Page 8 of A Whole New Play

“Can I offer unsolicited advice that’s likely inappropriate given how little I know about you?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” I smirk. “Go for it.”

“I think you should quit your job.”

I almost choke on gelato. I cover my mouth with the linen napkin from my lap and cough to clear my throat. When I’m confident I won’t spit gelato over the table, I ask in a raspy voice, “Excuse me?”

CJ doesn’t miss a beat. “If your job makes you unhappy—if it keeps you from having the life you want—you should quit.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to say anything else.

He doesn’t.

I can’t explain why, but I realize I care about what this relative stranger is saying.

Maybe it’s because CJ’s opinion is objective. He doesn’t know me or any details about my career. Nothing about my life or upbringing is clouding his judgment.

“Why would you say that?” I ask. “People work in jobs they hate all the time.” It’s tragic, but it’s the truth. People do what they have to do to survive. The ones who actually enjoy what they do for a living are the lucky ones… people like my dad.

But when I think about what that love for his job cost my dad, I acknowledge that he might not be considered a lucky one after all.

“Yes, but you’re young,” CJ says. “You’re too young to have responsibilities that tie you down to a career you hate.” He presses his lips together and gives me a contemplative look. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Well, that’s a rude question to ask a lady.”

“Is it? Forget I asked.”

I chuckle at his horrified expression. “I’m just joking. I’m twenty-three.”

“See?” He waves a hand in my direction. “You have plenty of time to change your career and do something you love. Life is too short to spend any moment of it miserable.” He speaks with such conviction that I wonder what he’s experienced to give him this outlook on life. He doesn’t seem that much older than me, but I’ve never been great at guessing someone’s age.

“Do you do something you love?” I ask then take another sip of wine.

“I do.”

I lower my glass and tilt my head to the side, assessing him. “And you’re happy with your life?”

“For the most part, yes. But just like everyone else, I have my problems.” He shrugs. “I can’t control everything, but what I can control, like my work, I try to.”

“Spoken like someone who has some privilege,” I point out. Only someone with financial security would be willing and able to quit a job and pursue a dream.

“Maybe,” he allows. “But that doesn’t make my statement any less true. In an ideal world, no one should have to work a job they hate.”

Maybe not, but reality isn’t ideal…

I sound like Mom.

Bile crawls up my throat at the thought.

I ignore the rest of my wine and pick up my water instead, taking a large gulp to wash down the burning sensation and the words that explain the complicated relationship I have with the woman who gave me life. That’s too much information to share on a first date.

So have we decided this is a date yet??

Ugh. I don’t know.

But I do know that I’m far more interested in the man sitting across from me than I have been in a long, long time.

And I don’t need my messy life to ruin this evening for me.

---