Page 73 of Latte Girl
Puzzling
Hailey
One MonthLater
“Hailey areyousureabout all of this?” asks my mom, for what feels like thethousandthtime.
She follows me into a studio apartment on the fifth floor of our building. Our footsteps echo across the bare floor of the empty room. I set my brand new key down on the counter of the minisculekitchen.
“Yes, Mom,” I sigh. “I’msure.”
I walk over to the window and stare out at the same street of apartment complexes and dilapidated townhouses I’ve been looking at for most of my life. From this new height, everything looks as fresh as the just-dried coat of paint on mywalls.
They really aremywalls. I signed the lease on the unit two weeks ago. I wander around the tiny space, unable to keep a smile off my face as I step acrossmyhardwood floor. I walk into the bathroom and poke my head intomy shower, then catch sight of myself inmymirror. I pause, staring at the reflection. Just like the street outside, I look differentnowtoo.
The dark circles under my eyes that I thought might have become permanent features of my face have finally disappeared. I went out and bought some young professional-esque additions for my wardrobe, adding things like blazers and ankle boots to my limited roster of t-shirts and jeans. In some sort of symbolic gesture about change and reinvention, I even cut most of my hair off. The strawberry blonde waves now only reach just past myshoulders.
I found the guts to send some writing samples off to Angela Croydon. She met with me a few days after I quit Dark Brown and once we’d discussed some ideas I had about updating her online image, she offered me a job as her social media manager. We’ve been working together for about three weeks now. I’m able to do my job from home most of the time, and can plan my schedule around looking afterAmanda.
“Are you really going to have enough space for things in here?” asks my mom from where she’s opening and closing all the cupboards in mykitchen.
“You know I’ll still be making dinner at home most of the time,” I remind her. “I’m not moving across the country. You’ll still see me pretty much every day when I’m around to take care ofAmanda.”
“Which is why I don’t understand moving into an apartment that willcostyou—”
“Mom,” I warn, and she sighs inresignation.
“You’re right, you’re right. We’ve beenoverthis.”
She opens up the mini fridge and shakes her head at the limited roominside.
“It still doesn’t make much sense to me,” she continues, “but you’re twenty-two now. I understand that you needspace.”
When I announced that I was leaving Dark Brown and putting off university for an indefinite amount of time, I expected to have to face the showdown of the century. I actually considered pretending to go to work every day until I was sure I at least had another job lined up, but something Mel said just wouldn’t get out ofmyhead:
What I am saying is that you shouldn’t let someone else’s insecurities holdyouback.
My mom was never trying to mould the perfect daughter. She didn’t expect me to go to university so she could parade my degree around and brag about my success; she just wanted to make sure the raggedy, threadbare sweater her life became was never mine to wear. She gave every scrap of herself up to building my future instead of patching the holes inherown.
We just so happen to have very different ideas about how those pieces should be sewn together. The gratitude I feel for her is deep enough to swallow me up, but I couldn’t let the chance to live my definition of happiness pass me by because it wasn’t the sameashers.
I told her all of that, and while she’s grumbled and groaned and sat in nail-biting anxiety through the entire process, I haven’t been disowned, no emotional breakdowns have occurred, and there have been no plates thrown across the room during furious screamingmatches.
My decision to get this apartment did bring us pretty close to that, and while I agree that spending this much money to move only two floors away seems pointless in a lot of respects, I needed to put a lockable door between my Then Life and myNowLife.
We both turn as someone starts knocking onsaiddoor.
“All ready to move in?” calls Greg, the building’ssuperintendant.
We’ve lived here long enough that we’re on first name terms, and when he found out I was moving into my own apartment, Greg offered to help us get all my stuffupstairs.
We spend the rest of the day piling boxes into the elevator and manoeuvring furniture around the tiny room. After eating dinner together at home, Mom leaves me to myself in my own apartment, and I flop onto the bed I haven’t put sheetsonyet.
Despite the fact that the room really isn’t big enough for it, I bought myself a double. It’s just a mattress on the floor, but at least now when I want to bring someone home for the night, I won’t have to introduce him to my kid sister and insane dog before we squeeze onto a tinytwin-size.
That is, ifI ever want to bringsomeonehome.
I grab my phone off my bedside table and see that there are two new messages from the Tinder guy I went out with last night. It was the crucial third date, the deciding moment on whether or not more dates would follow, and my decision is definitely no. He was a good looking guy and the conversation always flowed, but I’m still chasing static and sparks and the starry-eyed shock of connection. I want someone who can make me feel starving and full allatonce.
