He looks down for a moment, and I wonder if he’s secretly grieving. Or whether more anger and grief will come in time. He looks up again, and adds, “When she chose Barry, she made the decision regarding our future. I may not have had a say, but I know I dodged a bullet, and if I’m meant to have a second chance to find my soul mate, I’m taking it.”
He smiles then, and it does make me wonder why his fiancée was such an asshole to cheat on him. His food is delivered alongside mine, our orders in bags and ready to go. His dark eyes take me in again, and he says, “I can’t leave without asking. You want to get a table and eat together?”
The air thickens as I take another sip. He’s entertaining, and it’s been nice not to live in my own problems for a few minutes. “This has been unexpectedly fun—”
“But?”
I nod as the smell of my food wafts, making my stomach growl. “But I’m sort of stuck in a mess of my own that I’m trying to work out.”
This time, he nods. “Read the signs. Good or bad, they’re always there.”
I slip off the barstool and take my bag in hand. “Since we’re strangers, I should tell you that I’m terrible with directions, so reading signs isn’t my forté.”
Swirling the liquid around his glass, he laughs again. “Oh, yeah?”
“Do you mind if I ask you one more question before I go?” He tips his chin in permission. “Is it possible to see the signs before the bad happens?”
A heavy sigh is released from his chest before he finishes his drink. Setting the glass down, he finally looks at me. “Don’t waste your time on the bad. Look for the good instead.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, but that could be because of the hour. “Good luck with that new lease on life.”
“Thanks. Take care.”
“You, too.”
When I walk out, I’m still starving, but my mind is now on other things. Using a rideshare app, I’m picked up quickly and settle in the back. Thinking about the turn my night just took, and the even crazier story, I soak in the words of wisdom. I mean, I figure they must have some wisdom in them, considering what he’s been through.
The signs are always there, but don’t waste time on the bad ones. How ironic because I’m starting to believe that I’ve been the one throwing obstacles in my path all along.
My apartment.
Honestly, I should have never moved here. The apartment always had more space than I needed for just me.
My job.
I could have left when I lost the last promotion, but I was determined to prove myself like I hadn’t already in the previous five years. I can’t let my boss dictate my career prospects anymore.
My . . . Jackson.
Is he mine?
I’ve worked so hard to convince myself that we’re no good for each other on a more permanent basis, but I can’t believe that line of thinking. Jackson feels too good to be bad for me.
Inside my apartment, I rip open the plastic bag and pull out the two containers of food before grabbing a spoon from the drawer. I could be polite and pour my soup into a bowl, but who am I trying to impress? No one anymore.
I move to the couch with my soup and dumplings, getting comfortable, but the handbags I have lined up against the hall wall waiting to be photographed, priced, and uploaded for sale make me feel guilty for taking even a minute to myself.
No one’s going to save me but myself, and I’m finally accepting that I’ll be moving. Where will I go? Who knows? I’ll find something, even if I have to sleep in Tealey’s or Cammie’s spare room for a while.
The thought makes me wince. It’s hard to wrap my mind around a lifestyle that involves thinking about money, or that doesn’t include spontaneous weekends away, or buying something simply because I want it. Insult to injury, now I have to add begging my friends to let me scrounge off them.
My belongings—purses, jewelry, furniture, and clothes—have always defined who I am, and shopping gave me a purpose. It’s where I developed my keen sense of style that will serve me in the art world. But that’s not all I am.
Nice things made me feel beautiful, or at least that’s what I was told to feel. Luxury items made me important in circles that mattered once upon a time. They don’t anymore. It’s just so hard to part from those lingering feelings and thoughts that have embedded themselves deep inside me.
The thought of parting with my stuff has my chest tightening. I love it all. It’s all I’ve had to take care of throughout my life, and it feels like I’m losing a part of my identity. Since my small art collection will never enter the equation if I can help it, that leaves one burning question in regard to everything else. What’s more important?