More Than I Could (20)

It makes me smile.

My phone buzzes as I turn onto the street that leads back to the hotel. A glance shows Calista’s name.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, you. Sorry I missed your call earlier. I was … busy.”

I roll my eyes. I know what that means in Calista’s language.

“How did it go?” she asks. “Tell me all the things.”

I sigh and step over a puddle.

I left my room two hours ago to sort out all the things, as Calista put it. But, to my surprise, there’s more rolling around my head than I realized.

The more I walked, the more my brain felt like an overstuffed coat closet. Finally, today I opened the door, and it all fell into a cumbersome heap on the floor—or sidewalk, as it were. Things I thought I had put to bed resurfaced and demanded attention.

I’ve accomplished much in my life—more than I ever dreamed. I never imagined I would live in Los Angeles or have a worldwide magazine interview me about what inspires my creative direction.

I didn’t even know I had creative direction.

The past ten years have been a whirlwind, and not a day went by that I didn’t feel like an impostor. So how did I, Megan Kramer, from a single-parent household in Dallas with average grades, get a corner office at the trendiest at-home salon experience company?

When I started to believe it, it was yanked from me.

An uncertainty I’ve tried to ignore—an unsettledness about my life's direction, goals, and possibilities—roared to the forefront this morning. I realized that as much as I didn’t want to be anyone’s nanny, I was excited to stay with the Marshalls. I was excited about the break from life.

For the chance to gather my thoughts. To regroup. To breathe and focus on something besides my problems for a change.

But, thanks to Chase Marshall, it’s just me and the gaping holes in my life once again.

“It didn’t go well,” I tell Calista.

“What? Why not?”

I bite my lip. “You know, I don’t know. He said he couldn’t trust me because he doesn’t know me, but I don’t buy that.”

My stomach swirls as if hit with a shot of adrenaline.

The way he wouldn’t look at me. How he asked me to wait. His preoccupation with my car. It doesn’t make sense.

“I can’t figure him out, Calista. But I’m also not going to expend the energy to try. He’s another guy in another city who wants to be a pain in my ass.”

“Good for you.”

I laugh.

“What are you doing now?” she asks.

“What do you mean? What am I doing this minute? Tomorrow? In life?”

“I don’t know. Any of it.”

I snort. “Well, the answer is the same. I don’t know.”

“Want to stay with me for a while?”

My shoe slips on the damp pavement. I catch myself before I topple to the ground.

“No,” I say, getting my footing once again. “Thanks, though. I’m going to grab a sandwich from The Wet Whistle and then call Maggie and tell her I’m not coming back. Then I’ll book a ticket back to Dallas.”

“So you haven’t told Maggie?”

“No.” I make my way across the street toward the restaurant. “I didn’t want to have that conversation with her family there. It was awkward enough the way it was.”

But, also, it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Being with them made sense—it felt natural. Mom and Maggie have been friends for so long that I’ve always considered her and Lonnie distant family. I felt so welcomed by them. But how did I not know their oldest son was such a … jerk?

Ugh.

“You know I’m a phone call away if you need help figuring things out. I’m here for you—whatever you need, friend,” Calista says.

I grin. “I know. Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“I gotta go. I haven’t eaten today, and I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” she says, chuckling. “Call me later.”

“I will. Bye.”

The phone goes back into my pocket as I grab the restaurant door handle. I tug it open and can’t believe my eyes. It’s a different place than it was last night.

Last night, the lights were dim, and the televisions—all three of them—were lit up with sports games. Rock music played. Gavin was tending the bar in a plain black T-shirt and a smile that I’m sure got him a lot of tips … and phone numbers.

But today, there’s none of that. Instead, the bright room shows the country aesthetic chosen as decoration. There’s a giant pie counter that I missed before, and a small vase with what appears to be wildflowers decorates the center of the tables. Absolutely precious.

“Grab a seat, sweetie,” a woman with a white apron and beehive hairdo from the fifties says with a giant smile. Her name tag reads Tabitha. “I’ll be over there in a second.”

“Sure thing. No rush.”

I grab a table for two by the wall—the one not under a giant deer head. I reach for my phone when the table shakes as if something has run into it.

My head whips to the side to see a grinning Gavin sliding into the seat across from me.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I spook ya?”