Page 9 of Just One Moment

PerhapsI’mbroken.Theonly things going through my brain are howI’mgoing to explain this to my mom and what a pain it’s going to be to find a new place to live.IfIallow myself to think about it for much longer, maybeIcan find some sense of regret or an apology forwastingso much of her time.

Withher coat on and bag slung over her shoulder, she reaches for the door handle but pauses.Herbright blue eyesIonce found so piercing only hold resentment for me now.

Herfarewell words should hurt, yet they do nothing but leave me feeling numb as they settle among the hollowness and doubt that’s been brewing for longer thanI’dlike to admit.

Hoursafter she leaves,Ifinally feel something.

Itfeels a lot like relief.

Thatsense of relief didn’t disappear, but the words she left me with before she walked out of the door have stuck to me like thick tar.Theystill sit heavy on my chest, and to this day,Idon’t disagree with her.

Shemoved toAugustaafter that.Wehaven’t seen each other since the night she walked out, but that might change soon.Itmakes sense the wedding is being held inSuttonBay; she grew up here.

Whatsurprises me is that it’s the weekend afterThanksgiving.

Lessthan two months away.

OnethingIlearned about falling in love with someone from your hometown is that, despite growing up together, it’s very easy to grow apart.

Myphone vibrates with another incoming call, the sound of it intensifying the headache pulsing in my temples.Onlymy brothers know the truth about what went down betweenJennaand me.Momhad just lost her own mother, which brought up a load of memories about my dad’s passing.Itwasn’t the right time.Andalmost two years later, it still isn’t.

Whenis it ever the right time to tell your mother that your girlfriend cheated on you with your cousin?

She’snot oblivious to the situation and has questioned me plenty about my feelings toward their relationship.Itwas easier to keep my response simple.

We’dbeen having issues for a long time.RalphandJennahad been friends since high school.I’mhappy for them.That’sbeen my go-to response since we broke up.

Textsping through the device now, one after the other, likely from my brothers.Notmany people would be contemplating going to their ex’s wedding after it ended so catastrophically, butI’ma big enough person to know we have to keep the peace, if anything, for my mom’s sake.

IfIwere a different man,Iwouldn’t be pulling the torn-up invitation out of the trash and taping it together.I’dbe honest with my mom about why attending the wedding is the last thingIwant to do.

I’mnot that man, though, or the manJennawanted.

Thesedays,Idon’t know what kind of manIam.

CHAPTER FOUR

quinn

“Ow, fuck a duck!”

Jumpingup and down,Iclutch my foot in both hands, cursing at random birds with each hop.

Whenthe throbbing in my big toe fades,Ipoint a finger at the shitty generator in front of me. “Ireally need you to not break right now.I’mPMS-ing and would like to boil water for my water bottle.Please.”Igive it another kick with my other foot and then the sound of some gear, battery, or whatever a generator is made of, coming back to life blesses my ears. “Ohmy god!Thankyou, thank you.Youreally are the little engine that could.”

Iwalk down the length of my van and skip up the steps, scrambling toward my kettle and flipping the switch.Thistime it doesn’t trip the small generator that powers my tiny orange home, andIcan finally soothe the cramps that have been pulling at my lower belly all day.

Thistin can has been my home for the last six years and has carried me across twelve different states.AfterIleftSanDiego, the moneyIhad only got me a bus as far asSalem,Oregon, so that’s whereIset up camp for three years.Iscraped and saved every pennyImade, taking odd jobs in restaurants and cafés.Tocelebrate my twenty-first birthday—a gift from me to me—IboughtNelly, myVWvan.She’sbeen my confidant across every state border, and though she’s a little rough around the edges, for the first time in my life,Ihad something to call my own.

Thedark orange van is about thirty years old.Shereally struggled to make the trip fromColoradotoMaine, but she’s my home.TheguyIbought her off just wanted rid of it, and sold it to me for a steal, leaving me with some spare money to renovate it a little.Overthe years,I’verefurbished the small dining table and bench and bought myself a new gas-top stove.It’snot big enough for a bathroom, which is whyI’mgratefulMr.Willisallows me to park on his land and gives me full, undisturbed access to the little guesthouse at the side of his farmhouse.

Sadly, the tiny kitchenette isn’t great for baking, butIwas fortunate enough to work with some generous people over the years who allowed me after-hours access to state-of-the-art kitchens and appliances.I’dsell whatever baked goodsImade at local farmers’ markets or made bespoke cakes for friends of friends, though for a long time, it remained a hobby untilIsaved up the money to start my own business.Itwas hard work, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to put in over sixty hours a week.Butit got me whereIam today.

Ican’t help but shimmy my shoulders wheneverIremind myself of that.Idid it.Nohandouts, no loans, no shortcuts.

AsIcarefully pour the steaming liquid into my fuzzy water bottle, my triumphant mood fizzles out.Imay own my van, but the bakery isn’t 100 percent mine.Realizingmy finances aren’t as organized asI’dhoped felt like owning it officially was a pipedream.WheneverIthink about asking for help, those intrusive and spiteful voices whisper words of disappointment and resentment down my ear.

Ihave to do this on my own.

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