Do Anything (15 page)

When I was eleven, I found a magazine in my mom’s nightstand. It was one all about travel, and inside the pages were amazing pictures of the coastlines in Greece. There were beautiful women staring out at the water, couples walking hand in hand, and even pictures of children smiling. I can remember the incident like it was yesterday. My mother walked in, saw what I was doing, and simply said the words, heaven on Earth, and then walked out. A rare insight into her thoughts that I wasn’t used to getting. She preferred to remain guarded.

Here I am, a place where one of the unhappiest women on the planet thought looked like bliss. If I can’t figure out my messed up life in a paradise like Greece, then I am clearly going about things all wrong.

It’s only been a day, and I’ve already found a quaint waterfront room to rent. It’s a bedroom inside of a home. The owner is an artist from New York who seems content with sharing her space and not her life. This is more than fine with me. Usually when people start sharing details of their lives, they will eventually want to know about yours. Right now my life is the last thing I want to talk about.

My room is up a spiral staircase—almost like a nest up in a tree. There’s a small bathroom and a door that opens to a balcony. The land curves around the harbor; outside of my balcony I can see the city sprawling from side to side on the other side of crystal blue water. The dwelling is built into the cliffside, the water licking at the rocks below.

This is one thing I can agree with my mother about: it’s paradise. A little piece of heaven on Earth. The problem is, I still find myself trapped inside my own personal hell.

I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Taking another sip of my coffee, I pull it out and peer at the screen. Kenzie’s duck face pose is staring back at me.

Swiping my finger across the screen, I try my best to not sound like I’m miserable when I say, “Hello.”

“Good morning, beautiful,” she chimes in a cheerful voice. I wince as a memory of Holden washes over me. I can still hear his deep and growling voice when he would say the same words to me. I close my eyes, composing myself for just a moment.

“Morning Kenz,” I answer.

“So how’s Greece?”

“Beautiful.” I keep my answer short and, though vague, honest.

“How are you feeling?”

“The morning sickness has seemed to fade over this past week.”

“Well, that’s good because it sounded pretty gnarly. Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do with Jack and the baby?”

Her question hangs in the air between us. This is all I’ve thought about from the moment I found out I was pregnant, but I am still not any closer to making a decision. “No,” I lie.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“You ask me that every time you call,” I say, trying to avoid answering.

“Because you need to make a decision.”

“Why? I have twenty-seven weeks to figure out what I’m going to do.”

“Anna!” she exclaims. “You can’t figure this out after you have the baby. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Oh, and I guess I should call Jack up and see if he wants to be my rock?” My voice is dripping with venom.

“I didn’t mean him,” she begins. “I’m here. Don’t you think it’s time to come home?”

“I’m running out of money, so I suppose I’ll be home soon enough.”

“That reminds me … I sold the bedroom suite finally.”

“That’s awesome. I could use it. How much?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“What?” I gasp. “I paid over six thousand for that set.”

“You told me to get rid of it, no matter what. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. Are you pissed?”

I sigh. “No, no I’m not. I just want that thing gone. It was just a place Jack screwed other women, so what do I care.”

“Your realtor is annoyed.”

“About what?”

“She’s such a bitch … what isn’t she annoyed about?”

“Sorry, Kenz.”

“What are friends for?” she answers. “She’s been showing the hell out of the place. However, she doesn’t like that we’re selling the furniture. It doesn’t show well according to her. I think her exact words were, ’This place is starting to show like a frat house.’”

“You really are a life saver for putting up with that for me. No offers yet?”

“Not yet, but she wants me to talk to you about lowering the price.”

“She knows what I need to get out of it, so tell her to do whatever she has to so it sells.”

The idea of ridding the burden of the place Jack and I used to share seems like one piece of the puzzle to fixing my life. In those walls we created a dream together. A dream that he trampled. But now with the baby, I am going to have to accept there are things I can’t wash away from my life. A piece of Jack is going to be with me forever.

“Are you sure about this?” Kenzie asks, breaking the silence.

“Sure about what?” I ask, my head spinning with the possibilities of what she might be referring to.

“Selling your life like this. This is everything you’ve worked for your entire life. Your home—I mean, are you sure you don’t want to raise your kid here?”

“I’m not sure about much, but I am damn sure I don’t want that place in my kid’s life.”

“I don’t want you to regret anything later.”

“And that’s why I love you,” I say sweetly. There are not many people in my life who truly only care about my happiness, but I’ve never doubted that Kenzie is one of them.

“Thanks girl. What are you going to do with yourself while in Greece?”

“Actually …” I pause, afraid to say the words. If I say the words I might lose my courage to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing. “I want to write.”

“Write what?”

“A book.” I laugh.

“Oh my God, Anna! Are you serious?” The phone is nearly vibrating from her excitement.

“Yeah, I figure if I’m ever going to try, it should be now, before the baby comes,” I explain.

“I’m speechless … I mean …” Kenzie pants. “I don’t even know how to react to this. You were always the favorite of all our English professors. Everyone wanted you to write. What’s the book about?”

“I’m still working that part out. How’s Ben?” I ask, the topic of me writing making me uncomfortable. It seems as though every time I’ve spoken to Kenzie, the tenseness of her relationship seems to be intensifying.

“Jesus, don’t ask.”

“Is it that bad?” I press.

“I should hop on a plane and fly to you. Find me some hottie to bring back home with me,” she snarls.

“You don’t mean that,” I argue.

