People like Mrs. Berryshire, for example. I wouldn’t have met her if I hadn’t come to Washington. And there have been plenty of others. I’ve left behind a string of interesting people, all with great stories.
But as nice as this town is, fate is positively screaming at me right now. Losing my job, my lights being turned off, this horoscope. Change is in the air. Long lasting consequences. Unexpected place. Ride the wave of change.
Ride the wave. Waves. That means something, I just know it. I say those words again in my mind and I feel the tingle. It means I’m close to having a breakthrough, that fate is speaking to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. What does it mean? What is the universe trying to tell me?
I open my eyes and the first thing I see is a painting of water, sparkling blue in the sun. Waves. It’s probably the Mediterranean, and I’m not about to pack up and move to Greece—regardless of how good the food is. But water. The ocean.
I’ve traveled most of the way across the country, but I’ve never seen the Pacific. I bring up a map on my laptop and run my finger down the coast. It’s probably only six or seven hours away, and I’ve been meaning to go there.
Is it time?
I do a search for towns on the Washington coast and click on the second result. I never click on the first. One isn’t one of my lucky numbers. But two—two means a couple, and a couple means a future, and a future is what I’m looking for.
Jetty Beach. It looks like a quaint little tourist town. There are cafés, and shops, and long sandy beaches. They won’t be warm beaches, but still, it sounds cozy. Quirky. I like quirky—that fits me well.
My worries about my job, my apartment—all of it—fall away in an instant, and a big smile crosses my face. I know. This is where I’m supposed to go. Maybe fate has been leading me to the edge of the country all these years, and I just haven’t quite made it yet. After all, where else can I go once I reach the coast? That must be where I’m destined to be.
I close my laptop, finish up my meal, and head to my apartment to pack. I’ll leave the furniture. Most of it was here when I moved in anyway. I’ll stow the rest of my stuff in my car, and leave first thing in the morning. A heady sense of excitement runs through me. A fresh start. New possibilities. New people. I’ll miss my friends here, but it’s time, and I have a feeling my horoscope is going to be spot-on.
Change is in the air, and I’ll ride the wave where it takes me.
3
Cody
“Dr. J, can you see a walk-in patient? We’re slammed and Addy already went home.”
I look up from my desk. Darcy, my front desk manager, stands in my office doorway. Her brow is furrowed. She looks stressed.
It’s almost six, and I should have left the clinic already. “What’s the issue?”
“Five-year-old girl,” Darcy says. “The mom brought her in, says she won’t use her right arm. She’s in a lot of pain. If I send them to the ER, they’ll wind up waiting longer.”
I’m going to be late, but there’s no way I won’t take this patient. “Yeah, of course.”
“Exam room five,” Darcy says.
As soon as I open the door, I can see the mom is anxious. Her daughter is in her lap, arm tucked against her body. The little girl’s eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks splotchy.
“Hi,” I say. I immediately sit down on the rolling stool so I’m closer to the little girl’s level and don’t appear so intimidating. “I’m Dr. J. What’s your name?”
The mom gives me a tense smile, and the girl looks at me from the corner of her eye.
“Her name is Lily,” the mom says. “I’m Christie.”
“What’s going on, Lily?” I ask.
“My arm hurts,” she says.
I tilt my head and look at how she’s holding it. “Your arm hurts? That’s no good. Did you fall down?”
“No,” Lily says.
I meet Christie’s eyes.
“She didn’t fall that I know of,” Christie says. “But I might have missed something. She was playing in the living room with her brother while I was cooking dinner, so I didn’t see what happened.”
“Okay,” I say. “Lily, how old is your brother?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven? Wow, he must be pretty big. Do you like playing with him?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“How old are you?” I ask. “Seventeen?”
She cracks a smile. “No, I’m five.”
“Five? Wow, I was way off,” I say. “Listen, Lily, can you help me out with something?”
She nods.
“I need you to show me your arm. I want to see if I can help it feel better. Can you do that for me?”
She buries her face in her mom’s chest.
“She’s afraid she’s going to get a shot,” Christie says.
I nod. “Lily, how about this. I’ll make you a promise. No shots, okay? I promise, I will not give you a shot today.”
She turns to look at me, still clinging to her mom. “You promise?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice solemn. “In fact, let’s pinky promise.” I hold out my pinky.
She reaches out her other arm and clasps her tiny pinky finger around mine. I make a show of shaking up and down a few times.
“Good,” I say. “Now, I need to touch your arm, okay? I’m going to try really hard not to make it hurt.”
She sits still and I very gently probe her arm, starting at her hand. “So you didn’t fall down. Your mom said you were playing with your brother. Is that when it started to hurt?”
“Yes,” she says.
I touch her elbow and try to move her arm, but she winces, so I stop.
“What were you playing?” I ask.
“We were playing ninjas and I had a sword and he tried to take it away,” she says.
“Yeah, do you like playing ninja?” I ask. I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong, so I keep her talking and carefully touch her elbow again. Yep, it’s dislocated.
“We always play ninja,” she says. “But he wouldn’t let me keep the sword.”
