by Becky Monson
I’m at a loss for words right now and I start blinking rapidly. What was I just thinking about Quinn knowing what I should do?
“Quinn,” I say, feeling disappointed that this was not what I asked her to help me with, and realizing my best friend of over fourteen years doesn’t know me at all. “You can’t be serious.”
“I know,” she holds out a hand as she reads the expression on my face. “I know this isn’t what you asked me to help you with, and I know it’s not something Holly Murphy does, but think about it, Hols, this is just what you need to do.”
“In what world would I ever need to do this?” I ask, totally dumbfounded.
She looks at me, her face becoming serious. “This is the perfect way to get your boss off your back. You have an option sitting here, right in your lap. And plus, with everything that happened with Nathan . . . I just think maybe doing something different—and yes, a bit crazy—might shake things up a bit. You need to, you know . . . live a little.”
Why does everyone keep saying that?
“How is going on a trip with someone I don’t know living a little? What if he ends up being a psychotic killer or something? Then I wouldn’t be living at all. I’d be dead.”
Quinn stares at me, slowly shaking her head from side to side. “Give me a little credit. We’d vet all the contestants at the station. Background checks and all.”
“Contestants? Like a game show?” I say, horrified, and louder than I intended.
“No,” she says, emphatically. But then her eyes drop down to the table, her mouth doing that twisty thing again. “Well, I guess . . . sort of.”
“Yeah, that’s a big H no from me.”
“Ah, thank you for saying H,” she says, tilting her head to the side and giving me a smile of approval.
I shake my head and chuckle at my best friend. My ridiculous, off-her-rocker best friend. She’s come up with a lot of crazy plans in the past, but this one has to be the craziest.
“What am I gonna do with you?” I ask, actually wondering.
She takes a deep breath. “Fine. Don’t do it for you. Do it for me.”
Ah, and the truth comes out.
“I’m hanging by a thread at work,” she says, her eyes downcast, her lips pulled into a frown. She looks back up at me. “I need to bring in ratings. I need to do something to get Jerry off my back.”
Jerry would be Quinn’s producer for the midday news. Things haven’t been as great for her at work since her f-bomb went viral. I think I may have helped it go viral. Not by sharing, but by watching it repeatedly. In my defense, I didn’t know each time I watched counted as a view. Last I looked, she was over ten million views.
“I wish I could help you, Quinn,” I say, trying to infuse as much sympathy as I can into my voice. I am sympathetic to what she’s going through, especially now that my own career could be hanging by a proverbial thread.
“You know, you do owe me . . .” she trails off with a smirk.
I smack my hand over my mouth, “Are you serious?”
“I told you someday I’d find a way for you to pay me back,” she sing-songs.
One time in college I’d decided it would be a smart idea to take a road trip from Gainesville up to Charlotte to find my mother. I had found her name online and then made a plan to go search for her. I made it all the way to Columbia, South Carolina, and then my car broke down. Like, not-fixable broke down. I couldn’t call my dad because it would have broken his heart to know I’d gone looking for my mom after all she put us through, so I called Quinn. She dropped everything and drove up to Columbia, picked me up, and even took me all the way to Charlotte, only to find out that no one by the name of Melanie Murphy lived at the house I had found online.
Driving all the way up there and then being my support when I was so disappointed was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me, and when I told her that on the drive home, she had smiled and said, “Oh, don’t you worry. Someday you’ll pay me back.”
“You know I love you for that. And I do owe you, but I think going on a trip with a complete stranger for ten days is kinda bigger,” I say.
“Holllllyyyyyyyy,” she whines my name. Then she gives me the puppy dog eyes—the ones that have never worked in the history of our friendship, ever.
“It’s gonna be a hard pass from me,” I say, wishing there was something else I could do to help her.
She leans down and puts her forehead on the small two-person dining table we’re sitting at. “I knew it was a long shot,” she says.
“You get points for trying,” I say.
“Points aren’t going to help me keep my job,” she says.
“You are ridiculously talented. They’d be idiots to get rid of you.”
“If only I could make this stupid video go away.”
“It’ll die down at some point; they always do,” I say, briefly reaching across the table and putting my hand over hers.
“Will you at least think about it?” she asks, her head tilted to the side.
“I could tell you yes, but I think we both know I won’t.”
“Fine,” she says, frowning.
“Come on,” I say getting up from my seat. “Let’s fix our problems temporarily with pizza.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter 6
Quinn may have been useless and I still need to figure out what I can do to get Marie off my back, but as far as my team goes, I think the bribery might be working.
I’m sitting at my desk the next morning staring at the PFC report that my team did last night, and it’s all correct. They did it. And I didn’t have to do any prodding. Well, not my normal amount of prodding.
I’m feeling much better about everything today. Much better than I did last night when Quinn presented me with her ridiculous idea.
But now I have to do something I’ve been putting off, something that may pop my current bubble of joy. I need to open my Carrie Parker planner.
I’d normally be excited to do this because I’m pretty much obsessed with planners. I’ve carried one with me since the sixth grade. Since my mom left. Which I’m sure has all kinds of psychological connotations I don’t want to think about.
