PURELY UNCONDITIONAL
BY: BETHANY HENSEL
Copyright © 2015 by Bethany Hensel
Purely Unconditional
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One: The List
Chapter Two: Make Up, Shake Up, and Jack Brandes
Chapter Three: Lunch Time Challenges
Chapter Four: Snow Globe and Saxophone
Chapter Five: Snow Day
Chapter Six: A New List
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Author
Sweetly Irresistible Sneak Peek
For Mom and Dad, always
And Heather Stewart
You’ve talked me down from the ledge again!
Chapter One
The List
There are certain things in life that are a constant: Hugh Jackman will never not be hot, sleeping in will never not be awesome, and Layla Ellison will never not bring over cupcakes whenever someone is feeling down.
“And look,” she says, popping off the lid on her plastic container, “I even made them with green sprinkles, your favorite.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m not over here crying my eyes out.”
She unwinds herself from her coat, two scarves, gloves and her winter boots. I notice she’s wearing three shirts.
“Cold?”
She gives me a look as we head to the couch. She sets her container on my coffee table. She says, “Okay, one is just a spaghetti-strap, the other is a t-shirt, and then I have my sweater. It’s freezing out.”
“You want me to turn up the heat?”
“No. I want you to tell me why you sounded so upset on the phone yesterday.”
I sigh. It’s not like I was about to throw myself off a bridge or lock myself in my room and never get out of bed. It was just a particularly long day at work and I was in a shitty mood. No more, no less. I tell Layla this and she gives me a look. I give her a look. After we trade our patented looks several more times back and forth, I finally give in.
“Alright,” I say. I turn of the D.R. Gibbs Christmas special on TV, then I pick up an ornament of a small polar bear holding a present and hand it to Layla. “But you can help me decorate the tree while we talk.”
“With pleasure.” Layla accepts the ornament and together, we tackle the huge box of decorations. My fatso gray cat, Denny Crane, hops on the table and starts digging around. I put him on the floor. He hops up again. I repeat. He hops up and when I try to lift him, he swats my hand.
Layla laughs and scratches him on the head. “You are so cute. You are the cutest thing ever, besides my two fur babies. Such a sweet little guy. I’d love to have a cat like you in the house.”
“Don’t get any ideas. Between those two dogs of yours, I don’t think a cat would stand a chance. And by the way, my sweet little guy drew blood.” I cradle my hand.
Layla just grins. She puts on a red flower. “Talk,” she says. “I’ve got all day.”
I grab a small cat ornament—spitting image of my little Denny Crane. “I guess I was feeling in a funk yesterday. I don’t know. Maybe it was work or something.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “I just...everyone is getting ready for Christmas break and they were all talking about their plans. And I just felt”—another shrug—“I don’t know…left out.”
Layla places a silver ball on a branch. She glances at me but not for long. And for that, I’m grateful. It’s harder to confess stuff when you have to look someone square in the eyes.
I continue, “I tried to chime in. Really. But then I thought about it and was like, wow, I sound like a loser.”
“You are not.”
I place the cat ornament on the tree. “Well, it doesn’t exactly make me sound like a winner to say I’m spending Christmas break at home, in pj’s, with my cat, binge-watching Netflix and eating too much candy.” I make a face. “Everyone was talking about their vacations and all these plans. I had no thing to contribute.”
“That’s why you were feeling shitty?”
“Partly.” I glance at Layla. The lights from the tree reflect off her vanilla-blond hair and her perfect peach-toned cheeks. I think the only thing peachy about me is the shape of my body—round and a bit fuzzy. (It’s winter. I don’t shave a lot in winter.)
“So what’s the other part of that partly?”
I take a breath. I open my mouth, but just like at work, I think about the words I’m about to say and it all sounds so stupid. I pick up another ornament. I hang it on the tree. I pick up another and another.
“Do you think I’m putting too many red balls next to the candy canes?”
Layla doesn’t even glance at the spot on the tree I’m looking at. She faces me square, hands on hips. “Stop trying to change the subject. As the reigning queen of a land called Changing the Subject When You’re Uncomfortable, I know a loyal subject when I see one. So stop feeling self-conscious, because I know you are right now, and just tell me. Do you want me to look away? Will that make you feel better?”
My shoulders droop. “You know what? A cupcake will make me feel better.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice.”
Layla and I sit on the couch and each grab a sugary confection. I almost moan aloud at the burst of flavors.
“Oh my God,” I say, “you really need to bake these all the time for me. Or open a bakery so I can visit all the time.”
“Trust me, I’m trying.”
All too soon, my slice of heaven is gone. Time to face the music. “Do you think my life is empty?”
