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The smell of leather only got stronger as she walked the aisles. A lingering sense of judgment still occupied her chest. Only five more minutes and she would be gone.

Passing the historical section, the biographies, the fantasy, the young adult fiction, absolutely nothing stood out to Josie. She didn’t really know what she expected, a book just at the ready to fly off the shelves and smack her in the head?

Just as she reached the last aisle, not seeing the shop keep once as she made her rounds, which was more than a relief than she’d like to admit. She noticed the next section sign was blank, and a little crooked?

At the end of the aisle, this small room, and that was being generous, was the size of a broom closet as it branched off into an angular nook that protruded a bit from the rest of the store layout.

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Insane, this was all insane.

This had been a week ago, a book she saw a week ago in a bookstore coffe shop she happened to grab a quick coffee in as she was already late to her new job. She wouldn’t show up uncaffeinated too. They could handle late Josie, but Josie without coffee, not a chance in hell.

She just couldn’t catch a break lately and it was really starting to weigh on her. New job, new(ish) city, at least Hanson, her boyfriend, wasn’t new but his recent absent behavior was. Then there was Rach, thank god for her best friend, a relationship like a well worn sweatshirt that is your go to on rainy days and every other cozy day in between. But then there was her mother, she hadn’t talked to her mom in months, and somehow the guilt of that didn’t outweigh the feigned importance of countless items on her to-do list that seemed more pressing than giving her mom a phone call. 

Ever since that day, that week, that month, things have never been the same. Even when Josie tried to talk to her about it in the weeks after, it always felt like her mom knew more than she had the strength to say. Six years later, Josie is turning thirty-five and some days it just feels like the steadfast support of a mom when it all feels like it’s going to shit would be nice. But somehow she knows that’s not the person she is anymore, like that day took both her parents.

And now there is this fucking book. Somehow she could not get this book out of her head. Even though she only saw it for a maximum of a minute total as she waited for her americano that day. She was even having dreams about it for god sake.

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The way the mud squished between my toes, cold and clammy. I think 6 months ago if someone would have told me I’d be walking through what was essentially a mud pit filled with creatures I was going to catch and cook for dinner tonight I would have spit out my seven dollar oat milk latte and immediately booked a pedicure from the visual creep of the thought alone.

The salt air filled my lungs and that familiar ache started to creep in my chest. Here they come, those nagging little thoughts again. Threatening to build a home inside my mind at absolutely any still moment. Where I would then proceed to drown the rising shame with a bottle of wine and another rerun of Law and Order SVU where everyone else’s lives seemed worse than mine. Episode after episode, glass after glass, and yet the record on repeat inside my head just kept relentlessly playing: failure, failure, failure.

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Though living on the coast for the last month had been good for me, though the longer I stayed the more I felt like I was actually hiding. Hiding from the fact that I’m turning thirty-two in a couple of months and I’m not only effortlessly single but deeply unemployed and living off the dregs of my savings. Hence the trip to the beach where I convinced myself harvesting mussels would be a fun way to get out of the house but it was also an experiment in acquiring food that didn’t come from a pre-packaged box with powdered cheese or a delivery driver that I couldn’t afford to tip.

Taking another deep, salty breath, I reached my hand down among the sea lettuce and pulled another handful of mussels from where they had been snuggly attached to the grass and mud. I didn’t think to bring a bag or anything to store the mussels I gathered on this half-hearted trek for dinner so I had to shove them in my sweatshirt pocket and hope low-tide stains came out easier than red wine.

A little more than a dozen mussels and the slow chill of my half soaked, rolled up denim jeans later I was climbing the stairs of the seaside bungalow. Thank god for my aunt Peg who took an interest in AirBnB and real estate early on that she had a place for me to stay, rent free, while I figured out what I was doing next.

What was I doing next?

“Not opening wine.” the words were almost resentful coming out of me. I woke up this morning with another awful hangover and when I noticed I consumed the last of it last night. I vowed I would not be making a trip to the store, even if it was only walking distance in this tiny beach town.

Prying off my boots with suctioned ocean water vying to keep my toes submerged was more difficult than it should be. When did I become so out of shape that I’m catching my breath after wrestling with my boots?

Leaning my head against the wall, closing my eyes, a year ago feels like a dream I made up. The San Francisco apartment, the boyfriend working at a start-up he liked to call “tech adjacent,” the community she was a part of, her office with city views, a break room, little drama, and plants. It wasn’t a lot but it was a life that made her happy, safe. It was enough. Whose life was that? It feels like a story I was told, not a life I truly lived.

Checking my phone on the counter. Two missed calls. Mom, twice, and Sarah. I know they worry about me and I love them but this was getting excessive. Over the last week alone I had spoken to them each at least twice every day. Sarah, being my best friend since college, could handle me not calling her back for a day or two but my mother was a different story entirely.

After one and a half rings, “Hi Mom.”

“Meryl, honey…” tentative apprehension in her voice. “Whatcha been up to?”

My mom’s forced lightness betrayed the concern that edged her voice.

“I’m getting ready to make some dinner.” I wish I could perform with the same, matched lightness but my jeans were still wet and there is nothing worse than wet denim, especially when it’s damp with ocean water and the salt and sand are quickly turning to sand paper on my skin. 

