Page 12 of Over the Edge

Evelyn

Isleep the same way I have for the last few months. An urgent need to do something I’m incapable of looms over me until I shut my eyes in the dark only to blink them open to a blaze of sunlight. It’s the flavored seltzer water of sleep, in the sense that I did technically sleep but I barely get an aftertaste of rest.

I kill the time before meeting Garrett by covering the basics I neglected yesterday. Namely, I shove all my clothes in drawers then go to the grocery store to get my standard store brand “Blizzard Flakes” that has questionable nutritional value but at least gives me something sweet to look forward to in the mornings, as well as a month's worth of instant ramen.

Once back at the rental, lingering in the kitchen with my bowl of nothing more than sugary milk, I finally brave the trench of despair that is my email.

Vincent has taken to sending me links to articles and books on boosting creativity. I don’t have the heart to tell him that yoga isn’t the answer we’re looking for. I know this because I tried and the only result was being the sweatiest person ina very clinical looking red light enhanced studio with women who made the splits look far too easy. Try as I might, I can’t self-help listicle my way into creativity. I’ve gone on walks wearing weighted wristbands I impulse bought, rearranged my apartment (swapped my side table and floor lamp), and downloaded a language learning app. None of that changed anything besides what side of the couch I have to sit on to get good lighting.

Today’s book recommendation is on the healing power of nature by a middle-aged divorcee who hiked the Appalachian trail. I reply over email to not disrupt the text thread we have going about celebrities that look like their dogs.

Another email comes in as I’m drafting my explanation that backpacking is a sure-fire way to not get an album out of me because I will go missing or be eaten by a bear. Every muscle in my body locks.

Quinn.

The name on the email is one I’m familiar with but haven’t seen in my inbox since I quit my PR job. One that I used to look forward to every day because I was working with my best friend.

In my surprise I forget my surroundings and my elbow knocks over my bowl, causing milk to slosh onto the counter and dribble on my leg. A few used paper towels later, I reopen my email and my pulse quickens.

Hi, Evelyn,

Debra finally quit and they’re hiring for her old position. I know you were aiming for it before you left, so I wanted to let you know. If New York isn’t working out, I know that they’d love to have you back.

Regards,

Quinn

Under her name is the standard company sign off for Henderson Creative, the boutique PR firm we both worked at for six years after we graduated. Before now, the longest we’d been apart had been for summer vacations. It's been seven months since I told her I didn’t need her to drive me to the airport because I didn’t want to be fighting tears through security. I cried in the airport bathroom, already missing her and questioning the choice I couldn’t take back.

My heart clenches at the curt, formal email that is so completely her. From class projects to texts, she says exactly what she needs to and nothing more.

I met Quinn during the first week of classes. I had been rushing from my dorm after throwing on the first clothes I could find, and Quinn stopped to tell me that there was a pair of frothy bubble gum pink underwear tucked into the ankle of my jeans. I’d passed by at least a hundred people and she was the only one who took the time to point it out.

It was a time in my life when I was desperate for someone to just be honest with me. At that point, any time when I texted Drew I knew that the only response I’d get from him was “I’m fine,” as he pretended that the world wasn’t crashing in on him. My parents were the same. Quinn was the person I needed, someone I didn’t have to be on edge around, trying to constantly anticipate what could buoy her mood. Shortly after, the addition of Oliver made us into an inseparable trio. Through the rest of college and the reality of adulthood, we stuck by each other in those small ways that mean the most. Picking up ginger tea for Quinn when she was on her period. The three of us goingtogether to Oliver’s dad’s seventh, eighth, and ninth weddings. The two of them coming to dinner with my parents to act as buffers against their barrage of questions.

The distance between Quinn and I didn’t start because of my move. It was before that when I became Lyla. I had planned on telling her, but then her parents pulled her into their long overdue divorce. After that there was always something that made me hesitate.

A promotion I didn’t want to overshadow.

A trip we wanted to plan.

A break up.

My break up with Oliver.

My move brought it all to a roaring crescendo. I reached a point where half of what I was telling her was just lies. I would text about the new company I was working at, even though there wasn’t one. Or I’d tell her I was having the best time and the adjustment wasn’t so bad. So, I gave one word answers or made excuses not to call until she reciprocated my energy.

This email is the Quinn version of saying, “I miss you. Talk to me dammit,” which is so rare that if I was home, I’d print it out and stick it to my fridge to memorialize it.

I anxiously tap between my text messages and my email. Texting is casual; it could start a much needed conversation. But I’m not sure if I’m ready for that, especially now that my brain is ever so conveniently failing me after I abandoned my actual job to pursue a dream. You know, really directing a spotlight onto the shit show I’ve made of my personal life. Email feels cold though, impersonal, which I hate even more than potential confrontation.

I look back to the email and genuinely consider it. With one simple yes, I can go back to the way things were. All I have to do is finish up this album and not sign the contract renewal from Reverb that I should be hearing about any day now. IfI want, I can act like the last five years never happened. That sounds damn nice right about now, but with my recent string of questionable decisions, I should think about it a little longer.

Evelyn

I’ll lyk. On vacation. Look at this place - you’d love it

I copy and paste a link to a travel blog post about Hartsfall that I know she’ll appreciate more than Avery did.

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