Page 115 of Kissing is the Easy Part
As the days drag on, I sink into a constant state of sorrow. If the acute pain of a breakup is screaming in agony, the aftermath is writing a sad letter with no one to address it to.
Carmen has listened to me vent over lemonade, peach iced tea, root-beer floats, and mason jar Arnold Palmers as I’ve moped around all spring, insisting that a good Southern drink will make me feel less like death.
“Sometimes I wish I’d never started anything with Sean. All I have left are memories. Memories and an astronomical amount of pain.”
“Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it was all for nothing. You were amazing before you met him—you’re the kindest, most charming person I know. And now your grades are improving, your college application was submitted in the best shape it’s ever been, and you even stood up to your parents. Most importantly, you’re no longer willing to lose yourself to hold on to someone else. Sean is wonderful, but you made the right decision, even though it was hard and painful. That’s admirable.”
Her voice is soothing, and even though her advice is a bit high-level, it still makes an impact. I nod, holding back tears. She gives me space to think about what she said, and we finish the rest of our drinks in silence. It’s the kind of silence that resembles a blank piece of paper, too impeccable to be ruined by any redundant words.
“Would you like to read a book?” Carmen asks.
I grimace. “You know I don’t read much.” Mostly the shampoo bottles in the shower when bored.
“Maybe it’s a good time to start. Books are stories. How can you not enjoy a story?” She moves to one of the many bookshelves in her house, returning a moment later with a thin book by Françoise Sagan,Hello Sadness. “Sagan reminds me of you. She’s been attributed with saying something like, ‘Money doesn’t fix everything, but if I had to cry, I’d rather do it in a Jaguar than on a bus.’”
“I love her already.”
“She wrote this when she was a teenager, and it became an instant hit.”
“Well, the length is perfect,” I say, flipping to the last page. Only 127 pages.
“Yeah, you can finish it this afternoon. Tell me what you think later.”
I crack it open. There’s a paragraph about how sorrow feels, how it always seemed profound and almost noble, something heavy and poetic. But now it’s different. It wraps around her like a delicate, silken web, soft and suffocating, setting her apart from everyone else, leaving her trapped in a world of her own.
How fascinating is this?
To find myself in someone else’s words.
* * *
As senior year trudges on, I get better. The jigsaw puzzle Sean gave me has a bizarrely calming effect, like my brain’s version of a spa day. I finish it in three weeks and, in a fit of newfound productivity, buy a couple more. Meanwhile, I keep building my portfolio through my style blog. I’ve posted a range of articles that I’m proud of, covering topics like the quiet luxury trend, how culture shapes style, how social media flipped fashion’s power structure, and the psychology of shopping. Okay, so maybe these aren’t exactly thesis-level masterpieces, but I did spend several hours in the library doing research—actual research, not relying on my trusty friend Wikipedia.
I’ve also started working part-time at a clothing store. When my first paycheck hits, I take my parents out to lunch. They’ve been making an effort to be around more, and when they’re not home, they schedule one-on-one calls with me.
We settle in at a local bistro. Something nicer was out of budget. After taxes, social security, and Medicare, my paycheck isn’t exactly impressive. This is the best I can do—my biggest act of generosity is sparing them a trip to the Cheesecake Factory.
Dad picks up the menu. “Is there a limit on spending?”
“Yes. You each have a forty-dollar limit. Including drinks.”
Mom raises eyebrows. “With or without tax and tip?”
Dad grins. “This reminds me of pharma compliance rules. Dining with physicians always has a strict spending cap.”
Mom nods. “Right, and alcohol can’t exceed thirty percent of the bill.”
“Exactly. Don’t mess up the ratio,” I say.
Dad pretends to look concerned. “So if I were to, say, order a steak . . .”
I tut. “Then you’d be violating company policy and washing dishes in the back. I suggest the soup.”
They laugh. “We raise a daughter, put her through school, give her a good life, and the moment she gets her own paycheck, she feeds us soup.”
As the food arrives, Mom steers the conversation back to my work. Neither of my parents have ever worked in retail, and they have loads of questions, starting with my dad: “How does the store track performance? Do they set individual sales targets?” and followed by my mom: “What’s the biggest bottleneck in your day-to-day workflow?”
I lean back. “I said I wanted to be challenged, but for now, can you chat with me like my parents instead of giving me a performance review? Dial it back down a little, would you?”
