Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Waking up in San Diego is somehow significantly easier than waking up in D.C. There's no weight pressing on my chest, and my heart doesn't pound as I drink my morning tea. I think the last time I felt this free was pre-Bryce. Guess that checks out. There's a niggling sense that I need to get closure with him, that things aren't as over and done with as they seem.

The random waves of remorse that come when I'm reminded of him are confirmation of that. Yesterday, it was seeing his profile name on our shared Netflix account. That I pay for. He got booted off as fast as I could click to change the password, and I got teary-eyed doing it. I'm afraid the distance we have is making me go soft, making me forget how terrible he is and how our relationship was a total lie.

My phone rings on the counter next to my mug, and I wince. Sutton. She texted me a few days after I left wondering where I was and what was going on. I told her we'd talk whenever she was free, but we haven't had a chance to connect yet. Now, I have no excuse.

"Hey, Sutton."

"Hello, prodigal daughter. What's happening?"

"I am in San Diego," I say cautiously.

"Yeah. Seems like it's going to be a permanent thing?"

"For now, yeah."

"You're just…gone?"

"Hughie found out I was being made redundant, Bryce and I are over, I hate D.C. summers, it just makes sense."

"Okay…but we're still splitting rent ‘til the end of the month. I'll try to find another roommate, but honestly, it might be tough."

That's Sutton alright, goes right on to the next detail, no response to what I said. "You know a lot of people. I'm sure it won't be a problem."

"Just Venmo me for this month, please. What about your furniture?"

"You can keep it. It's yours."

"Oh. Cool."

She goes quiet for a moment.

"Is there anything else, Sutton?"

"Are you, like…okay?"

Sutton and I were brought together by the need for a clean and quiet person to split rent with, and over the years of living together we crested a certain level of reserved friendship. She is driven, ambitious, smart, a bit conniving at times, but emotionally supportive she is not.

"I'm fine."

"I ran into Bryce and he was telling me his?—"

"Nope, no, no thanks. If you need anything, text me."

I hang up, shaking my head at the phone. Not talking about that at all, especially not with her. Anyway, it's time to head to the coffee shop for my interview. I change into Crown Island's version of business casual—a white linen button-up, olive green joggers, and leather sandals—and head to one of my favorite spots on the main avenue, Cafe 22.

Cafe 22 is an old-world European-style coffee shop featuring golden yellow walls, towering ceilings, a loft area stocked with tabletop games, and floor to ceiling windows facing the main avenue. Every morning, local retired men gather at the two tables outside to chat over the newspaper while their little Shih Tzus and maltipoos and toy poodles nip at each other. It's small-town life at its finest.

Aunt Mari is friends with Elise and Elvin, the owners of Cafe 22, and Elise mentioned they were looking for an extra hand as the summer rush felt more crushing than in previous years. I don't know a thing about making a latte, but I can take orders, I'm good at customer service, and I learn anything quickly.

I turn into the coffee shop, and a girl who looks about my age with dark dreadlocks and thick wooden spiral earrings is behind the counter smiling and counting out change for an elderly lady. I wait in line behind two pilots in green flight suits, who are chatting loud enough for me to overhear as we all wait to order.

"Hey, have you checked your LES recently? Are you getting San Diego BAH or is it still JAX BAH?" asks the shorter pilot.

"Uh, pretty sure it's San Diego now."

"Huh, okay. I need to go talk to admin then. I have a feeling my paperwork got screwed up. Mine hasn't switched over yet."

It's like they're speaking a foreign language. The jargon in D.C. could get technical, but this feels cooler, probably because these guys look like they walked right off the set of Top Gun.

When it's my turn to order, the girl behind the counter looks unhurried and happy as she turns to me with a smile.

"Hey there, how we doing today?" she says. "What are we having?"

"Hi, good," I say, not sure how to say I'm here for an interview, not a coffee.

A woman with a high gray ponytail and a fluff of bangs comes out of the back kitchen section and eyes me with a suspicious smile.

"Are you Tia?" she asks. "You look just like your Aunt Marisol."

"Yes, that's me," I reply with a grin.

"I'm Elise," she says with enthusiasm. "Thanks for coming by, Marisol said you might be interested in helping us out?"

"Oh, my gosh, that would be amazing," says the girl behind the counter with a giant sigh. "I'm Jules. Do you know how to sling lattes?"

"No, but I'm a fast learner," I say.

"Sweet, no worries, do you know how to work POS systems?"

"Um…"

"She means point of sale," chimes in Elise. "Jules is great at making drinks, so she'd love to be freed up to do more of that while you take orders, if that's okay."

