“Hey, how are you?” I climb out of the tent. I feel a little groggy and tired from last night, and my legs are sore. I try to hold on to the top of the tent for support, but it collapses under my weight.
“Hey, you’re finally up,” Tristan says.
His hair is tossed, and he’s not wearing a shirt. Every muscle in his strong, wide shoulders bulges as he stuffs the rest of his remaining supplies into his already overstuffed backpack.
“Yeah, sorry, I must’ve slept in.” I shield my eyes from the sun. Am I really seeing this? Why is he packing his backpack?
My backpack is near the pine tree on the other side of the campsite. I hadn’t unpacked it at all.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry to do this.” He looks up and comes over to me.
“Do what?” I ask even though I already know. He is leaving. Leaving me.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“What? Why?” My voice goes high, and I want to stomp my feet. I want to do everything and anything to change his mind.
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. It just came up.” He tries to put his arms around me.
“What came up?” I pull away. “What’s so important?”
I know that I sound like a child. We just met yesterday. I have no right to make any demands on his time. He doesn’t owe me anything. And yet, I can’t help myself.
“What about everything we talked about last night? About going on today. Together? At least for a few more days? What about that?”
“I know. I know. And I really wish I could do that. I want to do those things with you. You have no idea how much. But I just can’t. It’s something for work. I can’t really explain, but I have to go.”
I shake my head.
“You’re a rafting guide, what kind of emergency could’ve possibly come up?”
He stares at me. Then looks away. The expression on his face looks as if he had forgotten that.
“I’m sorry. It’s something for my dad. It’s something I do on the side,” he says.
But the words don’t come out easily. He’s searching for them, trying to remember something. It’s a lie. I can feel it. Was all of this a lie?
He’s rejecting me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
“But I want to stay in touch. We both live in LA. I want to see you again,” Tristan says, wrapping his arms around me.
I try to push him away. But he doesn’t let me.
“No,” he whispers. “I want you to know that I don’t think last night was a mistake. Everything I said was true. Everything we had last night was true.”
“If it were then you wouldn’t be leaving.”
“No, that’s not true. Sometimes there are things beyond our control.”
Tristan leans down and presses his lips to mine. I want to push him away, but,at the same time, I want to savor this moment. This will be the last time that I will see him.
I know that even though he has promised that it wouldn’t be. So I kiss him back as passionately and with the most love that I can muster. Our lips pressing hard and our tongues intertwining. I want to stay in this moment forever, but I have to be strong.
I pull away first. He’s just tilting my head to get a little bit more of a taste when I push him away.
“Okay, go. If you have to go, go!” I say and start to walk away.
“Annabelle.” He catches up to me just as I grab my backpack, tossing it onto my shoulders. It’s much heavier than I remember, and I wince from the pain.
“I don’t even know your last name,” Tristan says.
“York,” I say, immediately regretting telling him.
“Annabelle York,” he whispers. “How beautiful.”
“I have to go, Tristan,” I say, turning away from him.
I don’t want him to see the tears that are building up in my eyes. They’re tears of loss and pain. Tears of the wonderful moments we shared and how they are now gone. Tears of the pain of never having him again. But mostly, they are tears of pity over everything else that I have lost in my life and the sadness that I feel for myself in this moment.
“How can I contact you? What’s your number?” Tristan asks, refusing to let go of my arm.
I gather whatever molecules of strength I have left within me and reply, “I’m not giving you my number.”
I refuse to give Tristan my number because I know that he only asked for it to be nice. He wouldn’t be leaving right now if he actually felt the way I thought he had felt. And asking for my number and pretending that he is going to call is a lie.
A beautiful lie that I desperately want to believe, but I can’t. I have been disappointed enough in my life.
My pride makes me walk away from Tristan even though all I want to do is run back to him, wrap my arms around him, and beg him to stay. I hate the feeling that he has over me, the feeling that makes me into a needy, helpless little girl. And yet I am stronger than that.
He’s leaving me, so I decide to leave him first. Who the hell does he think he is? Does he think that I’m just going to wait around for him? Does he think that I actually believe him when he tells me he’s going to call?
Contradictory thoughts swirl around in my head making me dizzy and tired. Last night, for the first time in weeks and months, had been a high. It made me realize that perhaps there is something about life worth living.
And right now, I feel lower than I have felt in months.
I want to run to get further away from Tristan and my feelings for him. But the bag that I carry is too heavy for that. All I can do is walk a little faster. Put one foot in front of the other a little quicker.
And the further I get away from him and the night we shared, the better I start to feel. The pines grow thicker, cradling my sorrow in their blossom. As the undergrowth gets taller and lusher and the trail gets narrower and narrower, I start to feel an unfamiliar tingling.
No matter what has happened, no matter how I feel now knowing that I will never see him again, Tristan has opened my eyes.
