering bad news.
“Yes. Thank you.” I said robotically, but they had already hung up. Well thank fucking you too, I thought, tossing my phone onto my bed.
I sat down in my desk chair defeated. This was the fifth call this month of the same variety. I brought one leg up to my chest and used the other to spin me in a circle. My room passed in a blur as I spun faster and faster, the pressure in my chest increasing with every rotation. Another rejection. Over a hundred application’s out, thirty rejections, the other’s I haven’t heard from and don’t plan to. This was not what I was expecting. My spin slowed down and I blinked at the pile of boxes in the corner by my closet. My eyes stung with tears. I should have been packing.
My roommates were leaving this week for bigger and better things. Jessica was going to join her father in the family business at their marketing firm out in Silicon Valley and Carrie was moving to Colorado to start teaching little munchkin’s their ABC’s. The rent was paid through the month and I needed to not only find a new job but also a cheap place to live before this month was up. The knock on my door brought me out of my thoughts. Spinning around towards the door I saw it was Carrie poking her head through.
“Hey, come in.” I cleared my throat and tried to wipe my face without her noticing. She, like the rest of my friends, was unable to look at me without pity. Letting them see me cry would just be pathetic.
“Was that another rejection?” She asked, taking a seat at the end of my bed.
Carrie looked like a kindergarten teacher. I know I shouldn’t stereotype, but she really did. All wholesome and sweet with a quiet beauty that all five year old boys were sure to fall in love with. She reminded me of naptime and popsicles. I nodded my head, answering her question and grabbed my laptop off my desk, resting it on my knees as I brought up the browser to begin another search. There is nothing more discouraging than looking for a job, I’m sure of it. Problem was I didn’t even know what I was qualified for. Banging the keys a little harder than necessary, I brought up Indeed.com and searched the area.
150,000 available jobs.
None of which I wanted.
I let out a growl of frustration. What the hell was my problem? I have never been so dissatisfied in my life!
“Mari, are you listening to me?” Carrie said quietly. Annoyed, I glanced up at her and sighed. Who can be mean to that face? She looked like a red headed Reece Witherspoon.
“No, I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Have you thought about moving home for a little bit?” She asked, her voice going high at the end as if she knew as she was saying it, that this was a bad idea.
“No.” I said firmly.
I can’t go home. That would be giving up. I’m not a failure. I’ve done everything right. I studied diligently, my grades are awesome, I never slut it up and I drank very rarely. In other words, I barely lived the college experience. I can’t even remember what I was working towards. I chose history to major in because I liked it. I got my master’s in public history because I loved museums. I loved the stories and
there is safety in studying the past. My sister would point out that this is a sign of me being afraid of the future.
That’s bullshit.
I’ve done everything to insure that my future would kick ass. Except when it came time to grab hold of this awesomeness I planned, I had no idea how to or if I even wanted it anymore.
“I can’t move home, Care bear.” I said
“Why is the idea so horrible?” She asked, head tilting to the side. Of course this idea doesn’t seem horrible to her. It’s not a possibility for her. She has a job in a field she loves and she’s moving to another city. She has adventure. Maybe I should have become a teacher…
“Do you know how depressing it is to even
think about moving home?” I respond sharply. “How embarrassing? All of you have jobs and me, the one who sacrificed having fun for six fucking years is the one to move home? What the hell did I do in my past life to insure this kind of karma?” I set my chair spinning again causing everything to blur in motion.
“It’s not embarrassing, Mari. Lot’s of people move home after graduation, it’s more common than you think.” Carrie pointed out. I’ve been hearing the same platitude for weeks. Lot’s of people weren’t me. I did not work so hard to achieve nothing but a freaking piece of paper. I c
ould not deal with how anti-climatic this all felt.
“Carrie I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you don’t understand.”
“Do you, Marisol? Because you forget, I was helping you fill out applications. You were applying to any and everything. Why aren’t you looking for anything in your field? Shit, you’re a great writer! Why don’t you do something with that?” I roll my eyes at her words. Every history major was a great writer, that’s all we ever did. Well that and read. Writing and reading. Or on special days reading and writing.
“I’m good with words, but yo
u can’t make a life out of that.”
“Says who?” She challenged.
“When are you guys out of here?” I replied, changing the subject.
“I leave in two days. Jess leaves day after to me. Marisol, what are you going to do? I’m worried.”
She continues, ignoring my subject change.
“Find a job.”
“Yes, you might, but you won’t have money to move or pay rent for at least another month or so! You have to be out of here in three weeks, less if they find someone for our unit.”