“Did he pull it out of your hands?” I ask.
“Yeah, and he grabbed my arm and pulled really hard,” she says.
I meet Christie’s eyes. “Lily’s elbow is dislocated. It’s not an emergency, but I’m sure it hurts. I can pop it back in right now.”
Lily’s eyes widen. “No, you can’t touch it. My arm hurts.”
“I know, sweetie,” I say. “But it’s going to stop hurting if you let me fix it for you.”
Her lower lip trembles.
“Tell you what,” I say. I get a basket of lollipops out of the cupboard; I keep them for just this type of situation. “You take one of these and put it in your mouth, then tell me what flavor it is, okay?”
She still looks suspicious, but nods and takes one. She unwraps the candy and sticks it in her mouth.
I hold her wrist and elbow and quickly rotate the joint back in place. There’s a slight snap, and her eyes get big.
“Ouch!”
At first Lily looks at me like I betrayed her trust, but then she moves her arm back and forth, bending it at the elbow.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods. “It still hurts, but I can bend it!”
“That’s normal,” I say. “It will feel much better by tomorrow.” I look at Christie. “It’s a very common childhood injury. The fact that she’s moving it now is a great sign. Go ahead and give her a dose of Tylenol before bed if she says it’s sore, and it might be tender for a couple of days. But other than that, she should be fine.”
Christie’s shoulders slump and she lets out a long breath. “Thank you so much, Dr. J. I was so worried it was broken, but I couldn’t imagine how she did it.”
“It’s no problem,” I say. “But, Lily, you didn’t tell me what flavor you got.”
Lily smiles. “Bubblegum.”
I grin back at her. “That’s my favorite. You go see Darcy at the front desk and
she’ll have a sticker for you, okay?”
“Thank you,” she says.
“Yes, thank you so much,” Christie says.
“Of course. You two ladies have a wonderful evening.”
I head back to my office, well aware that I’m late. But I still have charting to catch up on. When I was in medical school, they somehow left out the part about all the paperwork. I went into medicine because I was attracted to the idea of healing, of helping people—and I admit, the prestige of earning the title Dr. Jacobsen doesn’t hurt. But this endless paperwork, whether it’s on paper or on my computer, is a drag.
I decide I’ll just have to come in early tomorrow. I’m supposed to have dinner with Jennifer. Ostensibly, she’s my girlfriend, although it seems like we broke up again the other day. Lately, I’m never sure if we’re together or not. She’s usually mad at me for working late, and threatens on a regular basis to leave me for good.
Although she owns her own business, too, somehow she doesn’t put in the long hours that I do at my practice, and she expects me to be around when she wants me. She calls me a workaholic, and accuses me of not caring about her. I apologize, and we have sex, only to do it all over again a week later.
It’s pretty awful, when I think about it. The problem is, I don’t think about it. I get up early, go to work, see an endless stream of patients all day, take care of charting and business stuff, and go home late. This mess of a relationship simply isn’t a priority to me—which is exactly why Jen is mad all the time.
She’s right. I am a workaholic.
I shut down my computer and let out a heavy sigh. Workaholic or no, I know that Jen and I have been over for a long time. I need to deal with this once and for all. My brothers have been nudging me, telling me I need to make a clean break. They’re right. I’ve avoided this for way too long.
I don’t bother going home to change, instead pulling up at the restaurant still dressed in my cream-colored button-down and blue tie. I find Jen sitting at the bar, her manicured nails tapping against the side of a glass of red wine.
“Really, Cody?” she says. Her straight, dark hair hangs past her shoulders, and she’s wearing a black sheath dress and heels.
“Sorry, I got caught up at work,” I say. “I had a little girl with a dislocated elbow.”
“Of course you did,” she says with a shake of her head. “I didn’t bother getting a table yet, since I knew you’d be late.”
My brow furrows. Really? Not an ounce of compassion for a little kid? “Look, Jen, we need to talk.”
“Fine, let’s just get our table and order,” she says. “I didn’t have lunch and I’m starving.”
The host appears before I can say anything else. “I have a table this way, if you’re ready.”
I follow Jen to a table. It’s quiet tonight, not many other customers in the little restaurant. We take our seats and the host hands us menus, but I put mine down and wait for the host to walk away. I’m not going to sit here and eat a meal with her. I’m getting this over with, now.
“Jen, I need to say something,” I say.
She keeps looking at the menu. “Sure.”
“I think we should finally call it quits,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine, her expression blank. Son of a bitch, she wears a lot of makeup. “What?”
“We keep doing this,” I say. “We fight, then we make up, then we fight again, and it’s always the same stuff. I’m tired of it.”
“You are not breaking up with me.” She says it with such disdain, it pisses me off.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I should have done this a long time ago.” I stand up.
Her mouth drops open. “Cody, you can’t be serious,” she says.
“I’m very serious,” I say. Now that I’ve said it, the rightness of it is so obvious. I’m an idiot for letting this drag out for so long. “We’re terrible together, Jen. We make each other miserable. It’s like we keep coming back to it because we’re afraid there isn’t another alternative. But this isn’t working. It never really did. This is it. I’m done.”
