by Carrie Quest
We listened hard for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. Nothing.
Shane groaned and pushed himself off me. He sat and put his head in his hands, rubbing his face like he was trying to wake himself. I pulled myself up, hands shaking as I fumbled with the zipper on my hoody, and peered through the gloom. Our room was trashed. The floor was covered in plaster, splintered pieces of the dresser, and glittering pieces of glass. Shane started to get up.
“Careful of your feet,” I said.
He grunted and grabbed a blanket that was hanging off the top bunk, folding it a few times and putting it on the ground so he had something to stand on.
“You okay?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and distant.
I cleared my throat. “I think so.”
“Cool.” He surveyed the room and shook his head. “Fuck, man. I should go check on my boys. You’ll be all right?”
I fought the panic clawing its way through my chest and the urge to beg him to stay, because what did I expect? That a guy I’d known three days was going to stick around and take care of me, just because we’d almost made each other come?
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Nice,” he said. “You’re a cool girl, Natasha. Maybe see you later.”
“It’s Natalie,” I whispered, but he was too busy shuffling across the room on his blanket to hear me. And then he was gone.
I huddled on the bunk, waiting and hoping the lights would come back on, and I made myself a promise. I was going to be on that plane when it left tomorrow. I was going back to Boulder, back to school, and I was going to kick life in the ass. No more hangovers, no more hook-ups, and no more unfinished business. It was time to figure out my purpose in life and get my shit together.
I’d been given a second chance, and I was going to make it count.
Natalie
Today
“You need to think about your future, Natalie.”
My mother’s voice echoes through my laptop speakers. The connection isn’t great, so she sounds a little tinny, but the tone of disappointment and weariness comes through fine, and it’s depressingly familiar, even if I haven’t heard it for nearly a year.
I drop my eyes, feigning shame and repentance, and scan the Parental Disappointment Bingo card that my roommate, Piper, made me. You Need to Think About Your Future… Ah, yes, there it is, nestled between You Need to Apply Yourself and We Thought You’d Outgrown this Nonsense. I get to tick a box every time my parents say one of the phrases listed on the card, and Piper promised me a shot for every single box I tick, but only if I stay strong and don’t give into their demands.
My hangover tomorrow is going to be epic.
The card is nearly full. All I need now is a good old-fashioned "Why Can’t You Be More Like Your Sister?" and I’ll be a winner!
Or a complete loser, if you ask the people who created me.
“We thought you were finally on track,” my mother continues. “You’ve been taking all the right classes…”
All the classes you wanted me to take.
“…getting halfway decent grades for once…”
Studying my ass off to learn stuff I can’t imagine ever using in my life.
“…and keeping your head out of the clouds.”
Ignoring my own dreams.
“We’ve been so proud of you,” she finishes.
I drop my pen and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes so hard that I see stars. Because this is the one thing she can say that might get me to give in. My parents have been proud of me. Ridiculously proud. Loudly proud. For the first time in my entire life I beat my sister, Allie, to the top spot in the family Christmas letter. My dad requested the syllabus for my biology class and has emailed me relevant journal articles, so I could impress my professors. My mom made time to call me every week, which means I talk to her more now than I probably did when we lived in the same house during my high school years. I have relaxed into their approval like it was a warm, security-scented bubble bath, and the thought of climbing out and facing the cold world on my own again scares the shit out of me.
The problem is that I can’t stay in the water. I’m drowning.
“I thought you liked that physics class,” my dad says. “I sent you that article about internships, remember? A physics major would give you a lot of options in today’s world.”
Yeah, so I’ve been told. Too bad I hate physics with the fiery power of a thousand burning suns.
(Not that I’d ever calculate that power in actual numbers, because I. Fucking. Hate. Physics.)
“I don’t think it’s for me,” I say, pasting on a smile and keeping my tone bright. A quick glance at my image in the corner of the screen makes me cringe. I look manic, like one of the Wiggles on acid. Maybe I need to tone it down. Or invest in a Big Red Car.
“You’re running out of time,” Mom says. “You’re twenty-two and you haven’t even declared a major. You’ve already lost enough time: the semester you took off after freshman year to ‘find yourself,’ the year you spent gallivanting aimlessly around the world after high school graduation… The last thing you need is to waste your entire summer in a writing class.”
She whispers writing like it’s a dirty word she can’t bring herself to say out loud.
“I don’t understand why you can’t be more like your sister,” she says.
Boom! I tick off my last Bingo square but there’s no feeling of triumph. I should be used to disappointing my parents by now. I pretty much spent the first twenty-one years of my life turning it into an art form. Allie was the perfect daughter who decided she wanted to be a doctor in third grade. My parents special ordered her a pink enameled stethoscope with her name engraved on it. She wore it to school every day for years.
I was the other daughter: the wild one who fought with the boys in elementary school and got caught drinking with them as soon as I turned thirteen. I figured there was no way I’d ever live up to Allie, so what was the point in trying? The only thing I could ever beat her at was being me: pure, unadulterated Natalie. So that’s what I did.