“I know, Carrie!” I snap at her. My chest was tightening painfully. God, it couldn’t come down to this.
“There’s no shame in taking some time for yourself to figure things out. What do you really want, Mari? Do you even know anymore?” She said quietly before getting up and leaving, closing the door quietly. She might as well have slammed it. My head pounded as I weighed my options. She was right. There was no way that I would be able to find someplace to live and a job in time.
My face fell into my hands and I heaved out a sob, letting myself get hysterical before I made this call. I couldn’t believe it. I did everything right. I did everything fucking right! Everything that was required and I’m left with nothing to show! I stood up and kicked my chair away from me and stalked over to my closet. Ripping clothes from their hangers, I threw them into boxes, seething with anger. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m not a student. I’m not a historian. I don’t have a job. I don’t have roommates. I don’t have a fucking boyfriend. I don’t have anything but the
option of moving home and a worthless degree. I was going to be
that
person. That cautionary tale that all my friends talk about as they meet for cocktails after they get off from their wonderful jobs in their super trendy suits and perfectly styled hair.
Fuck them.
Fuck my stupid degree.
Fuck being twenty-four.
Fuck this
life
!
I was raging. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so angry. I put my hands on my hips, breathing hard and looked around my room. I winced when I saw the mess I had made. My closet was strewn across the floor from the rage tornado that ripped through my room. Sighing I collapsed onto my bed, my hand slapping around until it hit my phone. Bringing it close to my face I scrolled through my contacts until I found my parents. My thumb hovered over the “call” button for a minute. Could I really do this? Did I really have an option? Rip it off like a Band-Aid, Marisol.
I pressed “call” and all the breath left my lungs. Feeling a little dizzy, I rested my head on my pillow, listening to the ringing. My mom picked up, excitement exuding from her voice.
“Marisol Claire! Honey, we were just talking about you!”
“Hey mom.” I said, tears choking my words making them wobble and weave.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” She asked worried.
“I’m coming home.” I whispered, the words echoing in my head.
My adorable apartment that I had been living in these past years is making me feel numb. Gone were the pictures lining the walls, dumpy furniture, knick-knacks, and roommates that made this place home. All the memories I had were now in the recesses of my brain. I sighed and walked to my car with the last trash bag of clothes and threw it into the trunk with everything else that would fit in my little Honda. I trudged around the car to the driver’s side, trailing a finger in the moisture on my car, feeling spectacularly melancholic and slid into the seat.
On the plus side, I love a good road trip and even though the destination isn’t idea
l, I can pretend that I’m heading anywhere. Highways have this hypnotic quality to them where you truly believe that where you are going has to better than where you were.
I started the car and flipped on my iPod, the Avett Brothers fill the silent space inside begging Brooklyn to take them in. I wish B
rooklyn would take me in. Jesus! Anywhere but Jacksonville, Florida where beige stucco can be seen for miles, like a river of coffee with too much cream. I heaved a sigh and started the six-hour drive. This is my life now.
Turning up the volume a little more I twisted my hair into its prerequisite
driving bun and shoved sunglasses on my face. I rolled down my windows feeling the rush of wind hit my face, drying tears I didn’t know I was crying until then.
“Positive attitude yields positive results.” I murmured and could almost believe that little nugget of wisdom.
I pulled into my parent’s neighborhood six hours later slowly driving by the identical manicured lawns and uniformed mailboxes standing guard. I can tell my parents house without even knowing the number because my mom had a penchant for themed flags. Todays flag says, “Welcome home!” I slow to a stop, my car idling in front of the driveway, unable to pull forward that extra inch.
That extra inch means accepting the situation and I am
not
there yet, and so, I jerk my steering wheel to the left and continue down the street, driving to the nearest bar. I park my car, wheezing out a breath, chest constricted. Prolonging the inevitable was now my mission in life so I fling my door open and walk into the bar without looking anywhere but the empty seat that was at the end of the bar closest to the kitchen. Perfect. I plopped down and stared down the bartender until he came over to me.
“What can I get you?” he asked. His eyebrow was quirked. I hate when eyebrows quirk, mostly because they immediately make my eyebrows try to quirk. My eyebrows can’t quirk so now I’m sure I look like the freak I feel like with eyebrows moving up and down my face. Probably looked like I was hitting on him.
“Uh, yeah, umm, I’ll have a screwdriver.” My dad’s favorite drink. “Please.”
“Can I see some I.D.?”