I can feel her eyes boring through my back as I walk away. But fuck it, I don’t want to do this anymore. If we get back together tonight, we’ll only be fighting again in a few days.
It’s amazing how free I feel as I walk to my car. I didn’t appreciate how much that shitty relationship was weighing me down.
I get in the car and pick up some Chinese takeout on my way home. My place is about a mile from downtown—not on the beach, but within walking distance. It’s a pretty standard two-story, with three bedrooms upstairs, a nice kitchen, and a gas fireplace in the living room. It has a big backyard, and there are plenty of trees for privacy. I bought a newer home, knowing I wouldn’t have a lot of time to fix things up, and it’s also a lot more space than I need, living here by myself.
But I bought it with the future in mind. I always assumed I would get married and have a family. I’m frustrated with myself for wasting the last couple of years. I knew early on that Jennifer wasn’t the one. Why did I stay with her so long?
I go inside, grab a beer, and plop down on the couch with my dinner. I’ll eat out of the takeout boxes—no Jennifer to complain and tell me to use a plate. Man, I’m glad she never moved in. She talked about selling her condo and moving in with me, but I resisted. We fought about that, too. It’s a good thing I stood my ground. Although now my house seems too big and empty. I haven’t done much decorating, even though I’ve lived here for several years. Yet another thing I put off while I focused on my career.
Dinner is good, and the beer is better—but breaking up with Jennifer means I need to face some harsh truths. She wasn’t nice about it, but she is right about my tendency to work too much. I’m busy building my practice, and I’m passionate about what I do. But I know I need better balance in my life.
I’m not sure what to do about it, though. I go to the kitchen and grab another beer. My younger brother Ryan is getting married next summer, and here I am, starting over. I know I don’t want to be the guy who wakes up one day and realizes he’s an old man, and all he’s done is work. As much as I love what I do, I want more in my life. I don’t know what, necessarily. But at least now if it comes along, I’ll be open to it.
4
Clover
My phone app said the drive would take six hours and twenty-three minutes. Eight and a half hours later, I’m still on the road. The pass across the mountains was backed up for miles. I never saw why. It’s been a really long day, stuffed into my Honda Civic with everything I own in the world, but I’m determined to make it to Jetty Beach before I stop. I have no idea where I’ll stay or what I’ll do when I get there, but that isn’t too important. Fate is leading me. I’m sure something will work out.
I turn up the music and sing along. This part of the state is as green as I imagined it would be. Wide expanses of evergreen trees are everywhere. Even the cities I drive through have a lot of greenery. For the last couple of hours, I’ve been passing through a series of small towns along the highway, with big gaps between them. I wonder about all the people who live out here. What do they do for a living? Did they grow up here? What are they like?
Finally, I turn a corner, passing a big gateway sign that reads Welcome to Jetty Beach. Below that are the words the ocean is calling … answer the call.
A chill runs down my spine. The ocean is calling. I can feel it. I need to see the beach. I follow the signs through town and go down a short dirt road with rolling sand dunes on either side, then stop at the end and roll down my window. The waves crash against the sand with a rhythmic roar, and cool, salty air wafts in. I close my eyes, a deep sense of contentment running through me. I made it.
I haven’t eaten much except gas station snacks all day, but I decide shelter should come first. This place has a ton of hotels, so I’m sure I’ll find something.
Or, not.
It’s a Friday, in the middle of summer, and everything is
booked. I don’t try the fancy-looking ones—I know I can’t afford them, even if they have a room available. But all the places that look reasonable are full. I ask at every front desk if they can recommend another, and one sweet lady even calls several other places for me, hoping to find a room. Nope. She strikes out, too.
Food works its way back to the top of my priority list. I don’t know where I’ll sleep, but I suppose there are worse things than spending a night or two in my car. Maybe the town will clear out on Sunday and there will be more rooms available. Maybe I can secure a job by then. If it’s the busy season, I bet there are places hiring.
Yep, everything is still good. The hotel situation is a bump in the road, nothing more. I don’t mind a bumpy ride.
I pick a restaurant at random and go inside. It’s a please seat yourself kind of place, so I choose a small table. A waitress comes by and hands me a plastic menu. Most of the other tables are taken, and the poor thing looks tired.
She brings me some water and I order fish tacos. People-watching is one of my favorite pastimes, so I gaze at the other patrons while I wait for my food. I love to make up stories about the people I see. I doubt I’m ever right about them, but it’s a fun way to amuse myself.
I imagine the older couple across from me just learned they’re expecting their first grandchild, and they’re out to dinner to celebrate. The couple with two little boys is vacationing here on their fifth anniversary, wishing they had brought a babysitter. The teenagers at that table are all about to move away and go to college, so they’re having one last night out together before they go their separate ways. At another table is a young woman, probably about my age, along with three men. I can see her casting admiring glances at the ring on her finger, and the guy sitting next to her puts his arm around her. I bet he’s her fiancé. I imagine that they’re planning a wedding, and they came to town to take care of details. The two guys with them are their friends, and their girlfriends or wives have gone to the bathroom. They must be the wedding party.
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