Page 6 of Worth the Want
“KirkCarter.” He emphasizes the last name. I suppose he wants me to know that he shares it with Ms. June. It does nothing to convince me he’s deserving of anything of hers. Deserving and last names rarely have anything to do with each other.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Carter.”
“Alex Shepherd. I’ll be representing Mr. Carter.” The other man speaks up, holding his hand out.
I take it, shaking it as I speak. “Hopefully, we can get this resolved soon, and everyone can be on their way.”
“Yes, there seems to be a problem with my client’s late aunt's will. I’m sure once you take a better look at the facts, you’ll be able to steer your client in therightdirection.” His words are dripping with condescension.
“I suppose we’ll just have to look at all the facts to come to the right conclusion, won’t we?” I challenge. His expression is mildly annoyed.Me too, asshole.
“Okay, Han. I need to go. I’m currently changing my clothes in a rest stop bathroom because of my flight delay, so I have no time to entertain you,” I tease. “I love you. I miss you. Bye,” I tell her out of reflex before quickly tapping my screen and taking a deep breath. There’s still an hour drive ahead of me, and I need to mentally prepare myself to make a good first impression.
Being considered, let alone hired, to be a part-time manager for a bakery is still hard to believe. I have no experience with being a manager—or bakeries—but Idointerview really well, and the owner seemed to like the mock-ups I did for the website. Working as a web designer for a hotel chain for the past four years was fine—until it wasn’t. The job was good, and there was even a little bit of travel involved, but I was never a project manager. They were never reallymyprojects.
With the encouragement of my sister, and the camera she lent me, I started going to photography classes on the weekends a year ago in an attempt to start a more freelance career, butthat all seemed to fall apart just a few months later. Feeling unimportant—like a lot of things.
The rumbling on the sink lets me know I’m getting another call. Wrangling the zipper on my bag, I check the name.
Wyatt.
He must have heard through the grapevine—my parents—that I left the city.Wyatt isn’t a bad guy, and even though my parents would like him to be, he also isn’tmyguy. I’m pretty sure, at least, I feel like I would know if he was. All our conversations started to end up the same way; he wanted to be together, and I…I didn’t know if that’s what I wanted.
A common thread in the tapestry of my life—I don’t know what I want.
I’ve always had trouble sticking with things. There was painting, then the tumbling class, and before that it was dance. It seemed to get worse in my early twenties. I get restless and sometimes that comes across as flaky or impulsive—but this doesn’t feel like it has in the past.
No, the urge to leave the city was there long before my breakup with Wyatt; it was there before last summer. I used to love the hustle and bustle of city streets. I loved being with my family, and the people watching from our apartment window. Now the noise makes my head ache, and the constant stimulation makes it hard for me to sleep or focus.
The vibrating stops, and I let out a sigh. It rumbles again, telling me I have a message, and I groan, looking at it.
Wyatt
I heard you left. Are you okay?
I roll my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek.Surely heknows I can see right through this.My fingers hover over the screen before I tap out a quick reply.
Me
I did. I’m fine, and you can tell them that.
Three dots appear immediately.
Wyatt
They’re just worried about you.
I rub at the ache in my shoulder. This requires a longer conversation, but I’m not ready for that. I don’t know when, orif, I will be. I slip my phone into my bag, and close my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose. Crossing my arms over my chest and wrapping my hands around my upper arms, I squeeze them once, then twice. After the third time, I feel more centered and able to continue my hunt for appropriate clothing.
When I’ve finished getting dressed, I look at myself in the dirty mirror above the sink. The dark spots under my brown eyes have lessened but are still easily visible, and I desperately need to have a moment alone with the sun.
I’ll be different here. I have to be.
Closing my eyes in an attempt to fight through the swarm of bees that are trying to make a nest in my head, I take in another lungful of air.
I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life—unsure if coming here is the right choice. I may be twenty-seven, but I still have so much to figure out. I’m not asking to have it all together, but havingsomeof it together could be fun. Just enough to move the needle in a productive direction. I mean, I cut my own hair last week. It was just the bangs—but still.
Planning isn’t really my area of expertise. Though, I’m not sure what you would expect with the upbringing I had. It waschaotic—in the most magical way. My parents are both artists, so eccentric and eclectic are just two of the words I would use to describe my childhood.