Layla doesn’t hesitate. “No. Do you?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes. I mean, I think. I mean, I don’t know. I’d like to think that I live a very fulfilling and meaningful life. But lately, I am looking at the facts of what I do and, while I’m not saying I’m dirt around a toilet or anything—”
“Ew.”
”—I can honestly say that I wake up, I eat, I work, I watch TV, and then I sleep. That’s it. Not much variation. And…” I trail off. I look at my pretty Christmas tree, coming along but still needs finished; my cozy living room, full of second-hand furniture but tidy and neat. It’s all okay, very livable, but there’s just something missing.
“What?” Layla asks.
My breath leaves me on a long sigh. I feel deflated. “I’m wondering if I’m wasting my life.”
For the first time since she walked in, her face scrunches and her eyes are filled with concern. “So what are you saying? You want to…move? Change jobs?”
“No. Nothing that drastic. I mean, whether I live in Silver Lake or Chicago won’t change that I feel lonely. Or, maybe that’s not the right word. I just feel like I need to shake things up a bit. I need to do more, experience more.” I give her a flat look. “It’s the weekend and I’m wearing beige. Who does that? Who owns beige casual-wear?”
She grins.
“Furthermore, who, at twenty-nine, has never been out of the country? Or out of the state? Because I haven’t done either, and that’s weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“It’s weird.”
She shrugs. “Maybe a bit unconventional. But there’s nothing wrong with your life—”
“No, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong. I’m just saying that maybe there’s something more. And I feel like I’m missing it.”
Denny Crane hops up. His purr is as loud as a car engine, which is surprising considering how fat he is. You’d think all that blubber would muffle the sound. He looks at me with wide eyes. I reach out to pet him and snuggles down on Layla’s lap.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Layla chuckles. “Alright. I get what you’re saying, I do. And trust me, I’ve been there.”
“Yeah, but you’re not there anymore.” I think about what Layla has gone through the past few months—no, the past few years—and I am once again so in awe of her I feel like a kindergartner meeting her hero for the first time. “You kicked ass and made things happen. You changed your life. Maybe it’s time I changed mine.”
“So what do you want to do?”
That’s the problem and the million dollar question: what do I want to do? I meant it when I said I don’t want to move. It’d be the same story in a different location: I’d work, I’d eat, I’d sleep. No, no. Change of venue wouldn’t change anything. And I don’t want to switch jobs, either. I actually really love my job. I work at Silver Lake Community Resource and Aid, a company that helps people who are down on their luck get back on their feet. We have the usual offices, but we also have a start of the art computer lab, legal and financial departments and we offer counseling. So a person may call because they need food stamps but they don’t have a computer to apply, or don’t understand how to apply. Or maybe they need to sign up for health insurance and the entire website goes beyond them. We have an entire team devoted to meeting with these people in our computer lab and walking them through the process. Or another person may call and need legal counsel. The lawyers at SLCRA offer it either pro bono or at a very minimal cost.
We do tons more and as a case administrator, I handle putting the people who call in touch with the best people to help them. I love my job. I feel like I actually help and matter and get results.
Yeah, quitting jobs isn’t the answer. I’d be forfeiting the one thing that actually makes me feel good for a position most likely in retail. That would not make me feel good. Cleaning the dressing rooms alone would just send me over the edge.
“You know what?” I say, reaching for another cupcake. “I’m not sure what I want to do. But I can tell you what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to watch while my life passes me by. And that’s exactly what I feel like is happening.” I peel back the foil on the cake. I shake my head. “I think back to all the times I could’ve said yes. That I should’ve said yes. In high school when I had the chance to go to Rome with my senior class but said no. In college when I had the chance to dorm and experience all that but instead stayed home. Or when guys were actually interested in me and calling and flirting and I turned them down.” I growl. “God, why didn’t I say yes? I should’ve said yes. To it all. I should’ve just said yes.”
“Well, maybe not yes to every guy...”
“And why not? Isn’t that what we should be doing? Going out, having fun. I mean, I should be talking about the latest bad date I’ve had and how I’m scared I have an STD. Instead, I sit and talk about the newest episode of the Flash.” I give Layla a quick grin. “Thanks for introducing me to that show, by the way.”
“Isn’t it the best?”
I nod. Then: “So you see? You see my problem?”
“Well, why do you think you’ve always said no?” At my shrug, she says, “Come on. Think about it. Maybe this will help you.”
Doing as she says, I try to recall all the opportunities that have presented themselves. The memories are hazy, but one thing is clear: the way I felt while I was being asked. Like my skin was shrinking, like I was being shoved on stage to sing a song I had know idea what the lyrics were.
“I guess,” I finally say, “I’m just not good around people. I don’t like being in situations I’m not familiar with. I’m not shy, but I’m not…open. I’m not extroverted like you.”
