In the morning, the side of my head still throbs, and a wave of emotion threatens to keep me in the uncomfortable, unfamiliar bed. I feel a rush of guilt at leaving my father and co-workers while I figure out whatever the hell it is I’m doing. I feel anger at Jack for betraying my trust. Most of all, I feel anger at myself for staying with him long enough for things to get so bad.
I should have noticed things weren’t ok when he stopped wanting me to go see my parents. As my body and mind wake fully, a thousand memories rush through my mind until my entire relationship feels like a series of mistakes I made. I don’t even know how to see what’s healthy, apparently, until things get dangerous.
I decide to go to the free breakfast downstairs, and I pass a Business Center where nobody is using the ancient desktop computer or printer. While I wait for my waffle batter to cook in the griddle, I weigh my options. If I head back to Greenwood, I could maybe stay with my parents, but I’d have to tell them everything. Then they’d want to know why this is the first they’re hearing about Jack sinking deeper into depression the longer he was unemployed.
Unless I went back right now, they might not even believe me that he laid his hands on me last night. He always put on such a big show of trying to impress my dad.
If they did believe me, I can also imagine my parents scolding me for staying with a loser who was out of work for so long. I sigh. My father viewed Jack as another son, since the moment I first brought him home. As soon as I started dating an HVAC guy, my contractor dad stopped asking me about school. They all stopped asking about my studies. Everything became about my boyfriend and whether he was doing well.
I had great grades in high school and kept a 4.0 all through community college. My parents didn’t even know I managed to get a minor in professional communication as I completed my degree in business at a branch campus of the state university.
Slathering my waffle with as much syrup as I’d like, nobody to tell me I’m being wasteful, I try to remember what made me say yes to the quiet man finishing his HVAC certification in the same building as I took my first creative writing class.
I think, at the time, I was flattered to be noticed. Jack came up to me in the commons, where I was engrossed in my writing. He said I looked beautiful then, inspired. By the time I noticed that my family liked Jack more than I did, we were already planning to move in together.
That first semester when we got together, we’d go for long walks, and I’d talk to Jack about what I was writing. He didn’t tell me that was the stuff of dreams and nonsense like my pragmatic parents did. Jack listened to my stories, said he’d like to read a book like that. He kissed me and asked me to tell him all my grand ideas.
And then eventually, he stopped asking.
After I eat, I look over at the business center again. I think about the smashed laptop in the trunk of my car, and walk over to the computer. I pull up the web browser and type WRITING JOBS. I scroll through a few pages of sales jobs. I scroll right on past a few newspaper positions I don’t even feel qualified to apply for. But then I see something interesting.
SPEECH WRITER AND COMMUNICATOR NEEDED!
Busy college president needs a writer ASAP to help prepare speeches, remarks, correspondence. The college is exploring new partnerships. Candidate should begin immediately. Send samples and cover letter to Oak Creek College.
There’s no name listed with the posting, no contact information. They really do need help with communication, I think. Oak Creek College. I think I’ve heard of that before—a small liberal arts school in Eastern PA. I search for it online and am charmed by the photographs. Long walkways lined with trees, old brick buildings. The town looks cute, too. I see a bunch of ads for little festivals and shops that sell everything from baked goods to tarot cards.
I chew on my bottom lip, feeling guilty. Could I walk away from my job at my dad’s office? It’s a good job, after all. I earn a nice wage, and he offers benefits.
But I never left Greenwood much. Not for college. Surely there are other “good jobs” out there in the world that feel more like…me.
I search the Oak Creek College website for the directory and see a phone number for the president’s office. I only hesitate a moment before typing the number into my cell, and am startled when a very loud voice answers, “Hello! This is Rose!”
“Um…hi. I was calling about the writing job I saw—”
“When can you get here? Do you have experience?”
Woah. Okay. “Well, I have a minor in professional communication from the University of Ohio at—”
“That’ll do. Just come in. Can you be here today? We’re meeting with the computer engineers tomorrow.”
I look at the time. It’s around 8am and Oak Creek is five hours’ drive from here. “It will take me until 1:30 to clear my schedule,” I say.
I hear the woman sigh. “Fine. What’s your name again? My secretary is out today. Tell the desk you’re here to write remarks for Rose.” By the time I open my mouth to say thank you for the opportunity, she’s hung up the phone.
What a strange person…unless…I look around, thinking maybe someone is playing a prank. There is, of course, nobody nearby. I stand up, realizing I have nothing with me. Nothing to pack. Nothing to prepare. Nothing to wear other than these day-old khakis and my work polo from my father’s company. Talk about starting out fresh. I wince as my ear throbs when I try to tuck my hair behind my ear.
I check out of the hotel and ask where the closest clothing store is that would be open this early. I hit the highway within the hour, wearing a respectable-if-cheap suit, feeling excitement in my belly rather than dread.