This particular planner—the one I’ve been putting off opening—was going to be the planner I used for the next eighteen months. I special ordered it so I could use it to finalize wedding plans and then begin my married life to Nathan. The irony is, it was those very wedding plans that ended up being the demise of our relationship.
It started out okay. I mean the engagement itself was kind of a mess because Nathan didn’t plan anything, but I was mostly all right with that. One night after we’d been dating for nearly a year and a half, we’d gone to dinner and then went back to Nathan’s and Logan’s apartment. Like any typical night at their place, when we got there Logan was on the couch watching TV, and we joined him. So there we were, sitting on the couch, Logan on one side, and me cozied up to Nathan on the other side. We were watching college football and during a commercial break, Nathan turned to me and said, “So should we do this marriage thing or what?” I asked him if this was a proposal and he said, “Yeah,” and the next day we went ring shopping. No getting on one knee, no talking to my dad beforehand. No planning of any kind, really.
In hindsight, this should have been a red flag, right? But I didn’t think too much about it at the time, or at least I would put it out of my mind when thoughts of this was not how you imagined it would creep into my head. Besides, Nathan had so many good qualities, like the fact that he worked hard and was successful because of it, and he had a good heart. What he lacked in organization and planning I made up for. Opposites attract and all that.
Once I had a ring on my finger, it was decided that I could do all the wedding stuff because Nathan knew I “liked that sort of thing” and it “wasn’t his thing.” It was actually quite perfect. I would plan and make everything perfect, like I enjoyed doing, and he could just show up and say vows.<
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And that worked. Until it didn’t. I think Logan may have said something to him—it was the only reasonable explanation I could wrap my brain around with Nathan’s total about-face—because suddenly, out of the blue and just under four months away from the wedding, he wanted to be part of the planning. I was on board until he wanted to change things. And by things, I mean everything. Plans I had spent so much time making.
I wanted a more classic wedding, with a sit-down dinner and a live band; Nathan decided he wanted a DJ and to eat buffet style. He wanted it to be “less stuffy.” He even wanted me to change my dress—the dress I had already spent a ridiculous amount of money on and had already gone in for alterations. He thought we could wear something less formal. There was even a mention of him wearing . . . jeans. I believe I shuddered.
I finally asked him why he picked then to start wanting to be involved after so many things had already been planned. That’s when the fighting really started. Words were said that were hard to take back. And then one chilly evening in March, he came over to my apartment and said he couldn’t do it anymore. And that was it. It was over. The beautiful June wedding—with all the bright spring colors and all the hours of work and planning—was off.
I try hard not to think about all the money that was lost. The deposits for the venue and the photographer were the most expensive, and we got neither of those back, but we were able to get everything else. My dad was so great about it. He’s always great about stuff like that, and anyway he’s not hurting for money. I’m sure it had to pinch, but he simply put his arms around me and said all the things a good dad should say, like “you’re better than him,” and “you deserve more,” and “I never liked him.” The last bit was a total lie. My dad loved Nathan, I’m pretty sure he still does. I mean, he stopped golfing with him once we broke up, but that was only out of loyalty to me.
So now I’m staring at the box holding the planner that will never be used for my wedding or my life with Nathan. And although I’m feeling better about all that—this part still might hurt.
I grab scissors and carefully open the box. Pulling the tissue-paper-covered planner out, I set it on my desk and stare at it. I decide pulling the Band-Aid off fast is my best approach, so I rip open the small, round, gold sticker that’s holding the tissue together, and there it is.
I let out a sigh because it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful. The floral cover is stunning. I run my fingers down it, feeling the texture of the hardback glossy cover until I get to the gold embossed name in the bottom right-hand corner.
Holly Jones. Not Holly Murphy, but my married name. Or what was to be my married name. In bright, shiny gold.
So now what to do with my precious Carrie Parker planner? I have some options, of course. I could try to send it back, but it was a special order and I vaguely remember having your name printed on it invalidates all return policies. At the time I ordered it, I didn’t care about the return policy, because why would I? There was no impending breakup when I placed the order.
What I kind of want to do right now is throw this planner across the room. But I can’t. Even with what all this planner represents, I can’t even bring myself to disrespect it in such a way. I suppose I could gently place it in the trashcan, but then what purpose would that serve? Some freegan would probably find it and re-purpose it as a coaster. No, thank you.
I stare at it sitting on my desk and wonder how something that thrills me to my core could now be so ruined.
Seeing my name on this cover reminds me of a time when it was easy—because most of the time, it was easy with Nathan. I mourn the excitement of it all. Taking steps in the direction my life was supposed to go.
I pull out a sharpie and begin drawing hearts over the Jones part of my name to try to cover it up. But then I realize Nathan’s last name doesn’t deserve hearts, not from me at least, so then I try to change it to a row of crossbones and skulls. I’ve never been praised for my artistic skills, because I have none, so now it looks like blobs. Blobs across the last name I’ll never have. Actually, blobs are quite fitting.
Maybe I need to abandon planners altogether. Maybe that’s how I can try to be less controlling, less rigid. I could throw caution to the wind and let my day go how it will go. This thought immediately makes me develop a large knot in the pit of my stomach. It feels too much like something my mom would do—her fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants attitude toward life. And I definitely don’t want to be like that.