He reminded me of the life that I am missing, the life that I once had. He isn’t just Tristan. He’s also a symbol of life and hope and passion. All the things that have disappeared from my life over the last few months. All the things that make life worth living.
And for that, I am grateful.
5
Three days later.
I walk into our apartment and drop my heavy backpack on the ground for good. It’s the middle of the afternoon. My roommate and best friend, Maggie Mae, should be home unless she is at an audition, and I am looking forward to seeing her.
“You’re home! You’re home!” she runs up to me and wraps her arms around my neck.
Maggie Mae has always been there for me. She has been with me throughout my mom’s sickness and death, and she has been there for me afterward – when I wasn’t the nicest person to be around.
“So? How was it? I’m ordering pizza, and you’re going to tell me everything!” Maggie Mae screams from the kitchen even though our walls are paper-thin.
Maggie Mae and I have a wonderful afternoon at home. I tell her about the trees, the earth, the trails, and the lake. I tell her that it was the most beautiful place that I’ve ever been and that it really helped me put myself and my place in the world in perspective.
She listens and nods along. Maggie Mae is not an outdoorsy girl, but she’s a really good friend, and that means that she supports me in doing things that are good for me.
Of course, I save the best for last.
Tristan.
“I’m so happy you had a good time,” she says, tossing her long blonde hair from one shoulder to the next. Her hair is always shiny and beautiful, and if she weren't such a nice and kind girl, I would hate her for it.
“And, in the end…” I take a deep breath. I have to tell her about Tristan. She loves men, and she loves hearing stories about men. And she would really appreciate this one.
“And in the end, I
met someone.”
“You met someone!?” Her eyes open wide, and she leans in closer to me.
She smells of figs and apricots, the argon oil sugar scrub that we had picked out together, the one civilized thing that I missed while I was away.
“Don’t get too excited, I’m not seeing him again,” I warn her. “But it was really an amazing night.”
Maggie Mae’s eyes light up, and she yelps and hugs me tight. “Tell me everything!”
Later that night, Maggie Mae goes to her job at Brucci’s, one of the most expensive and fabulous restaurants in LA. It’s located in the hip area of Melrose Avenue, and you have to have a big name or big pockets to get a table there. The rest of us mere mortals have to wait for months for a reservation.
Maggie Mae is a waitress there, and it was the hardest audition that she had ever had. She faced a panel of five judges who asked her a million different questions about her life, thoughts, opinions covering a variety of topics, including politics and religion. It was a casting director who had put her name through to Brucci’s Human Capitol staff, and the same casting director had prepped her for the interviews.
“You have to be knowledgeable about what was going on in the world, but tactful. You had to have an opinion, but not a particularly offensive one. Honestly, it was like the most advanced and difficult improv class that I had ever participated in,” she had told me.
But now, it was all worth it. She had passed the 90-day period where she could be fired without cause and became a full-time employee. Being a full-time employee at Brucci’s meant a lot. It meant a salary of more money than a nurse at a hospital with five years of experience. Plus tips.
“I can’t ever quit this job, Annabelle,” she had told me. “Even if I ever quit acting and going to auditions, this is still the best job that I could ever get.”
I am really happy for her. After years of struggling and barely making ends meet, she is now making as much money being a waitress as someone with twice her education and experience.
And it’s this money, and her generosity, that pretty much help me to continue to exist.
Unfortunately, my financial situation is completely different. I have little to no money to speak of and no prospects of any money on the horizon. I graduated from the University of Southern California with a 3.7-grade-point-average, but I couldn’t find a job after graduation. I didn’t have any internships, and I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. I like writing, but I don’t know of anyone who actually makes a living writing except journalists. And current events aren’t my thing.
I owe over a hundred thousand dollars in loans, and the first payments had to be made six months after graduation. After months of searching for full-time positions at a variety of companies, I finally landed a full-time, temporary freelance position. This position basically involved me going around to different companies and filling in when people took vacations or maternity leave.
As a full-time temp, all my job titles were different even though I did the same thing. Personal assistant, administrative assistant, assistant to the executive assistant. Basically, I answered the phone and replied to emails.
Maggie Mae didn’t know why I’d bothered. “Just come and get a bartending or waitressing gig just like me,” she had said on numerous occasions. “The tips pay way more than you make at that dumb white collar job.”
At first, I had resisted. I thought I was better than serving people food and drinks. But after nine months of working for minimum wage at a job that required a suit to work, I gave up. It was then that I also got fired from the temp agency. Not fired but let go. Apparently there were way too many college grads seeking work and companies preferred people with more experience.
By that time, I was ready for a waitressing job. Maggie Mae was already working at Brucci’s, and there was no way in hell that I was going to pass their grueling entry interviews.
This all happened about a month ago, and if it weren’t for Maggie Mae, I wouldn’t have a roof over my head. She’s patient with me for not being able to pay rent, and she’s patient when I say I can’t find work.
