Page 7 of Late Bloomer
I toss my phone to the side and blow out a raspberry. “I feel too keyed up to drive home,” I lie, not wanting to worry Olivia and Ophelia any further that I’ll do something reckless with the money. Which, in all fairness, they have a right to worry about. My silly heart often works in cahoots with my people-pleasing brain, all common sense shooting out my ears when I need it.
Ophelia untangles herself from us and stretches, arching her long and graceful neck.
“I better get going,” she says. “Teaching an advanced pointe class in the morning.”
All three of us are artists in one form or another—Ophelia a ballet dancer and Olivia a writer—which holds a delightful bit of irony as our mom and dad—a statistician and environmental lawyer, respectively—don’t have a creative bone in their bodies. We love dabbling and playing with different ways to express ourselves, often taking on some random project or another together to bond over.
“Love you.”
“Text us when you get home.”
After the door clicks shut behind Ophelia, Olivia makes up the couch for me, and I burrow into the soft sheets and pillows.
“Why are you hovering over me like Kathy Bates inMisery?” I ask, squinting one eye up at her.
She laughs through her nose. “I’m just that obsessed with you, love bug,” she says, smoothing a hand over my orange hair. “And I’m also excited for you. I think a fresh start is exactly what you need. Find your spark again.”
She bends down, placing a kiss on my head, then retreats into her room.
I blink at the dark ceiling.
My spark.
That’s what I’m missing. That glow of joy, a candle in a winter window, warm and welcoming and a guide home.
I hope I can find it.
Chapter 3OPAL
I wonder if I’ll ever get a good night’s sleep again.
Agonizing hours of endless tossing and turning isn’t a particularly new phenomenon—I actually can’t remember the last time I slept well. My parents never miss an opportunity to whine about how they didn’t sleep through the night for the first ten years of my life—always waking up with a jolt from the force of my gaze as I hovered at the edge of their bed like a Victorian ghost child.
But it’s been a week and a half since I won the lottery, and my sleep is worse than ever.
And damn is it frustrating. I wish I came with an off switch, a way to power down the pinging circuits of my hyper brain. But no, the second I put my head on a pillow, electricity surges through my veins, jump-starting my heart any time I even mildly drift off. My mind decides to make me relive every embarrassing moment of my life on loop or come up with endlessworries, all of them bouncing around my skull like a jar of marbles spilled over a staircase.
I stare at the sharp green lines of the 4:00 a.m. glowing from my clock until my eyes go hazy, early morning darkness hovering in the room. With a sigh of defeat, I give up on the idea of sleep.
It doesn’t help that my phone keeps buzzing—DMs and texts and tweets from people I haven’t heard from since high school or earlier—that blue light adding fuel to my jitteriness. Apparently, Laney didn’t stop with Miles when it came to sharing my good news.
The money was deposited into my previously laughable bank account a few days ago, creating a world of problems. I’ve spent most of my life desperately searching for friends and closeness and companionship—always serving as people’s back-up plan, a good time in small doses, ready and eager like a puppy to jump at anything I was lucky enough to be included in, then doing everything possible to ensure the people around me had a good time, even if it left me feeling spent and empty.
So many moments of my life I wanted someone to text me to see how I was, break up the loneliness of chasing one-sided relationships.
Now,everyonewants to see how I’m doing. If I want to get drinks. Dinner. Coffee. Some of the messages are subtle. Most are downright demanding.
All of it hurts my feelings.
No one wanted anything to do with me until I had somethingmonetary to give them, and it’s painful to realize how accurate my sisters’ concerns were about people wanting to use me.
I know nothing about this will change unless I find the courage to make the next move. But stagnation is comfortable. Making a change takes bravery, a willingness to declare what I want then be swept into the unknown consequences of it. If I never move, nothing ever changes, but if nothing ever changes, I can’t be crushed by the disappointment of it not working out.
I scroll through my messages, a particularly long one from Laney snagging my attention.
Another unanswered call. Cool. I just find it really funny that for someone that likes to pretend to be some fucking martyr all the time, you have no problem blowing everyone off the second something good happens. But you do you I guess. Not like any of us have any real problems, right? And like, I wouldn’t even be mad or bother reaching out if i didn’t care about you and shit. I guess that’s what makes it so frustrating though… you’re just looking out for number one. Fine. Don’t crawl back to my DMs when you’re sad and mopey in a week because someone hurt your precious feelings. Careful what bridges you burn, babe
Guilt roils through my stomach and up my throat. I’m not trying to be selfish, I’m… I’m…
