Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Mason mutters, shaking his head before turning back to his building.
If I were Lauren or someone braver, I would go after him. I’d stop him, ask him exactly what he means. Ask him if he wants me to stay. If he likes me more than a one-night thing. I’d risk the rejection. But I’m not. I’m Liberty, and I should have never thought that I could handle this. I should’ve known that I couldn’t even do a hot one-night stand right. I should’ve known that I’d fuck it up.
I get into the cab and hide the fact that I’m crying all the way back to my tiny apartment. The apartment I’ll never be able to afford now.
I should’ve known that this was all out of my reach.
Chapter Ten
“So, I’ll come home. You were right. New York is just… too much. It was a stupid idea. There are only a few weeks left in the semester. I’ll move home, take a semester off and re-apply for the graduate program at the University of Iowa.”
My monologue is met with crickets. I’ve called my sister, spilling my guts out about Mason and all my self-doubts. About all the ways staying in New York would be stupid. About ever fear I’ve had since I’ve been rambling for twenty minutes while she listens.
“Rent is so much cheaper in Iowa City,” I add, as if that’s not a foregone fact to literally everyone. “And I really miss the chicken salad at Cortado’s.”
“You miss,” my sister replies slowly, “the chicken salad at Cortado’s.”
“You know I love how they warm the chicken first,” I mutter.
“Absolutely,” Charity finally replies, when I’ve run out of things to say and the silence has become a long unbearable pause between us. “You should definitely come home.”
“Exactly,” I nod on my end of the line, even though she can’t see me. I’m relieved by the permission to quit. But also… not? It doesn’t feel quite as good as I’d thought it would. I thought Charity’s agreement would quiet all the doubt floating around in my brain. The doubt screaming at me that I’m fucking this up and making a huge mistake.
“I was on the fence about what you should do,” she continues, “but now that you’ve explained that you miss the food, you should definitely quit your graduate program one semester in and leave New York city, with it’s limited food options.”
Okay. She’s being sarcastic.
“By all means, one semester in seems like the perfect time to quit. And Mason,” she pauses speaking to make a barfing noise into the phone, “he sounds just awful. Totally repulsive. You definitely dodged a bullet there.”
I sigh. If a loud grumble of an exhale can be qualified as sighing.
A moment later Charity hangs up on me. Right after stating that she’s not related to a quitter pants.
It’s official.
I’ve made a huge mistake.
On Monday, I watch the time on my phone click right past seven. I watch it, estimating the time Mason will be putting on his tie. When he’ll grab his jacket. When he’ll get in the elevator. I keep watching the time as I imagine him getting to the office. Eight a.m. Then eight-thirty. Usually, this is when he’d send his first text about Velvet. But now, there’s nothing.
No directives telling me to take the stroller to a museum or instructions to compile a report on the best infant swimming instructors in Manhattan. No mid-day deliveries of organic apples along with a state-of-the-art food processor and a note about the health benefits of making your own baby food.
I miss it.
I miss him.
Worst of all, it’s all my fault.
It’s my fault, and I’m the only one who can fix it. Or at least attempt to.
Knowing that, I shower and get ready, thankful that my roommates are already gone so that I don’t have to endure any more pitying glances. They don’t even know exactly what happened, but they know I fucked up. Ugh.
Slipping on a cotton dress paired with a cardigan, I miss Mason all over again. My outfit is very librarian today, from the knee length to the ballet flats to the glasses sliding down my nose. It’s exactly the kind of outfit he’d make a comment about, insisting I was attempting to seduce him with my librarian charms.
I never was, obviously. I was just being myself.
And Mason liked me, just as I was.
I see that now, or at least I think I do. I’m still a simmering ball of insecurity—I can’t work miracles on myself in a single weekend, after all. But I’ve been thinking. Mentally reviewing the past few weeks. The things Mason said, and, more importantly, the way he made me feel.
So, as I see it, I have two options.
And neither of them are running home to Iowa.
Sisters, am I right? But… it forced me to take a long hard look at myself. To remember why I came to New York in the first place. To get out of my comfort zone. To experience life. To take chances.