In fact, it was her idea that I go camping at all. She’s not into it, but I love it, and she worked hard to convince me that I could go on that trip even though I had approximately $200 in my bank account and no job.
“You need to clear your head, Annabelle,” she had insisted. “After everything you’ve been through with your mom, this will be really good for you.”
She was right. The trip had cleared my head. What it didn’t do was improve my financial situation. I am two months behind on rent, and I’m borrowing more money to pay for food and utilities. My credit cards are maxed out, and I’m months late on making my student loan payments.
The week after I get back passes slowly. I worry about money and search job sites for possible options. I work on my resume and update my cover letter. I send them out to every single place available, but it will be weeks before I hear back - if I even hear back.
Basically, I worry. I worry about what I will do when (not if) Maggie Mae gets sick of me.
What will I do if Maggie Mae ever decides to move out of this dingy building with window air conditioners and cockroaches? She can afford a lot more. Yes, I kill all the cockroaches for her while she jumps on the couch and screams in a high pitched little-girl voice, but she can also afford to move out of this dump altogether. I can’t.
What if she gets tired of walking past homeless people and drug addicts every day and decides to move to a better part of town?
What if she meets someone and decides to move in with him?
What will I do then? I can’t even pay my own share of the rent, all $800, let alone afford a studio apartment of my own, which usually runs into the $1200s.
If not for Maggie Mae, I would be out on the street. Homeless. Surfing friends’ couches, if I were lucky. Fighting for a spot in a shelter, if I were unlucky.
I desperately need a job.
6
No one writes me back. The week I got back, I sent out twenty resumes, cover letters, and numerous letters of interest, but not one company writes back. I’m starting to panic.
And then I receive a call.
My cell phone rings at nine in the morning, and the number is marked private. I usually don’t answer private or unknown numbers. Typically they are debt collectors calling about late payments. But I do today. What if it’s a recruiter? A human resources person? How lucky would I be?
“May I speak to Ms. York?” a smooth voice asks.
“Yes, this is me,” I say and immediately kick myself for not sounding more professional. Less casual. Would it kill you to say, yes, this is Ms. York? Dammit!
“My name is Margaret Black, and I’m calling to set up an interview with you at Wild International. I’m looking at your resume, and you seem like a good fit.”
“Oh yes, of course. That sounds perfect,” I say.
Wild International? What the heck is Wild International?
“Are you available later on today? We have a lot of people interviewing, and the spot will go fast.”
“Yes, I am. Of course. What time?” I ask quickly. This is the first person who has called me in months. I’m not going to pass this up.
“How about noon?”
I look at my phone. Three hours is not enough time to get ready – mentally and physically – but I don’t have a choice.
“Noon is perfect.”
Ms. Greaves gives me the address of the building and tells me to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of time to take care of some paperwork.
I hang up the phone in a daze. Did this really just happen? Do I really have an interview?! I can’t believe it. Also, for the life of me, I can’t remember ever applying to any Wild International. Something about that company sounds familiar, but I don’t know what.
I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit down on the couch with my laptop. According to their website, Wild International is a globa
l pharmaceutical company that does drug testing and clinical trials on a variety of different drugs to treat a variety of different diseases. Biology was never my strong suit, but from what I gather, they develop and test drugs on cancer, tumors, and other kinds of diseases.
Now that I know what they do, I try to find what position I actually applied for.
I search my inbox for a confirmation email but find nothing.
I then search my documents folder where I label each resume and cover letter that I send out to keep track of all of my applications. I had read online that resumes and cover letters should be tailored to each position to show the prospective employers that you’re interested in them and them alone. So I copy and paste my generic resume and cover letter and alter them with the name of each company and position that I apply to.
I search the documents folder visually and find no trace of Wild International. Then I search it again using the ‘find’ button, but still nothing!
How can this be? How did they invite me to an interview without an application? Did they think I was someone else?
No, they couldn’t have. My mind continues to race as I start to get ready. I take a shower and lay out my outfit – a black pencil skirt, a pink polka dot blouse, and black heels.
No, they couldn’t have thought that I was someone else. Ms. Greaves called me by name. Or did she? She did just say Ms. York, not Ms. Annabelle York. But if she wasn’t calling me, how did she get my number?
By eleven, I’m ready. My makeup is demure and professional, but feminine. The high-waisted skirt makes it hard for me to breathe, but it does make me stand up straight and prevents me from slouching. The blouse is frilly and something that a hot secretary would wear in a movie. The stilettoes pinch my toes and send shooting pain up my heels into my hips. I haven’t worn heels in months, and I’m not adjusting well. But I’m ready.
In the car, I put the address into Google Maps and turn up the speaker on my phone. The place isn’t very far away. About a ten minute drive. I’m sweating profusely, and my hands are ice-cold and shaking. I turn down the radio and try to focus.
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