Page 77 of The Maine Event

An hour later, the house has finally gone still. I pad into the guest room—Claire’s old childhood bedroom turned into a cozy catch-all—with a borrowed toothbrush and a mismatched pair of pajamas. The sheets are crisp, the lamp casts a warm glow, and the scent of fabric softener lingers in the air.

I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand along the worn quilt. There’s a photo on the wall—Mom, Claire, and me on a windswept beach, hair tangled, arms flung around each other. I don’t remember when it was taken, only that we were laughing.

My phone buzzes faintly from my bag across the room. I don’t reach for it. Whatever it is, it can wait. For once, everything can wait.

Instead, I lie back and close my eyes, listening to the quiet creaks of a house settling into sleep. There’s nowhere I need to be, no one expecting a response, no task to cross off. Just stillness. Presence.

In the hallway, I hear the gentle patter of little feet—one of the girls up for a glass of water or visit to the bathroom. A low murmur, Mom’s voice, then silence again. This house, this life, isn’t perfect. But it’s real. It breathes.

I nestle under the covers. Tomorrow, I’ll start figuring out what comes next.

But tonight, I just let myself rest.

TWENTY

I sink into the plush cushions of my couch again, surrounded by a blissful chaos of potato chip bags, candy wrappers, and half-empty soda cans. My fuzzy pink slippers dangle off the edge as I stretch out, reveling in the fact that I don’t even know what time it is. And I don’t care.

The TV hums in the background, the familiar theme song of my favorite baking show spilling from the speakers like a warm hug. I’ve been playing catch-up for five straight days—something I used to think only happened to people with “hobbies” or “free time.” Apparently, that now includes me.

It’s strange. This time last week I couldn’t go ten minutes without checking Slack or mentally reworking a pitch. Now I can’t even remember the last time I opened my laptop. The sheer stillness of this week—no calls, no back-to-back meetings, no fires to put out—should feel unnatural. And yet, here I am, wrapped in a blanket with unwashed hair and greasy fingers, watching strangers in Britain sweat over sponge layers and crème pâtissière like it’s the Wimbledon final.

It’s heavenly. And terrifying.

Part of me keeps waiting for the guilt to kick in. For the creeping dread that I’m falling behind, that I’m losing my edge.But it hasn’t come. Not really. Instead, I’ve started noticing how quiet my brain feels when it’s not jammed full of KPIs and click-through rates. I’m not sure I like it. But I also don’t hate it.

There’s a weird kind of peace in not being needed. No one’s asking for my approval. No one’s pinging me with “quick questions” that are anything but. For once, I’m just… here. Being. Watching sugar collapse and puff pastry rise and realizing how deeply satisfying it is to root for someone whose biggest problem is whether their Genoise is too dry.

The buttery scent of microwave popcorn mingles with the sweet aroma of the scented candle flickering on the coffee table. My modest Chicago condo feels like a cozy haven, a world away from the sleek glass and steel of the CGPR offices.

I glance down at my oversized ‘I Bears’ t-shirt—originally white, now speckled with a constellation of cheese puff dust—and plaid pajama bottoms that may or may not be held up by sheer willpower. A smear of chocolate decorates my left sleeve. I’m not even mad about it.

If anyone from CGPR could see me now… Rachel Holmes, queen of the PowerPoint pitch, reduced to a feral couch goblin surviving on a diet of sugar and sodium. I haven’t worn a bra in five days. My Fitbit buzzed once, presumably to ask if I was still alive. I flipped it off and rolled over.

This is the version of me that HR never warned you about: Snack Gremlin Edition. And honestly? She’s kind of thriving.

On-screen, a contestant is attempting an ambitious three-tiered cake decorated with delicate sugar flowers. I lean forward, captivated, as the camera zooms in on their intricate piping work.

“Come on, you got this!” I mutter encouragingly at the TV, reaching for another handful of cheese puffs.

It’s amazing how invested I get in these baking journeys, considering my own culinary skills max out at boiling waterand burning toast. There’s something soothing about watching people pour their hearts into creating something beautiful and delicious, even if I can’t relate.

As the contestant steps back to reveal their finished masterpiece, I let out an appreciative whistle. The judges are equally impressed, showering praise on the baker’s creativity and technical prowess.

I smile contentedly, sinking further into the cushions. This is exactly what I needed—a week of doing nothing, some time to recharge, to remember there’s more to life than work. Even if that “more” mainly involves binge-watching reality TV and consuming my body weight in junk food.

For now, I’m happy to stay right here in my little bubble of relaxation, soaking up every blissful, responsibility-free moment. The real world can wait until next week, or maybe even next month. This week is all about embracing the art of doing absolutely nothing.

That’s not to say I haven’t given the future, my future, some serious thought. I stare up at the ceiling and try to imagine going back. Back to the endless calls, the weekends lost to ‘urgent’ pitch decks, the CEO egos, the last-minute rebrands, the tight smiles, the tighter deadlines.

I love what I do. God help me, I actually love PR. I love crafting a story that cuts through the noise. I love the strategy, the psychology, the dance of it. But, what I’ve come to realize is, I don’t love living on someone else’s calendar. I don’t love sacrificing every spare minute to prop up brands I don’t believe in. I don’t love being told to ‘lean in’ while quietly being leaned on until I crack.

And I’m tired of pretending that I want to climb someone else’s ladder. I want to build my own damn house.

It hits me—softly, but all at once.

I don’t want another job.

I want freedom.

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