“The hell I don’t,” she snaps.

Ben and Kenzie have been dating since sophomore year in college. He, unfortunately, is one of the ever-growing statistics of college grads who have been unable to find employment in their chosen field after school. He wants to design vehicles, but instead he’s fixing them in his dad’s shop. As far as Ben is concerned, their relationship will have to stay as it is until he can provide her with the life he feels she deserves. I’ve always thought it was a sweet sentiment, but Kenzie quickly grew tired of a relationship stuck in neutral.

“He loves you,” I offer in a soft voice.

I hear her huff, not pleased about my opinion not aligning with her own. “Sometimes love isn’t enough. Look at you and Jack.”

“Ouch,” I say, clutching at my chest.

“Well, it’s true. Look how much you loved him, and you two couldn’t figure things out.”

Figure things out?
I want to shout at the top of my lungs. I want to reach through the phone and wildly shake some sense into her. Ben is living with his parents, saving every cent he possibly can so that he can buy her the engagement ring he feels she deserves. It’s frustrating to me she can’t see what she has in her life.

“There’s a big difference; no matter how much I loved Jack, he didn’t love me.”

“He sure claims to. He won’t leave me alone, trying to find out where you are.”

I roll my eyes. The idea of Jack loving anyone but himself is something I’m now far too wise to accept. “He wants to know where I am because he’s like a child who had a toy taken away. He only wants what he can’t have.”

“You’re going to have to talk to him soon. I’m not sure how much longer I can stall him,” Kenzie reiterates.

I know I’ve put my friend in an awkward position, and I feel terrible for that, but I’m still in no state of mind to face Jack. He was my entire world for most of my young adult life. He was the one who guided my decisions and molded my thoughts about what I wanted in life. In these recent months, removing him from the equation has left me questioning those desires. If Jack had never entered my life, would I have pursued a different avenue? He was the one who told me authors couldn’t make a decent living, and a career in the publishing industry was much more practical.

There’s a weight on my chest. I have trouble breathing. My body stiffens, and I feel the panic rush over me. I’m living a life that isn’t my own, and I have no clue how to claim the one I want.

“Soon,” I assure her. “I’ll call him soon.”

“I hope so—”

I cut her off; I can’t go around in these circles anymore. I can’t think about Jack. “I need to go, sweetie.”

“What? We just got on the phone.” Her tone is high-pitched and pleading.

“I’m sorry, but I promised to go to lunch with some people I met here,” I lie. I know if she discovers I want to hang up just to be alone, she’ll never let me go.

“Oh.” I can tell my proclamation surprises her. “Any cute guys?”

“Goodbye, Kenz.” I laugh.

“Bye.”

I stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of me. I sharpen my already sharp pencil even further. I think about that laptop Holden had given me, and part of me wishes I had it now. I’m about to do it. I’m going to write a book. I have no clue what it’s going to be about, but I’m going to write it nonetheless.

I take a sip of the orange juice sitting on the table. Part of pregnancy has meant learning about all kinds of new taste buds. I’ve never been much of a citrus lover, but now I can’t seem to get enough orange juice. I can drink it by the gallon. I peer out the double doors, the salty sea breeze smacking me in the face. I’ve known about the life growing inside me for four weeks, and it hasn’t made it any more real. The woman who owns the room I’m staying in hasn’t noticed yet that my stomach is beginning to grow. I’m not sure she is the type who would say anything even if she did. She smiles a lot. I like it here. I wish I smiled as much as her, finding joy in the simple like she seems to.

The paper is taunting me. I tell myself to write something. Place a word on the sheet, and then it won’t seem so impossible. The next word will flow and then another, and before you know it, you’re writing. My own advice doesn’t seem to inspire me.

A flash of Holden runs through my mind. I think of his smell, the way my flesh feels when he is close to me. I shudder. I’m angry I can’t make myself forget. The day he gave me the laptop is replaying in my mind. The words he spoke. ’I see a woman who is beautiful …’ My cheeks begin to burn. To have a man like Holden see me like that.

I laugh quietly to myself. He’d told me he saw a woman who could do anything. Oh, how wrong he had been. Journaling, that’s easy. I place my random and insane thoughts onto pages that only I will see. This, writing a story—words I hope will one day be in front of the world—it feels so much more monumental.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’m putting too much pressure on the idea behind the story. This is a time for me to learn from my writing. Perhaps I should just approach it like journaling. I feel a pressure in my hand. Looking down I see something that surprises me. My hand seems to have developed a mind of its own. I’m writing. My fingers move the pencil across the page, and words are spilling out onto the paper.

It was a kiss that first told me my mother didn’t feel connected to me. She took care of me, clothed me, fed me, and made sure I had all the things a little girl needed. All the things except what little girls truly want. A mother who thinks they are the world, that the sun rises and sets on them. A mother who believes they are capable of anything. Instead, I had my mother.

The words stare up at me. They aren’t Shakespeare, but they’re mine. When I sat down I had no idea what the story would be. I’d imagined myself writing a dystopian tale where the young heroine is about to save the world, if she can only survive long enough. Or maybe a classic piece about Queen Guinevere and King Arthur. No, the first story I’m writing will be my own. This doesn’t upset me. Instead, I think of the things I’ve done, the people in my life, the hurt I’ve endured. Holden was right; how could I think I didn’t have a story to tell? I touch my stomach, then press my pencil back to the paper. I have so much to tell.