Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I’d gone, hoping for a quick fix. When that didn’t come, I’d given up. I was tired of waiting to feel better, tired of hearing that it was a process. It didn’t shock me that everyone I’d been connected to left; what shocked me were the ones who’d stayed. Eventually, she discharged me, stating she couldn’t do the work for me.
Sighing, if I wasn’t going to write, I needed to get to town. It would be so much easier if there was a service to get my groceries for me or if I’d said no to this cabin and insisted on one with a washer and dryer. But I knew why I’d picked this cabin. Living here would force me to get out, mingle with the townspeople. Get the social network flowing again, which would hopefully kick-start my creativity.
Since my Ferrari had been totaled in the accident, I’d found a truck to drive. It was an older one, heavy and solid. Something I could feel comfortable driving. Even if I was involved in a fender bender, I would be okay. I had forced myself to start driving again, right before moving. I knew in a town this small, I wouldn’t have a choice. Just like the laundry and groceries. I had to be self-sufficient, stop feeling sorry for myself, and move on with life. If I didn’t, all the work I’d done to get to this place would be for nothing. And I would never hear the end of it from Amelia and Shelby. They took pride in the work I’d done since the accident, and they should. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have lasted a week post-discharge.
My feet felt louder on the floor as I walked to my bedroom to change and grab the things I needed. I filled a large laundry bag with clothes and bedding. If the dry cleaner wasn’t busy, I might be able to eat at one of the restaurants while I waited instead of going back into town the next day. The thought put a spring in my step, making me move with purpose. Better to get everything out of the way in one trip rather than making multiple ones.
Back in the living space, I searched under the sink, looking for the reusable grocery bags I’d packed. Once I’d found them, I loaded the truck and went back inside to make sure the back door was locked. I laughed at myself then I lived in the middle of nowhere. No one was coming out here to steal anything. Even if they did, I didn’t really have anything worth stealing.
3
TARA
I needed to make some decisions about my life sooner rather than later. I couldn’t continue dreading my job and finding ways to do anything other than complete my assignments. I’d rather take the reins myself before my boss left me with no choice. And if my intuition was on track, I was on a runaway train, speeding in that direction fast. I wondered if I could buy myself a little time. Sending a quick email to my boss, I boarded the plane and turned the phone off. Whatever he said in return could wait until I landed.
Minutes into the flight, I regretted the email. Part of me hoped it didn’t send, thanks to shoddy service or just a glitch in the system. I was in no position to demand a leave of absence. He’d most likely answer with “take your leave and pack your desk.” I motioned to the flight attendant—I needed a drink.
My impulsivity might really bite me in the ass on this one. I knew I was acting like a spoiled child. My job wasn’t difficult. Hell, I could do it in my sleep. I was able to travel and stay in nice hotels, and it was a steady income. Did it matter that it was the last thing I wanted to be doing? Yes, I answered, swallowing my gin and tonic in two gulps. It did.
Still, the smart thing would be to find something else, get some leads before throwing away the only way I had to pay my bills. I groaned. There was nothing I could do now. I’d made my bed, and I might be able to lie in it a little longer each morning if I ended up without a job.
“Are you headed home from an assignment?”
The woman beside me pointed to the tag on my carry-on, clearly stating I was a reporter.
“Yes.” To an apartment I won’t be able to afford once I’m canned. “In Brussels. I’m there a lot. Home is DC.”
Ticking down my list of friends, I wondered if I could bunk with one of them. I traveled more than I was in my apartment, so I didn’t have a lot of belongings, and I wouldn’t take up much space. I twisted my hair with my finger; it was a nervous habit I couldn’t kick. I wasn’t sure what I would do next. Just what I needed—my thirty-second birthday approaching and no job or place to live. I was killing it.