Page 9 of Our Little Cliche
HOLLY
So what now,Holly?I mentally ask myself as I stare out my favorite coffee shop window, sipping on my now colddoubleshot latté, mindlessly watching the usual rush of Sunday coffee lovers darting to their favorite waterfront cafés for a prime view of the ocean.
Despite the beautiful serenity which I’m surrounded by, I feel numb.
Actually,numbdoesn’t even scratch the surface of my emotions right now. Ashamed is more like it. Humiliated. Rock bottom. The lowest of lows, just to name a few. I wish I could scream, cry, kick something or…someone.
Wait, would I hurt someone?
Could I hurt someone?
Oh, who am I kidding? Clenching a fist and swinging isn’t my strong suit—nor is confrontation. I wouldn’t hurt a soul whether or not my life depended on it.
After staring at my tote bag on the table beside me for long enough, I decide to flare up my laptop. Okay, so where is this… Banff place then, Mr. Google?The image results beam on my screen and all I see is a lake with crystal blue water, and trees.Lots of them. White tipped hills—no,mountains, that cover the entirety of each image’s backdrop, with cliffs that resemble Mount Everest. There is a small town smack bang in the middle of the mountains, right down the bottom. It looks… cozy.
I flick through an article with a brief bio of the town’s history noting that it boasts a population no bigger than the old town I grew up in, and is home to one of the most spectacular visions in the world: the northern lights.
“Wow. It’s… beautiful,” I mutter under my breath. It seems thatdrunk, mid-mental-breakdown-mehas taste. Yeah, an expensive-mistake taste.
I take in its beauty, mentally trying to picture myself living there but I’m quickly taken out of the trance with sadness because Iamactually going to be living there. I feel so disappointed in myself. Disappointed that I recallnoneof this.
Okay, I need to keep backtracking. I remember from earlier there was a Canadian number in my phone, maybe that could link me to some more information. I quickly make a note of the time difference between the Gold Coast and Canada: we’re seventeen hours ahead. So that means it’s 3.22 P.M. there right now. Nerves settle in over the fear, and while waiting for the international number to connect I pull my hair into a loose bun, weaving the knots out with my fingers.
“Holly? I’m surprised to hear from you so soon,” a friendly woman with a beautiful Canadian accent answers the phone.She must have my number saved.“Not long to go now. How are you, sweetheart?”
I release the breath I’ve been unknowingly holding, swallowing the tight ball in my throat. “Uh, hello,”whoever your name is,“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some help.” I hold back the tears that threaten to sprout from my lash line hard and fast.
“Of course, hon. Is everything okay?” The woman genuinely seems worried, which oddly is giving me some comfort because she is the only person on the planet that I have to talk to.
“Yes…” I lie. I’ve just found out that I’m moving across the globe to a place I never knew existed until half an hour ago when two strange men came to my house to take away my entire life, all because I spent last weekend drowning in bottles of wine over a stupid boy, and drunk me apparently decided‘Hey to hell with it, let’s move countries and start a new life somewhere else.’
Yeah, that.
I am so screwed.
“But,” I continue, and even with my chin wobbling like jelly I come out with it. “Well, I-I had… I woke up this morning to removalists at my door and… but, I-I don’t know what I’ve done. I think I…” I trail off, stuttering every second word. “I had been drinking and I?—”
“Holly, sweetheart, slow down. Let me get one thing at a time okay? Let’s start with this morning.”
“Okay, sorry.” I take a moment and draw in a breath then blow out in one sentence with a sob, “There are removalists right now at my house taking my stuff, and the only information I have is a piece of paper with my name on it and an address in a town I’ve never heard of in a whole other country, and I don’t know who you are but for some reason when I broke up with my boyfriend you were the first person I called.”
“Oh. Oh dear,” she pauses for a moment as if to gather her thoughts around my stupidity. “Alright. For starters, hi, my name is Susan Kivert. I own Kivert & Co Realty here in a town called Canmore, in Canada. A week ago I got a phone call from you needing a place to rent as you were arriving very soon. I mentioned that I had a few rentals about a half hour drive from here in a town called Banff. I emailed some details and you agreed on one, so we signed a contract. I’m sorry, Holly, Inever suspected you might have been under the influence, had I known I?—”
“We’ve emailed?” The words barely come out clear, but bombarded with emotions and information, even though I’m only seconds away from fitting into a full blown clusterfuck of tears.
“Yes, we have. Are you alright?”
“No… I don’t think I am.” I can’t hold it, the hot tears stream down my face and I fall into a shattering,ugly girlcry. “This is terrible, Susan. I found out my ex was cheating on me, and he just up and left like I was nothing. I don’t know what I did, or why. I am a mess right now and I have only myself to blame. Obviously wine and I make poor decisions because look what I’ve done.” At this point there are people looking at me and I shrink down, not that lowering myself to the table makes any difference.
“Oh, sweetheart. Bless your little soul. Maybe this is a good thing,” she says, but my sobs are my only response to Susan. “I’ve got a few moments before my next appointment, why don’t I stay on the phone with you and we go through things and retrace your steps,” Susan says tenderly, her tone and choice of words so delicate, and comforting, much like a mother would sound like—if I had one. Well, I do have a mother, but I haven’t spoken to her since I left Victoria. It was clear she had no interest in talking to me, because she disowned me when I said I was leaving to go and live with Adam in Queensland.
“O-okay.” I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“Right, let’s start with your emails. What do you see?” I follow her instructions and eventually find the conversation between her and I, and of the place I’veapparentlysigned a lease to.
God, drunk me gets around quick. I found somewhere to live and hired a removalist in one sitting!?
The place is a little two story cottage, and it reminds me of the shacks people have down here at the beach, only slightly bigger—fine, much bigger. My jaw drops when I see the views from every window of the cabin; anall whitebackground, slightly different to the Google images.