It wasn’t like I was a total delinquent. I won prizes at school for writing. I joined the Model U.N. And submitted crap poetry to the school journal. I didn’t fly high, but I wasn’t dragging my knuckles along the ground, either. Any other parents probably would have been proud enough. Not mine.
“Allison got accepted to every single med school she applied to,” Mom reminds me. As if I need it. As if my sister’s academic perfection wasn’t burned into my brain years ago.
“She has such focus,” Mom continues. “And you keep bouncing back and forth between these crazy ideas. I thought this was over, Natalie. You’ve shown such promise this year.”
“Allie is amazing,” I agree through gritted teeth. “But I’m not her. I’m sorry to surprise you, but I’ll be staying in Boulder and taking my writing class. I’ve already paid for it.”
My mother’s eyes narrow and my father drops the medical journal he was skimming and clears his throat.
“You already paid for it?” he asks.
I nod. My heart is beating against my chest and I have the crazy thought that my parents, who are both doctors, will somehow be able to hear it with their fine-tuned stethoscope ears and realize how scared I am. Because this is it. This is the moment where I throw down the last gauntlet.
My parents can’t actually force me to drop the class. I have enough money saved to pay for it and to get through the summer. I’m going rogue, totally outside their control, and the angry looks on their faces tell me they don’t like it.
“And what about your rent this summer?” my dad asks.
“It’s covered,” I say, then try to swallow. Why is my throat so frickin’ dry? I’m face-to-screen with two of the finest medical minds in the country (according to Time magazine), but I’m not about to ask them.
We stare at each other, trapped in the world’s most awkward game of Skype Chicken. First person to look away loses control of Natal
ie’s future. The moment stretches on and I dig my fingernails into my palms, determined that I’m not going to break eye contact first. Not this time.
“We’re trying to keep you from getting yourself stuck in a situation you’ll regret,” my mom says. “You have a habit of starting things and never finishing them, Natalie. Remember when you wanted to be a runner? You dropped out of the race and we found you hiding in the bushes.”
“That was in second grade,” I say.
“It was the start of a pattern,” she says. “A pattern that has continued for your entire life. Admit it. You know it’s true.”
I stay silent, admitting nothing, but I can feel doubt creeping in. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I pick a science to major in, start researching Ivy League grad schools, make a ten-year plan, and fall into line? It’s not like I’m anything special, even my parents don’t seem to think so. Why do I think I have a right to any kind of extraordinary life?
The worst part is, she has a point. I do start things and quickly lose interest. My closet at home is crammed with half-finished projects and I’ve never had a relationship or career goal that lasted longer than a semester. I have no logical reason to believe that writing will be any different.
All I have is a feeling—a peace that comes over me at the thought of making my life out of words. But that sounds crazy, even to myself, so I don’t say it out loud.
We stare at each other for a few more minutes. They both look so sad and disappointed that it takes all my self-control not to cave. Then the timer goes, and I allow myself to blink. My parents are busy and efficient people. They set a timer for our conversations and when it goes, that’s it. On to the next thing.
My dad reaches over to shut off the beeping noise. “We’ll continue this conversation when we see you tomorrow morning. Email us the details. We’ll have Wi-Fi on the plane.”
“I’ll get it to you before you leave for the airport tonight,” I promise. They’re taking the red-eye from Boston to Denver for a medical conference and will be in town to take me to brunch tomorrow. I’d put off telling them about the class as long as I could, but there was no way I was going to break the news in person. Tonight was my last chance. Hopefully they’ll be more open to the idea after they sleep on it.
We hang up and I send them the message that’s been sitting in my drafts folder for weeks. Then I climb into bed and huddle under the duvet, trying to convince myself that I didn’t just screw up my entire future. After the earthquake, I decided it was time to get serious, and that meant playing by my parents’ rules. I thought that buckling down and doing what I was supposed to do would make me feel secure, like my future was finally opening up for me.
It was like that in the beginning. My parents were happy, my professors loved me, and for the first time in my life I was ticking all the boxes on the Bright and Happy Future list. But after a while I began to feel like I was stuck in a cave, and every A that I earned was a brick dropping down to seal up the entrance and trap me inside. I couldn’t breathe.
So I began to write. First it was an escape, then it became an obsession, and then, somehow, I actually finished a book. My goal this summer is to start the journey to getting published, and I’m going to start emailing agents soon, but I’m not going to tell my parents that. No way.
I hear the door downstairs slam, then someone stomping up the stairs. My covers are ripped off and I blink at the sudden brightness. Piper stands at the end of my bed and I scramble to cover my bare feet with one of the pillows she just flung to the floor because she’s holding Chuckles, the world’s crankiest and scratchiest cat, and I don’t want to lose a toe.
“How did it go?” she asks. “Did they freak out?”
I wave my hand toward the Bingo card covered in red Xs on my desk. Piper whistles.
“Damn,” she says. “I hope I got enough tequila.”
“No such thing,” I say.
Chuckles hisses at me and I glare at his squishy face. “You’d better be a little nicer to me,” I tell him as I sit up and pull on my thickest socks (claw armor). “After today it’s just you and me, buddy.”
