Page 3 of Second Chance Vacation

“I told you already. I can’t go.”

We have discussed her trip to the South of France at length for weeks, and each time it comes up, I give her the same answer, no. This girl really can’t accept no for an answer. Savannah peers back at me with a scowl.

“Gen—summer school is done; you don’t start fall term for weeks; it’s a perfect scenario!” While Savannah is right about the timing, I struggle to shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that it could be a bad idea. Yes, I have savings, but it’s for emergencies, not impromptu vacations. She glares at me. While going to the South of France sounds like an absolute dream, there is one factor Savannah isn’t considering—I can’t afford it. Trips to exotic locations on a whim aren’t an uncommon occurrence for Savannah but for me? I can’t travel to the other side of Georgia without some serious planning.

As a middle school teacher, I travel little. I have the chance for summers off, but I rarely take it. I almost always teach summer school, as I seldom do much with that time if I have it off, anyway.

When I opted to take a teaching job in Atlanta right out of college, I definitely didn’t expect to still be here three years later and still barely getting by, something I’m sure my dad would tell me his opinion about if we talked more. My dad and I have never really connected. Sometimes I wonder what my mom would think of where I’m at…I like to think she’d be proud of who I am today. Anything to the contrary might break me.

“I want to, I do, but it’s just not in the cards this year.”

“I talked to Wesley about it, and if the money is the issue—”

“N—”

“—I can pay for your spot.” Before I even get a word out, Savannah is hushing me. “I know what you’re going to say, and no, I am not taking no for an answer. You’re coming.”

“I can’t ask you to do that—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. No—I’m telling you, I’m paying for it. You’re coming.”

Savannah’s look of determination is almost too much, making me instinctively want to cower in on myself. Her hands planted on her hips, Savannah silently taunts me, challenging me to disregard her.

“I’ll think about it.” I scratch the damp hair at my nape, looking around my classroom. “When are you wanting to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow morning?She isn’t exactly giving me time to think.

“Savannah, I can’t just hop on a plane to France on a whim. I don’t even have a ticket.”

“We’re taking the jet from Newmont Investments.”

Savannah’s dad owns one of the biggest investment firms in the state. Despite Savannah technically working for him, she spends most of her time reaping the benefits rather than actually working.

“How is that not considered abuse of company funds?”

Quirking my brow, I roll my eyes. Savannah scowls in response, refusing to breathe any validity to my claims.

“Gen!” She pouts, entirely ignoring my question.

I sigh. “Fine.” I exhale with an extra dose of dramatics as Savannah jumps up and down, her copper hair flailing haphazardly. Her excitement is infectious, but despite my outward disdain, I am starting to feel excited too. I love my job, but boy, am I exhausted. Sometimes hanging out in the sun in the South of France is just what the doctor ordered.

“You won’t regret it! I have so many fun activities already planned. Wesley has a friend coming. I have all the restaurants planned out. We’re going to a total of six Michelin Stars. Six! We’re going to have SO. MUCH. FUN!”

Savannah squeals, piercing my eardrums as she squeezes me tight. I should have seen her reaction coming. Savannah could never be confused with docile; nine times out of ten, she is ready to take the bull by its horns.

“Savannah,” I peer at her through my brow, “this isn’t one of your matchmaking schemes, is it?”

She scoffs. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it after what happened with Will.”

Her response leaves me with a healthy dose of skepticism. Savannah has a track record of trying to mess with my love life, and this seems like something she would pull. The moment she mentions Will, my stomach sours.

“He spilled half a bottle of pinot down my favorite dress. He grabbed my boob. It wasn’t exactly a match for the ages.”

“He swore it was an accident.”

“I’m sure it was, but it didn’t leave me feeling any less violated.”

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