“Oh! Cooking!? That sounds nice. What are you making?” Was that also surprise in her tone?

“I’m making mussels mom, I love you but is there something that you wanted since I talked to you….” checking the time on the stove, ”Five hours ago?”

“Oh Meryl, you know I just get lonely while your father is on one of his trips. I just wanted to see how job hunting was coming along?” There it was. The real reason she called this time. I have the best relationship with my mom but when there is something to worry about, in her mind, she would forget her own first name in place of the word.

“I’ve been doing the whole job hunting thing in the mornings. You know what they say, the early bird and all that.” My half-hearted attempt at a joke was pathetic, and a lie. I slept in til 10 a.m. every day this week, nursing off hangovers and late night Netflix binging. Hand to her forehead, massaging the bridge of her nose.

“Hey mom, I have to go. I’m getting hungry and you know that’s never great for anyone. I love you and —” Interrupting before I could finish.

“Alright, well if you need any help, I ran into Sarah and we both just want you to be happy Meryl. That’s all. What happened with the paper is awful and I know you loved it there but maybe looking into work that pays more would be good too.”

I could not hide my annoyance any more. Maybe it was the wet denim, or maybe it’s the exhaustion of everyone having an opinion on how I can “uplevel” my life choices from working at a local publication to something that makes my parent’s proud to talk about at their fancy country-club parties.

“Got it. Thank you for keeping the lecture concise this time, I have to go.” I hung up without a pause.

I couldn’t wait to tell Sarah how my mother is roping her into her monologues on finding a higher paying job, when I know whole-heartedly Sarah envied the fact that I hadn’t sold my soul to “the man” and got to sink my teeth into the community and stories that mattered. The thought made me smile, Sarah has so much drive. The perfect Yang to her Yin. My thoughts couldn’t help but drift to Taylor.

Taylor never minded that I worked at a small publication and didn’t bring in a ton of money, at least, that’s what I thought. He loved my writing, and my heart for the people and the stories. Up until he met “his soul mate,” Bridgette, at the local gym I was a member at but never went to. She worked in finance and philanthropy. I respected it but gag. Not two weeks after the paper closing did he sit me down and tell me we were “growing in different directions,” and was moving in with her. 

I shook the thoughts from my head. Stripped my jeans off right there in the kitchen and began filling a pot with water to boil the mussels. Or did you steam them? A quick google search and I realized I had absolutely nothing to make these mussels taste like anything but steamed salt water. A trip to the store was undeniable after all. Exhaustion threatened to pull me onto the couch and forget dinner all together but after all that and the conversation with my mom, I would not be swayed.

Pulling on a pair of leggings, stripping the low-tide sweatshirt off, and pulling on an oversized sweater I began searching for any kind of comb to try and quickly untangle the mess on my head that the salt-soaked air turned into something resembling more of a bird’s nest.

Opening a drawer in the quaint vanity at the opposite end of the room I gathered up the comb inside but before I closed it I saw the most beautiful barrette I’ve ever seen. I don’t recall a single time I’ve ever seen my aunt wear it, it’s not really her style, and it’s shoved in the back of the drawer. It’s honestly not even my style but I am so transfixed by it that after taming my hair the best I could manage, I pop the barrette in to hold some of the relentless flyaways down. Throw on my trench and I’m out the door before I have another second to change my mind.

The bell rings above the tiny grocery store entrance. Once inside it only then occurred to me that I didn’t even bother to make a list of the things I would need for whatever it is I was making. Casually strolling the aisles looking at the shelves like the ingredients I needed were going to come to life and magically take the leap of faith into my basket. Leap of faith it would be if I couldn’t find the damn recipe.

Face buried in my phone, trying to find the recipe I pulled up from earlier, I didn’t even see the hulk of a man before I collided head-on into his backside and the bottle of wine I told myself I was going to just think about buying tumbled out of my basket and shattered on the floor.

“Oh fuck! Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” Red swarmed my face, hot, as I realized the red wine coated the bottoms of his pants. I was already halfway down the aisle in sheer anxious panic looking for anyone to help me clean up the mess before he turned around, his eyes met mine, and I suddenly forgot how words worked all together.

He was rugged, in a, I’m just trying it out, casual way. Broad shoulders, biceps that were defined even through his shirt and coat, like he could move an entire barrel of wine with just one arm. The tan that kissed his skin made the kind, green eyes staring back at me all the more imploring when he spoke.

“Oh, wow, hey, don’t worry about it. At least I know which bottle I’m picking out to pair with dinner tonight. This smells fantastic. Almost like a try before you buy experience, but …” A flash of sympathy spread across his face, small but I caught it because he had nothing to finish the kind statement with to make this actually better.

I rushed to say, “But you probably wouldn’t want to ring your pants out into a wine glass to get the full experience, so the bottle for the night is on me. Just not literally, and I’m sorry for that.” The heat had not remotely left my face, and I’m absolutely positive that my mouth was still partially open. But he laughed, a genuine, full laugh and I know it sounds wild but something inside of me genuinely felt like it woke up at the sound.

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Love you, Mean it, Xx, C

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