Piper pulls her fluffy fleabag closer and rubs her face in his yellow fur. “Don’t remind me,” she says. “What am I going to do without my baby?”
“Walk barefoot in your own home?” I ask. I’m about to add on a long list of the advantages of a Chuckles-free lifestyle, but somehow I get choked up instead. Because Piper’s leaving in a couple days for her summer internship, and even though she’ll only be in Denver, less than an hour away, I know I’m barely going to see her.
Piper sets Chuckles gently down outside my door and the bed sinks and creaks as she sits next to me.
“It’s going to be a great summer, Nat. I’m really proud of you for going for it.”
“I’m proud of you too,” I say. And I am. Piper has always known she wanted to be a physical therapist who works with elite athletes. Her older brother, Ben, is a professional snowboarder (and semi-professional hottie) and she’s watched him and his friends bounce back from some pretty gnarly accidents. She’s got an internship at one of the top rehab places in the country and I’m super happy for her, but I’m going to miss her a lot.
Especially since I’m terrified that my summer plans are a huge mistake.
“You’re not making a huge mistake,” Piper says.
“Did I say that out loud?”
She laughs. “I’m your best friend, Nat. I know your ‘I’ve made a huge mistake’ face. It’s a lot like your ‘I’ve got to take a crap’ face, actually. You may want to work on that.”
“This is how you build up my confidence? By telling me I walk around looking like I’ve got to shit all the time?”
She knocks her shoulder gently against mine. “It’s not all the time, and you’re definitely not making a mistake. You’re doing what you want to do for the first time in a year.”
“I know.”
“Maybe you should also do that guy at the deli,” she says with a wink. “You’ll have the place to yourself this summer. You can make your bed squeak and creak as much as you want.”
“This bed is a family heirloom.”
“Your parents paid to ship that bed out here as a form of birth control. And the deli guy is cute and always gives you free cookies.”
“I’m not sleeping with someone for free cookies,” I say.
“You’ve slept with people for worse reasons than that,” she points out. “And you haven’t even kissed anybody since you came home, let alone had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t have boyfriends,” I say automatically. Piper knows this. I am strictly a friends-with-benefits girl, and none of them have ever lasted longer than a semester.
“Fine. You haven’t had a ‘special friend’ for a year. That’s one hell of a dry spell.”
You’re telling me.
“If I want a cute guy, I’ll open Hot Dudes Reading on Instagram,” I say.
“Best thing on the internet,” Piper agrees. “But not exactly a satisfying substitute for the real thing.”
I shake my head. “Figuring this writing thing out is more important than orgasms, even if they come with free baked goods.”
“That’s serious shit, Nat. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I laugh. “Almost never.”
Piper’s lips lift in an almost-smile. “You do, though,” she says quietly. “You’re absolutely doing the right thing, which is why we’re going to celebrate. We both deserve a good night.”
Truth. Piper’s life hasn’t exactly been a montage of awesome lately, despite landing a killer internship. Her brother’s best friend (who is also her ex; it’s complicated) crashed in a half-pipe when he was training a few months ago. Ben called Piper right after it happened to give her the news, but she hasn’t heard from him since and he won’t answer calls or emails.
I reach for her hand, feeling shitty that she’s the one cheering me up when I know how stressed out she’s b
een.
“Any word?”
She shakes her head. “Ben’s still not picking up his phone, and I can’t exactly call Adam’s parents. Not after…”
Not after you broke up with him and he got wasted and puked all over the bottom of the half-pipe on Japanese national television. While wearing a Big Bird costume.
But I can’t say that because Piper’s number one rule is: We Don’t Talk About Adam.
“Whatever you need, I’m here.” I pull her into a hug.
“Thanks, Natty. I’m okay. I just wish Ben would answer his damn phone. I’m worried about him too, you know? He’s gone totally MIA and my parents are flipping out.”
Piper and Ben are tight in a way I’ve never been with my sister. He’s always traveling, but he owns our house and lets us live here for super cheap rent in exchange for taking care of the place.
“Not even the Ben’s Babes know where he is,” she continues.
“Who the hell are the Ben’s Babes?”
“This group of fans who think he’s hot. They watch him ride and put up sightings on social media if they see him out or talk to him. There’s a hashtag.”
“What is it?”
She snorts. “BensBone.”
“Holy hell. I had no idea he was that famous.” I knew he was that hot, though. I’ve got eyes. And a vagina.
“Yeah, well, I try not to look at their stuff because I really don’t want to read about his mad tongue skills or his magical penis. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”
I, on the other hand, would be very interested in reading about Ben’s mad tongue skills, but I’ll look that shit up later. When I’m alone. And my hands are free.
In the meantime, I concentrate on not blushing, which is what I always have to do whenever Ben’s name comes up. My reaction to Ben Easton is ridiculous. I’ve met the guy twice and had one actual conversation with him (during which I made a complete ass of myself) but that doesn’t stop me from getting a giddy rush every month when I transfer my rent money into his account and see his name on the screen. He’s my landlord and my best friend’s brother. That’s all he’ll ever be, so it really shouldn’t matter to me if there’s a hashtag about his penis.