My shoulders relax with relief. "Yeah, I can work a register easily."

"Let's go chat about the details," says Elise, tilting her head to the right, where I can see a hallway that leads to a back outdoor seating area.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" asks Jules. "On the house."

"Oh, wow, that's really nice of you. Any iced teas you recommend?"

"Yeah, the white coconut one is bomb. I'll bring it out to you."

"Thanks so much," I say, before I follow Elise outside.

We sit down at a cast iron cafe table set, and Elise smiles kindly at me. "You're from Washington, D.C., right? Left quickly, from what your great aunt told me."

Aunt Mari does tell all. Elise isn't probing for more details, but there's a question in her statement.

"It was a…once-in-a-lifetime choice," I reply. "Based on a bad situation."

"Well, isn't it nice it's in the past, then?"

Her words wash over me like gentle rain, making me surprisingly emotional. It doesn't feel as final as the way she put it, but each day is a small step closer to putting it in the past.

Jules breezes in and out with my iced tea while Elise gives me more details about the job. "We pay a living wage, and Elvin handles scheduling on some internet thing I can't wrap my head around, but I'm sure you'll be a whiz at. We don't tend to struggle with customer service, no altercations or anything like that, but it does get busy and demanding. How are you with dealing with difficult people?"

"Oh, I can handle them. I would say I'm fairly patient and I know how to put on a smile and accommodate a customer." Thanks for the practice, Bryce. Good riddance to you.

"Right, wonderful. I think your vibe matches what we're about, so I look forward to working with you, my dear," says Elise. "It's as easy as that. I'll let Elvin know you're ready for paperwork and to schedule some training, if that's good with you? He can email it over."

She pats the table as if she's patting my hand, and it really is as easy as that. I'm stunned.

I start to feel a faint buzz of excitement as I wave goodbye and start down the sidewalk in the sunshine. I have a job again, a kind boss, and a really cool place to work. Should I buy a lottery ticket?

There's a twinge of regret that comes on the heels of my elation. I should have done this so long ago. I should have come to San Diego as soon as I graduated from college. Instead, I forced myself into a mold. The expectation of a career, a noteworthy job, a stereotype of success—all those could have crushed me if I hadn't left when I did.

But I did. And I'm going to make it here. I'm proud of myself.

Securing a job is a win that deserves ice cream. There's an old-fashioned ice cream parlor across the street from the cafe, a once-a-summer treat for Julio and me when we were kids. The warm sugar smell of fresh waffle cones makes me grin as I treat myself to a double scoop of mint chocolate chip in a cone and tuck a napkin in my pocket for later.

I walk the long way home, a roundabout route that takes me through the heart of Crown Island. I savor my ice cream as I make my way down the sidewalk along the main avenue, noticing what's the same and what's changed. There are still cute stationery shops with floral window displays made entirely out of paper, boutique children's clothing stores with racks of seersucker and sailboat dresses, and plenty of surf shops combined with touristy t-shirt stores. Sprinkled in with them is the bookstore with long green awnings over the windows, a bagel shop, and Mexican Take Out, the best burritos in the world, in my opinion.

Wait, that's new.

Floor to ceiling windows let plenty of light into a narrow art gallery with darker, moodier paintings on display. My breath catches. I quickly finish my ice cream—art galleries never allow food inside—and wipe my hands on the napkin.

A bell rings out as I enter, and a lady at the back raises her head, then waves to me, acrylic bangles clacking together on her wrist.

"Hello, welcome," she says in a warm voice. "Have a look around, let me know if you have any questions."

"Thank you." I give her a smile as I turn to the first painting.

A broody old man with a knit cap pulled low over his eyebrows stands at the helm of a sailboat, a headlamp with a red light the only lighting aside from a streak of moonlight on the water. I try to guess what the connecting theme will be. Sailboats, water, or night? All my fortes. I mostly paint dark and moody night images, but I love a good seascape.

The next portrait is a mother nursing her baby in a gray rocking chair in the middle of the night, a nightlight shooting stars onto the ceiling above them. Then a man proposing under a streetlight. Then a car with its headlights on, illuminating a boy pitching a baseball into the dark. They're all different styles, different color choices, but they're all dark palettes with limited light sources.

"See it yet?" asks the woman, from much closer than I remember, making me jump.

"They're all at night?"

"Mmhmm, people at night. Gives it a spot of new perspective, some interest."

