Page 7 of Worth the Want
I like to think I’martsy,but I’m definitely not anartist. I’ve learned I require a little more structure if I want my mental health out of the garbage. My sister has always been a different story. Melodic and energetic—Hana Holmesismusic. Not in the way that she’s a talented musician, but in the way that she knows the perfect song for every specific moment of your life. Not a single drop of personal musical talent in her body—but damn can she recognize it.
Hana—Han, as in Solo. I smile at the incredibly kitschy names my parents bestowed on the both of us. Han and Indiana. In the Holmes household, we consumed art in all forms: cinema, music, sculpting, dance—you name it, we tried it at least once.
Our parents are huge film buffs. We grew up hearing the intricacies of Harrison Ford movies—so much so that they would name their two daughters after two of his more famous characters. To be fair, I don’t hate my namesake. In fact, I loveRaiders of the Lost Ark. I genuinely thought I would be a history professor slash archaeologist up until the age of ten.
I fold my discarded clothes, placing them into my bag before zipping it up. I walk down the convenience store aisles, picking out a granola bar and a sparkling water from the coolers. Setting them on the counter, a rack of sunglasses and postcards grabs my attention. I pluck a pair of sunglasses for myself off their stand and a stack of postcards for Han. I’ve sent her a postcard from everywhere I’ve ever been. I’ll need a few since I’m planning on being here for a while.
“Will this be all for you?” the cashier asks from behind the counter. He’s older than me with salt and pepper hair, maybe in his fifties, but the kind smile on his face makes him seem younger.
“This should do it,” I answer brightly.
He scans my items, putting them into a paper bag. “Receipt?”
“That’s okay. Thank you. Have a good day,” I tell him, grabbing my brown paper bag.
As I put on my cheap sunglasses, I give myself permission to believe this is all going to work out.
Stepping out of the automatic doors and walking back to my car, I take in my surroundings. The air is thinner already, not cool exactly, but crisp in a way that has my lips turning up and my mood lifting. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when I’m surrounded by mountains as far as my eyes can see. A soft bubbling and trickling draws my attention to the creek running alongside the road.
The view makes me feel small.Grounded.Sometimes my issues feel so much bigger than me, like they can take on a physical form, towering over me. But looking at the stunning rock formations before me, my issues start to feel smaller too. Lifting my face to meet the light breeze that’s ruffling my already messy hair, a reassuring thought comes to me. Maybethisis what I’ve yearned for.
Applying for this job may have been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but from the second I hit send on my application, I haven’t been able to stop picturing what my life in Colorado could be. I bought a book titled:Must Do Hikes In Coloradoand a backpack before I even got the call back from the bakery owner with the offer.
Accepting immediately, I started looking up rental properties. Searching online turned up no viable prospects, with the closest home being two hours outside of town. I was starting to get a little worried—only to get a call back thirty minutes later from my new boss saying she had a small cottage that was for rent, right off the town square, within walking distance to the bakery. She sent me one picture, and I was sold.
An hour later, I’m parked on the town square in Silverthorne. I study the buildings with my windows down, it’s bright and there are spring flowers overflowing from decorative pots—suddenly, Colorful Colorado makes a lot of sense. An American flag waves in the breeze, and the mountains behind it give me a very patriotic feeling. I know a cover for a John Cougar Mellencamp cover when I see one.
I grab one of the postcards I bought at the gas station, wanting to document my first moments of this grand adventure I’m embarking on. I reach for the pen that’s fallen out of my purse and jot down a few lines to Han.
It smells like pine trees and sunshine.
It feels like possibilities.
I love you. I miss you.
Love, Indiana
I spot the sign for Thistle and Sage bakery, quickly checking myself over again in the visor mirror—my shoulder-length hair is a bit windblown but otherwise I’m presentable. Reapplying my lip balm, I grab my briefcase containing my laptop from the passenger seat, my camera that I don’t go anywhere without these days, open my door, and step into the sun—and my fresh start.
Inside the bakery I’m greeted by a small line of customers at the front counter and the most heavenly smell to ever grace my senses. The space is beautiful. Light and airy, with wood accents and a black-and-white tiled floor. I peek around the line to see a young woman behind the counter. She’s smiling, chatting with customers, and getting them their orders. I’m not sure if I should wait here or knock on the door that leads into the back.
I decide to wait in line—but I’m second-guessing that choice. Waiting in line feels awkward, but so does walking up to the front and looking like I’m cutting in front of everyone. While I’m contemplating what I should do, I hear “next!” and it’s already my turn.
“Hi!” I say brightly—maybe too brightly.“I’m the new manager-um, I’m Indiana. Hi.”Well, I botched that introduction perfectly.
“Hi! Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Winnie,” she introduces herself, holding out a hand. I take it, noticing she’s about my height of five foot one. Her eyes are a warm amber that’s similar to the color of whiskey, and her smile reminds me ofsomething,but I can’t put my finger on it. She has her hair up on top of her head with a few dark curls escaping.
“It’s nice to meet you too. I’m so sorry I’m later than we originally talked about.”
“Oh no worries.” She waves me off. “I have just a couple more orders to take and then it should be slowing down. Can I get you something while you wait? A coffee? Cinnamon roll?”
I glance in the display case, seeing a huge chocolate croissant.
“Could I have a hot tea? And maybe one of those chocolate croissants? They look too good to pass up.”
“Of course. I might be biased, but they’re a crowd pleaser and a personal favorite,” she tells me, and turns to fill my order. “Is Earl Grey okay?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect,” I reply, looking over my shoulder, seeing a couple of people in line behind me. Not staring exactly, but definitely curious.