“Yep!” I have no idea why this question continues to make me nervous, I’m of drinking age, but for some reason I feel like the cops will burst out of nowhere like crime fighting jack in the boxes and yell “MINOR!” at me. Irrational.
I fumble in my purse for my wallet; pulling out an assortment of items I have no idea why I keep in my purse. This process continues for about a minute and I sneak a peak at the bartender who now has his arms crossed over his chest, still quirking that damn brow. It’s pissing me off.
And making my eyebrows twitch.
My hand finally grasps my wallet and I pull out my I.D. and hand it to him, waiting impatiently for him to hand it back, but he leans against the bar and stares at it. I start to shift uncomfortably, but with my pants and the leather bar stools, weird and embarrassing sounds are made so I still and just tap my fingers
on the bar. I glance from under my lashes at him...yep he is still looking at my license.
I can’t stop myself, “Um yeah? Hi, I’m twenty-four, says so right there which I’m sure you know since you’ve been staring at it longer than I stare at a math problem. Which is a long time. And while I would be glad on any other day to just give you the damn thing, I really would like my drink. Please.”
I clamp my lips together to stop the deluge of words that want to spill out. I’m so tempted to just spill out everything to an anonymous person and hey, aren’t bartenders supposed to be great listeners? I really need that fucking drink.
His eyebrows shot up his forehead, “Why Marisol, do you have a patience problem?”
“Seriously dude, do you have a boundary problem?” I growl. Who is this guy?
“Marisol of South Carolina, are you honestly going to be rude to someone who handles your food?” His voice is tinged with amusement. I don’t like it when people find me amusing when I’m not trying to be.
“Of course not, but since you’re handling my drink this shouldn’t be a problem. And if you spit in it I
will
know.” I take a deep, calming breath. “Listen. I really don’t want to be difficult. I’ve had a crap day. A crap month really. I’m about to move home with my parents for god’s sake. I just graduated grad school. And to what? A three-bedroom condo with my meddling ass parents? I’m going to be their personal slave until I find a job;
so
glad I spent the last six years in school to get a degree for that. All I want, before I condemn myself to this ridiculous phase of my life which, god willing, will be blessedly short is a drink to brace myself for the onslaught of my helicopter mom and my overly supportive father who is actually being overly critical but hiding it behind a pleasant tone. So please, I beg you, just get me my screwdriver. Please.” I glance up, sure I’ll see him staring at me like I’m a crazy person, but instead he has this look of understanding. Which is almost worse because it feels a lot like pity.
“I’ll get the screwdriver.” He walked away and in less than five minutes had the drink in front of me.
“Thank you.” I whispered, my humiliation complete.
I stared at my drink refusing to look at him; I could see his hands on the bar on either side of my drink. His hands were big, strong, with long fingers. I kept staring, watching his pointer finger twitch and then he slapped them on the bar startling me.
My hands inched towards his and I saw his twitch again, he still wasn’t moving, so I quickly grabbed my drink and knocked it back. I put the glass down letting out a gasp as the liquor burned my chest.
Jumping off the stool, I threw
cash down on the counter, grabbed my purse and snuck a look at him. He was looking at me intently. It was unnerving, like he could see inside me. Afraid he’d see the failure there; I turned around and quickly weaved myself through the bar and out the door.
It wasn’t until I pulled into the driveway that I realized I’d forgotten my license at the bar. Dammit! I let my head fall onto the steering wheel, the horn blaring until I heard knocking on my window. Turning my head I saw my parents smiling faces. Here we go. Before I could move my door was flung open and my mom basically tried to simultaneously pull me out of the car and join me in it.
“Marisol! What took you so long to get here, it only takes six hours, and you should have been here about an hour ago! Was there traffic? Wait a minute…is that
alcohol
on your breath?! Have you been drinking, Marisol Claire?” And on she went. My mother, I was positive, had gills hidden somewhere. How else could she speak continuously without breath for that long?
“I stopped for one drink, Ma. I uh, was meeting…an old college friend. She was in town for just a short time so I told her I’d swing by real quick.” My mother was already moving to the trunk to grab my suitcase, apparently that was the end of that. I turned to my dad who was still standing by the door in his jean shorts, Panama Jack shirt, and white Reeboks, the highe
st of Florida fashion. “Hey Dad.” I got out of the car and he pulled me into a hug.
“Hey kiddo, welcome home.” With one more squeeze he joined my mom at the back of the car. I could already hear them bickering about what to take inside and what could wait until morning. Taking a deep breath I joined them and began lugging my life into my parent
’s house.