~*~
“Hi, Dad,” I say as I enter the small Mexican restaurant where we’ve been meeting every third Friday for the past couple of years. We started this tradition because we were both so busy that it was the best way to make time for each other. It was my idea, of course. I didn’t get my planning and organizational skills from my dad. Or my mom. I still sometimes wonder if I were adopted.
We only have one rule on our night out—no one else can come. It’s always just the two of us, no matter what. Oh, and I guess another rule: there must always be chips and salsa. Hence the Mexican restaurant choice. When my mom first left and my dad and I were trying to get our footing, chips and salsa were our go-to snack . . . and sometimes meal. It’s become a sort of tradition between us. We’re also chips and salsa snobs—none of that out-of-the-jar stuff for us.
It’s strange that last time we had dinner I was still engaged to Nathan. Funny how things can change in a month. And last time we were here we talked a lot about wedding plans—well, I talked a lot about the plans and my dad listened. Things were getting sticky between Nathan and me at that time.
“Hey, darlin’,” Dad says with just a hint of a Southern drawl when he sees me. It used to be thicker when we lived in North Carolina.
I give him a peck on the cheek and then take a seat in the booth across from him. A large bowl of tortilla chips and smaller bowl of fresh salsa sit on the table between us. My mouth waters at the sight.
“What’s new?” I ask as I get settled, shifting around in my seat until I’m comfortable. The fake leather of the booth feels cool underneath my cotton pencil skirt and from somewhere behind me I can hear a mariachi band playing and singing.
“Well,” he chuckles to himself. “A lot, actually.”
“Really,” I say, stopping as I was about to get a tortilla chip.
For the past two years, since we’ve been meeting here regularly, when I’ve asked my dad “what’s new” his response every time has been “same old, same old.” My heart sinks a little. He’s got a smile on his face, which to everyone else would mean everything is fine—but my dad always has a smile on his face. That’s usually how people describe James Murphy—the guy who’s always smiling.
But I know his smiles. He’s got a lot of different ones. He’s got a happy smile, of course. But he also has a sad smile. I saw a lot of that when I was younger. He also has a different smile for when he’s tired, bored, pensive, and an extra special one for when he’s just . . . let one. Which is one of my least favorite smiles—especially when we’re stuck in a small space. Like a car or an elevator. It’s a very toothy grin.
Today’s smile seems . . . nervous. It’s kind of wobbly, and I can’t say I’ve ever seen this side of him. My dad is relaxed, loosely wound. A lot like Nathan, actually. Which, I’m sure, is one of those Freudian things that drew me to Nathan that I’d prefer not to acknowledge. Ever.
Because I’m not a relaxed, loosely wound person, I suddenly feel jittery and flustered. The din of the restaurant is not helping.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, bobbing his head. “Sure, darlin’. Everything’s good . . . great even.”
“Then why the smile?” I point at his face.
He reaches up and touches his lips. “What do ya mean?” He pulls his brow inward, confused at my line of thinking.
“You seem . . . I don’t know . . . like, kinda nervous? Maybe?”
He takes a big breath, exhaling loudly. Loud enough that I can hear him over
the noise of the restaurant. He reaches across the table and puts a hand over mine, his hazel green eyes—the ones that match mine—searching my face. My mind immediately starts moving. He’s dying. He’s got some deadly disease. Or maybe something not so deadly but still scary. Like diabetes. Or maybe he’s found a lump somewhere. There are so many terrible possibilities. My heart starts racing, blood pumping quickly through my veins.
“Right,” he nods a few times, his eyes downcast.
“So what is it? Just tell me. Oh my gosh, you have cancer?” I say, with a strangled voice. This also comes out quite a bit louder than I intend and right as the mariachi band finishes their song, so the occupants of the surrounding tables all turn to gape at us.
“No,” he says, waving the notion off with his hand. “No, no. I don’t have cancer.” He says this loud enough so all of the now concerned onlookers can hear this and go back to what they were doing. Which they do.
“Then what is it?” I clear my throat.
“Well,” he lets out another breath.
“Dad, just say it,” I say, frustrated. He knows I dislike it when people stretch things out.
“Okay, I’m getting married.”
“What?”
“I’ve asked Miranda to marry me.”
“What?” I ask, so confused. Miranda? Thomas’s mom? But … they’ve only been dating since the new year. Less than five months.
“And she said yes.”
“What?”
He angles his head to the side, his smile now full of frustration. “Are you really asking ‘what’ or can you not hear me?”
I stare at him for a few seconds. “I . . . I . . .” I can’t seem to get a word out. I’m having an internal struggle of—well, one, having this thrown at me with no warning or anything. I didn’t even know he and Miranda were that serious. And two, I’m his daughter—his only daughter—and I feel taken aback that I’m just finding this out. Right now.
“I know,” my dad says, dipping his chin one time. “You don’t like having things thrown at you, and believe me, I wanted to tell you. But then there was everything with Nathan . . .” he trails off, not needing to finish that sentence.