“Like me?” She scoffs. “You think I’m extroverted, let me never introduce you to my friend, Natalie. She’d make Howard Stern blush.” She quickly adds, “She’s a sweetheart, though. Total teddy bear.”
I take a bite of the cupcake. “Why can’t my life be as good as your desserts taste?”
“Why can’t it be?”
“Well, to be honest, while I say that I want to shake things up, the thought of actually doing it makes me a little queasy. My life is boring but—
“You’re used to it. I know. Like I said, I’ve been there. But you can’t stay there. If you feel something is missing, than it is.”
I make a face and put my hand on my stomach. “I’m feeling sort of sick just talking about it.”
“I know that feeling. I get it every time I stand in line to ride the Silver Bullet at the fair grounds. But you know what? I’m always glad I do it.”
“I’m not a roller coaster fan.”
“Who didn’t see that coming?”
With a sigh, I lean my head against the coach. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. Change my life?”
“You’re not changing it. You’re just adding to it.”
“Yeah, still don’t know where to start.”
Layla reaches out for a cupcake but right when she’s about to take one, she suddenly stops. She moves Denny Crane from her lap and gently sets him down. Then she bolts up so fast she nearly knocks herself over.
“Layla?”
Without a word, she heads into the dining room. I lean forward and watch her root through the mess of papers and books.
“I need a blank piece of paper. And a pen.”
I stand and walk in. Denny Crane hops up on a chair, his big eyes shining with barely concealed disdain at being so easily discarded.
“Here,” I say, grabbing a blank piece of neon green computer paper and a red pen.
Layla takes it and sits.
“What are you doing?”
No answer except the sound of the pen scratching on the page. Okay. I go around her and peer over her shoulder.
Glory’s 12 Challenges of Christmas
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. Number one.” As she writes, I’m already shaking my head. She continues to write, chuckling as she does so in a way I don’t like. Like she’s plotting my demise.
With a sigh, I plop myself on a chair and rest my chin in hand, elbow on the table. “I was thinking I’d just take a class or something.”
“Oh, you will.”
“You know I don’t like doing things I’m uncomfortable with. Now you want me to do twelve of them?”
“Exactly the point. You’ve got to get out of your comfort zone, and the only way to do that is to do things that make you uncomfortable.” She glances up. “It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Would you ever do something like this?”
She grins. “I’d rock something like this. And you will, too, so don’t be scared.” She stops writing and looks at me. “You want to know how I’m changing my life? I never stop dreaming. I never stop planning or hoping or knowing tomorrow is another day I can keep on trying. I take chances and now you have to, too.”
“I feel like this will end in nothing but embarrassment and a very long text message to you at a very late hour.”
She snort-laughs. “Sorry, you’re not talking me out of this.”
“Talking you out? Last I checked, it was my name on the top of that page.”
“You’ve got to do this, Glory. You’ve got to take a chance and rediscover your magic.”
I groan and laugh all at the same time. “That’s so corny.”
She shrugs. “It’s Christmas.” Like a doctor writing a prescription, she puts the cap on her pen and folds the paper in half.
She holds it out to me. “And it’s Sunday. So spend the rest of the day vegging out and just taking time for yourself. Don’t think you have to dive into this all at once, right this moment. Relax today. And then tomorrow, you can officially start your challenges.”
I put my hands on my cheeks. Glory’s 12 Challenges of Christmas. So ridiculous and yet…the more I think about it, the more I sort of, kind of…like it? It does sound fun. And new. And different. A hum starts going off in my body, as if my blood is finally starting to pump again and my brain is finally starting to buzz. It sounds like what I need.
“I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.”
“I can. Want to know why?”
“I’m a glutton for punishment?”
“Because inside that quiet exterior of yours is an extraordinary girl just dying to get out. Let her. Let people see the real you, the you that I know, who’s smart and compassionate and so funny you make me cry. You want to get on that roller coaster. You need to get on that roller coaster.”
I lean away from her. “Okay, Jack Nicholson. Settle down. I can handle the truth.”
She grins. Then: “You want to go through life wearing beige all the time?”
I snatch the paper away with a smile. But then: “I’m no good at challenges.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you have twelve of them.” She smiles. “Practice makes perfect.”
Chapter Two
Make Up, Shake Up, and Jack Brandes
Glory’s Twelve Challenges of Christmas
1. Wear high heels to work. And jewelry. Express yourself! You’re twenty-nine and have legs for days. Show ‘em off, honey!
2. Sign up for a class. Expand your horizons.
3 Compliment ten random strangers. Be sincere!
4. Go to a museum and talk to five guys. Dust off those flirting skills! And no, you cannot combine this with number 3. Up the ante!
Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances Page 1