Page 2 of Wish Lists and Road Trips

I dropped onto a wooden bench on the dock and fiddled with the new sleeve of colorful string bracelets wrapping my wrist while my mother aired an updated list of her grievances.

It had grown exponentially this week.

“This whole thing is a humiliating mess, Bridget.” Her polished voice lilted through the phone. “It’s the last time Cheryl Williams callsmein a favor with her personal florist, I’ll tell you that much. My God, I’ll have to find someone else for the Christmas party. And of course I ran into the owner of the Luxe. Did you know they couldn’t fill the date? Imagine their embarrassment when people saw the ballroom empty on a Saturday night.” She paused for a dramatic breath. “Bridget, are you listening?”

I muttered an obedient “of course” into the phone, but I was still stuck on this weird temporal event.Three-fifteen. Three-fifteen.

That number kept coming up over and over. The change from my ten-dollar bill when I’d bought a coffee and pastry at Penn Station before boarding the ship, the number on the cab I’d taken from my hotel. Oh! This was my favorite—the price of the colorful scarf tied in my ponytail. I’d just purchased it at a roadside shop and even with the exchange rate in Costa Rica, I couldn’t escape it.

I knew it was a coincidence. A random fluke, or at the very worst, a mental manifestation of my guilt. There was only the slightest of chances that it was the result of a head game the universe was playing with me to remind me of the day I’d disappointed two hundred and fifty people in one fell swoop. A personal record, even for a professional disappointment like myself.

Three-fifteen. March fifteenth. Eight days ago. My wedding day.

At least it was supposed to be.

Just to avoid any bad luck, I’d decided I wasn’t goinganywhereat three-fifteen. After spending the afternoon taking a van tour of the Costa Rican rainforest and shopping artisan tents in the local village, I came back to the dock early. I’d been entertaining myself by watching bright white fishing boats bob on the crystal-clear turquoise water until this call came in.

“The money we’ve lost on deposits isn’t even the worst of it,” my mother continued. “Your father is furious at the way you treated Sean. And his parents! How are we going to look them in the eye? We go to the sameclub!” Her voice was a familiar melody of faux concern and genuine exasperation. I hated this song.

“I can’t help you out of this one, Bridget.”

“I’m not asking you for help,” I said. “And there’s nothing I need to get out of.”Because I wrenched myself free, thank you very much. “Sean and I are done. Daddy has to accept it.”

“Yes, well, that’s not his strong suit. Though, leaving a mess certainly seems to be yours. You won’t believe the trouble we’ve gone through to cancel this wedding.”

“I’m sorry I caused you extra work.” I wasn’t. Neither of my parents had done any of that dirty work themselves. They had “people” for those things.

My mother let out a heavy sigh. “We forgave you when you squandered your education to start your silly makeup business, Bridget, but I really thought you’d started down a more responsible path being with Sean. I’m sorry, but I can’t support this. You’re on your own.”

She hung up and I nearly laughed even as my eyes stung with tears. When had I ever been anything but?

My “silly makeup business” was a growing freelance gig and a beauty blog that got ten thousand hits last month. The money I made from paid partnerships helped put me through cosmetology school. Sure, I had to keep a part-time job for now, but I had big plans.

None of that mattered to my parents, though. To them, it would always be a hobby that wasted my potential. Potential for what, I’d never been clear on.

I wiggled the bare ring finger on my left hand. The decidedly un-bridal, pink manicure that I’d given myself for my Instagram series on cruise-ship-inspired makeup palettes glinted in the sun. It felt lighter, my finger. Though it was probably in my head. How much could a ring really weigh? Not enough to say, oh yeah, there’s a difference there. It was a symbolic lightness. Free of Sean. Free of the version of me that I’d grown to hate. Free to be whoever I was supposed to become.

Free of a roof over my head.

I pushed that thought aside. It didn’t matter that I was technically homeless until the check I was waiting on cleared. I’d been twenty-five for eleven weeks and counting, and after liquidating the last of the stocks and bonds where my grandfather had invested my trust, I was finally getting the first disbursement.

When I got home from this trip, I was going to use that money to buy myself a shelter from this storm. Working out of my car felt like amateur hour. I wanted square footage. I wanted salon chairs and styling cabinets. Mirrors and lighting. A sign on a post out front. Not to mention a place to live that wasn’t my parents’ house.

I had it all picked out, my new studio-slash-apartment. A place where I could build my own happy ending and set my dreams in motion. Dreams that were mine. Not my father’s, not Sean’s—mine.

I’d just closed my eyes to draw pictures of those dreams in my head when a guy in a black T-shirt plunked down his backpack, causing a flock of birds to screech and scatter and startle the bejesus out of me.

He dropped onto the bench across from me, pushing the brim of a well-worn baseball cap off his head, and buried his face in his palms. Before he hid it from me, I’d thought that his face looked vaguely familiar, like maybe I’d seen it in passing, but that was silly. I’d been on a boat for a week. Where would I have seen him?

It was a nice face, from what I could see: dark vacation-style stubble and a strong, square forehead and prominent nose. His profile looked chipped out of the side of a mountain, but the headlong view of his face was softer. His cheeks were round and boyish. It was a surprising contrast.

He rubbed circles into his temples with his thumbs, stretching the sleeve of his T-shirt with each tiny flex of his biceps. I should definitely stop staring, but somehow I’d forgotten all about the gorgeous ocean view surrounding me, and decided there was nothing else worthy of my attention while I waited for this ship. Besides, he couldn’t see me.

Until his head popped up like one of those Whack-a-Mole games, and he looked straight at me. It wasn’t being caught that made my heart do a frog jump in my chest. It was the way his pastel-colored, sea-foam green eyes looked alien against his tan skin and almost black hair. How did he walk around with eyes like that? Buy coffee, ask for directions? Were people constantly awestruck?

For God’s sake, Bridget. You were engaged less than a month ago.

But it couldn’t hurt to look. Emotionally, Sean and I had been done for a long time. And our relationship certainly hadn’t stoppedhimfrom looking. Or touching.

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