Page 5 of Quiet Beautiful Things

Me: LOL

Beth: How’s the unpacking coming along?

Me: Slowly.

Beth: I could hop on the train and be there in an hour.

Me: You’ll do no such thing. I need to do this myself. I love all of you. And I love how you support me. But I have to do this on my own. I promise once I get settled, I’ll have you and Mom and Dad over for dinner.

Beth: You’d better. So other than Prince Charming, who you technically haven’t even met, have you met anyone else?

I sigh.

Me: A few neighbors came to welcome me. I think I scared them away. Typical.

Beth: Fuck them.

Me: They’re just not used to me yet. I’m sure we’ll become fast friends. And if not, there will be plenty of opportunities for me to make friends at work.

Beth: You’re going to need a life outside of work, Ellie.

Me: I’ve been here for twenty-four hours, Beth. Geesh! Give me a second.

Beth: Gotta go. I have class in thirty.

Me: Make me proud, little sister.

Beth: Always. Bye.

I toss my phone down and look over at the pile of boxes. One is marked ‘Pictures.’ I push off the couch, rip through the tape holding the box shut, and pull out framed photos of Beth and I, Mom and Dad, and all four of us. My favorite one, though, is the one of Dad and me when I was only two years old. It was the day he adopted me and officially became my dad. I’ve never seen him look so happy.

My biological father was never in the picture. Mom left him before I was born. Then later, when he found out about me, he wanted nothing to do with me when he learned I wasn’t a ‘perfect’ child. I looked him up once, when I was eighteen. I didn’t want a relationship with him. I just wanted answers. Or closure. Or… something.

I’ve never wanted for anything. Love, security, belonging. I’ve had all of it. But there’s something about a parent not wanting their own child that sticks with you despite all that. It was a mistake, looking for him, finding him. He was just as bad as Mom made him out to be. No, he was worse.

I put all thoughts of Grant Lucas out of my mind as I search for a hammer and nail and hang the photo of Dad and me front and center on my living room wall.When it’s perfectly centered, I run a finger across the frame, vowing to make him proud.

~ ~ ~

Hours later, half of my boxes unpacked, I put on my running clothes and jog back to McQuaid Circle. It only takes a few minutes to get there. I chose my apartment based on the close proximity to the school where I’m going to work. I’m happy to also be within walking distance of the small shopping districtsurrounding the circle. As someone who grew up in Manhattan, this whole area reeks of small town. But it’ll be a nice change from the hustle of the city.

Earlier, I was so hungry—and then preoccupied with the mystery guy—I didn’t get a chance to see anything but the grocery store and flower shop. Now, with no more distractions, I take it all in as I jog down the sidewalk and check out all the storefronts. I pass a coffee shop on the corner, then a bookstore, an ice-cream parlor, a diner, a nail salon, a hardware store, and a sub shop.

I think I’m going to like it here. People seem nice, the judgmental neighbors I told Beth about notwithstanding. And as I pass some locals—families eating ice cream, a couple walking their dog, teenagers scurrying around on skateboards—I know I made the right choice.

The far end of the circle is clearly where the nightlife is. I spot a movie theater and a bowling alley. I probably won’t go to the theater, but bowling might be fun. I wonder if the school has a league. Next to those venues is a place called Donovan’s Pub. I jog by slowly. Peeking in the windows tells me this must be the Friday night hangout spot for a lot of the locals.

Locals. I’m one of those now. I can almost picture myself sitting in a booth.

I jog around the corner, all the way around the back of the movie theater. There’s a huge parking lot running behind the theater, bowling alley, and pub that leads back around to the park where I just know there must be a great jogging trail.

I’m delighted to see that the backside of the pub has an outdoor patio. It’s tastefully illuminated by long strands of hanging white lights. Outdoor heaters stand tall in each corner of the patio, but they aren’t needed on this mild spring evening.

My steps falter and I almost trip over my own feet when I see the mystery guy sitting at one of the outdoor tables, a beerin hand. But his entire demeanor is completely different from earlier. He looks like his dog died. He stares contemplatively into his beer, twisting the glass with his hand. Why is he so sad?

My heart sinks when I spy a second glass on the table. Is he on a date?

He looks up, right at me, shock unhitching his jaw. My heart pounds when he stands, looking like he might approach. I’m a good thirty feet away but I can see his expression clearly. The burning tether of his gaze lets me know he’s surprised—and perhaps pleased—to see me.

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