I nod. There's an air of determination in these paintings, one that I'm drawn to. The pull of things happening when most of the world is resting

This is the kind of theme I would want to paint. It has echoes of Longfellow's poems, a confluence of multiple points of inspiration. I've never tried painting people, though I've always been drawn to portraits. I may be overconfident, but…how hard can it be?

Could I do something like this? Something that would be good enough to be displayed in a gallery? I'm barely getting back into it, I should probably practice more before I set my sights this high. Is that kind of pressure something I want to put on my art right now? But, then again, why hold back?

With a pounding heart, I casually ask, "Do you know if any new paintings are being accepted for this display?"

"Depends. I'm picky, but I'm open to one or two more."

"Oh, this is your gallery?" I ask, my heart pounding even harder. "It's stunning."

"Thank you, sweetheart," she replies with a grin.

"I'm an amateur artist, but my favorite thing to paint is nightscapes," I offer.

"Oh, how lovely. Well, for this display, I'm looking for paintings with a person or people as the focal point. Have you had people as your subject before?"

"No, the most recent series I did was the D.C. monuments at night." Recent being loosely used to mean over a year ago.

"That must have been special."

"I haven't painted for the last few months, so I feel rusty, but I'm so drawn to these colors and moods. There's a sense of perseverance that I admire."

"Yes! That's what I love too. It would be nicer for these folks to enjoy these things in the daytime, but they're doing what they have to. I'm Lorraine, by the way."

We shake hands as I say, "Tia. Nice to meet you."

"I love that you stopped in. I watched you scarf down that ice cream cone so you could come in and thought to myself, ‘Oh, good, she's an art lover.'"

I smile, a slight tinge of heat in my cheeks. "I am. I was so struck by this collection. I guess I would have expected more of the sea, lighthouses and sailboats, or the hotel, the beach."

"I'll tell you what, so many people have stopped by to take a look since I set up this collection. I think it's unexpected and welcome for being out of the ordinary."

"Are they all local artists?"

"Yes, from all over San Diego County."

I nod and study the boy throwing the baseball. Is that a subtle pattern of rain coming down in front of the headlights? So many details to take in and admire.

"Are you just visiting, then?" Lorraine asks.

"No, I'm here permanently now. I quit my East Coast life, and I'm living on Crown Island."

"Wonderful. You got here at the perfect time of year. It's shaping up to be an unparalleled summer, not too hot, not too cold. I expect we'll be busy."

I study the portrait of the mother and baby one more time. "I'd really love to do something in this theme, I just don't know if I can do it justice. I'll have to practice sketching people like that before I dive into a painting."

"Ooh, over here." Lorraine waves me towards the back of the gallery, to a painting that's facing the back wall.

This one is much more painterly, with broader brush strokes, more obvious layers—closer to my style. You can tell the subject is a medical professional in scrubs, drinking coffee at a diner counter, again in low lighting.

"Oh, I like this one," I whisper with appreciation.

"See what you can come up with," Lorraine offers. "I have a price cap of a thousand, but most of these are priced well below that."

My jaw falls open, then a laugh bubbles out. "I've never sold a painting, much less for that price."

"Oh, pish," Lorraine waves away my fears with a smile. "Selling one hundred or none has no bearing on talent."

My eyes roam over the gallery as a hopeful, determined sensation rises in me . I definitely want to have a painting in this gallery. "I'll be in touch. I might stop by every now and then to visit. I'm starting a job around the corner, at Cafe 22, so I'll be in the neighborhood."

"Look forward to seeing you, Tia," says Lorraine, sounding so genuine, it makes my heart squeeze with affection for her.

After one last slow spin to take in the beauty and thoughtfulness of the whole space, I wave goodbye. I'm a bundle of nerves, giddy with the thought of trying something new and challenging.

As I walk home, my excitement is tempered by an email notification from the office, asking if I have time to call and speak to Rich and Dan. Oh no. The nervous, giddy feeling from before is turning to nausea now. I might as well get this over with.

I dial Dan's office number right away and jump in as soon as he answers. "Hey, Dan, it's Tia. I got an email to call you?"

"Tia, yes. I just saw you're on vacation, right? Didn't mean to disrupt your time off. You know, we can have a conversation when you get back to the office."

"What's up, Dan?" Someone clears their throat in the background. "Is that Rich? Look, please tell me what's going on. Am I being let go?"

"Well…okay, no beating around the bush. Your position has been made redundant. Now, not to worry, we have a great severance package for you?—"

I pull the phone away from my ear and close my eyes with a smile, biting back a laugh of happy relief. Who knew getting let go could make my day?