Page 5 of The Best Wrong Move

Before everything blew up in my face like a poorly timed confetti cannon, my life was a carefully curated sequence ofcorrectchoices. But now that I’ve left everything behind, doing something that could further change the trajectory of my hard-earned career, I can’t ignore the taste of imperfection that I’ve been getting lately.

My entire life, I’ve strived to be perfect. I went to therightcollege. Dated therightkind of guy. And when my producer told me that doing something as bold as proposing to my boyfriend on national television would secure my spot as one of their top morning news anchors? I did that too.

However, what I didn’t see coming — what was written all over my face in that viral clip — is that I never once expected Rex to sayno.

But since that clip started circulating, it feels like everyone in the world knows he said no.

The nextrightstep would have been sticking it out at the station. Letting myself be the butt of everyone’s jokes until people got bored and moved on. Continue showing up, while everyone laughed behind my back, showing them I was strong enough to handle being rejected on national television.

That would have made sense, even been on-brand for me.

But something in me snapped and I ran.

I ran from everything — my career, my hometown.

I did the one thing that made zero sense in my perfect world. I chose to hide.

And, now, I’m using this eight-week sabbatical from the station to finish something I started three years ago. Something that I hope might get me out of broadcast journalism for good. I plan to go back to New York with a finished full-length film script, so I can start shopping it around to production houses. It’ll be my ticket to do what I’ve always wanted to do. Write films. Produce them. Be the personbehindthe screen instead ofonit.

It all feels so surreal now. Standing in this townhouse in the middle of the Pacific, knowing what I came here to accomplish — it’s suddenly staring me in the face. I’m wondering, with every ounce of my soul, whether or not I have what it takes to succeed in doing something so different from what I’ve always done. I can already sense that whatever is going to unfold on this trip is going to change me. Potentially more than I might have bargained for.

But now that I’m here, giving myself permission to run from the problems back home without having to fix them? It feels unbelievably good. Downright addictive, even. Like this taste of imperfection spreading across my tongue is more exhilarating than I could have possibly imagined. A drug I didn’t know I needed until it was coursing through my veins.

I hardly recognize myself, standing here in someone else’s kitchen, a few thousand miles from anyone I know.

And it’s day one.

This trip has only just begun.

Chapter 3

Pulling a few more sweaty strands of hair off my neck, I slip on a white sundress from my suitcase and walk into the kitchen, unable to tear my eyes away from that view out back.

“Here, let me put you on FaceTime so you can see this place, Abby. The view off the back deck might make that shared wall worth it after all.” I hold the phone out in front of me and hit the FaceTime button. “This is it! My home for the next eight weeks.”

Abby’s face appears on my phone screen. She’s sitting in her office chair, even though it’s Saturday. Probably with the shades drawn and the door locked, so she can sneak in a personal phone call during work. The biggest law firms in New York take your life in exchange for the legendary paychecks and bonuses they hand out to their associates on day one. Even though Abby’s probably loaded by now, she’s never actually out of the office long enough to enjoy the money she’s traded some of the best years of her life for. Always promising she’ll relax afterpartnerfollows her name on the firm’s stuffy website.

Just seeing her face makes me feel a tinge of homesickness. My best friend is gorgeous, even with her thick-rimmed glasses and jet-black hair tied up in a messy bun. The tip of a ballpoint pen is sticking out the top of her thick mass of hair, making her look like a sexy librarian, though she’s probably on the tail end of a six-day work bender.

The window shades look dark behind her.

“Oh God, Abby, I forgot about the time change. How late are you working tonight?”

“Is it dark out?” She turns, then rolls her eyes as she spins the chair back around. “I don’t even notice anymore. Brett’s been riding my ass on this new Chatterton case. I might die of old age by the time I finish the discovery phase.”

I fight the urge to tell her to get out of there — to go home to sleep in her own bed, and not that horrible in-office futon that I know is tucked just out of sight. It’s the weekend. She deserves a break. But we’ve had that conversation before. Many times, actually. She’s married to that job.

“But” — she perks up — “it’s not dark where you are! Show me! I can practically smell the ocean wafting through this phone screen.”

I press another button to flip the camera view around, then start walking through the main room first. I hold the phone out in front of me so I can see what she sees along with her reaction. It’s the next best thing to having her here.

Abby begins narrating out loud, like she’s on HGTV’sHouse Hunters.

“Nice kitchen. Oh, I like the countertops. Live-edge butcher block is soHawaii, right? What do you think of that plant though?”

I crinkle my nose at the spidery vines growing along the wall from the kitchen into the living room.

“That might have to go if you’re not a fan,” she continues. “Unless you end up killing it first.”

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