Where do I go from here?

55 

She sat in the lone armchair in her balcony, as she watched the sun set and dip behind the picturesque cityscape that she called home. Usually, she viewed the skyscrapers that surrounded her lavish penthouse as monstrosities, products of a self-absorbed, overly indulgent society that poured out all their money into big buildings, big gestures, big things, these outward grandiosities, only to compensate for the things that made them feel small on the inside.

She was proud of everything she had accomplished, a successful career, a thriving social life, a healthy marriage, well-adjusted kids, a spacious home, what more could a person ask for?  But lately, she’d been facing a mid-life crisis of sorts, the question she’d keep asking herself was: “Where do I go from here?” When one has achieved everything one has hoped for, what’s next? What happens after the happily ever after?

She took a sip of the green tea she held in her hand, the same brand she’d consumed for years for “faster metabolism,” as if that mattered at this point in her life. She then closed her eyes and leaned further back in her chair as memories of her 25-year-old self flooded her mind.

25

Yet another late night. She highly doubted the caffeinated green tea would be enough to keep her awake, but it would have to do. The book wasn’t going to write itself. If she was honest with herself, the writing was juvenile. She knew she could do better, but for some reason every time she opened her laptop to write, the words that poured out were…. for a lack of a better word, basic. safe. Ordinary. 

She knew she was a good writer. It was the one skill that came easiest to her, and it’s the one skill she took the most advantage of. Writing college papers on subjects she had no clue about and still getting straight As because of the eloquent language. Writing love letters to partners she felt no particular strong feelings towards but the emotion of her writing shining through regardless. Making up stories to entertain her family. Entering story writing competitions because she was a shoo-in to win. It was her get out of jail free card. The one thing she knew that set her apart from everyone else. She couldn’t calculate numbers for shit, had no interest in the sciences, could care less about history or any of the other social sciences. Ah, but weaving stories from her head using words was different, that was magic. The magic she used to believe existed in the world as a child but had gotten rather disillusioned with over time.

Her phone buzzed. It was him. She sighed. Maybe she should just let it continue to ring. So, he’d assume she was busy or something. It was kinder than hanging up on him or worse, having a cursory conversation about things that didn’t really matter. Both of them forced a conversation while neither of them knew what they wanted. Lately their relationship or situation-ship or whatever it was between the two of them felt like an obligation, a chore. She didn’t know what happened. She knew the younger her would have stressed out about it. Spent hours deciphering the texts with friends wondering what he meant, and whether he was losing interest. Now she didn’t really care. Love was hardly a priority. She didn’t know what a priority was these days. 

Her publisher was excited about the book, which was surprising because her family thought quitting her well paid PR job to focus on writing full-time was a stupid decision. Sometimes she wondered if they’d think that if she was better off settled down with someone. Like everyone else in her family was. Maybe if she had a well-off husband or something, they wouldn’t mind her finding herself or dabbling in these hobbies or whatever. But she was technically alone. They didn’t know about him. And to be quite honest, she didn’t really want to tell them about a connection that was doomed to end before it began. One of them was going to end it. Her once romantic soul was now more focused on making sure this book came out right. Once it did, it would all fall into place. She’d be happy.

55

Her trip down memory lane was cut short by the sound of footsteps behind her. Quiet, steady footsteps. Her husband. He smiled as he took his own cup of coffee and sat on the armchair next to her. Two chairs. There was a time she genuinely thought that a one armchair-ed existence lay in front of her.

“Well, hello there, gorgeous,” he greeted her with a smile and those twinkling eyes of his that she loves so much. She’s a sucker for those eyes. Years have defined his boyish face with wrinkles and mild crow’s feet, but somehow these signs of maturity and his salt and pepper hair have made him even more attractive. She used to think the phrase “aging like fine wine” was ridiculous. But in his case, it was true. Kind of fitting that he was a sommelier in one of the best restaurants in the city.

“Am I interrupting your alone time or is it okay if I join you?” he says, despite already having taken his seat. She didn’t mind, her walls were usually up high, but over time as she had let more people in, she had grown softer. And with him, there were barely any secrets. Barely, in that she still kept some things to herself, partly to keep the mystery alive although she no longer was the sultry 27-year-old closed book who had waltzed into his restaurant all those years ago, and partly because she liked knowing that there were some things that were just hers.

“You’re always welcome, you know that,” she said to him with a loving smile as he grinned back and enveloped her tiny hand in his large one, making her feel as safe as he did the first time they met.

27

“How can you be so selfish? How can you not come back home for Christmas?” she heard her cousin bellow on the phone.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I have an entire book edit to prepare in like three days, and I have already told mom and dad I can’t make it. I’ll video call you guys and send flowers,” she snapped back, her heels clicking in annoyance as she paced the street lit up in orange streetlights that reminded her of home. 

“Yeah, because it’s always about you,” her cousin said, in a voice that used to make her feel guilty but now just infuriated her about how judge-y it was. How dare he assume he knew anything about her life?

“Actually, it’s not about me. I’ve already arranged to come back for New Years, even though my publisher is on my back for a second project so that I’m not a one hit wonder. I just broke up with Phil, and it’s fucking cold all the fucking time, and I just can’t seem to catch a break.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your problems are great indeed,” she heard her cousin snort derisively. “Being a successful writer in a big city, while you push away every relationship in your life. I hope you do get your big happy ending. I just hope it’s not at the cost of the people you love.”

She hung up the phone, as a lump formed in her throat. What was she doing wrong exactly? She was keeping in touch with her family. She was working on her career. She was going out and meeting new people. And yet, she was 27 and everyone seemed to be mad at her. Her family. Her publishers. Her ex. She sat on the curb and pulled out a cigarette. She didn’t smoke much, barring the occasional drunken nights, but tonight deserved a smoke. She had been battling a writer’s block for a while now, and a lot of her friends had moved away, either to new places for a change, or because of jobs or marriage. 

Her book was pretty successful, but she had been riding on the coattails of its waning success for a while now, and her publishers had gotten impatient. Not to mention, she felt lonely. She was tired of unfulfilling relationships, not that she’d admit that lest she be set up with some weirdo by her friends or family, or forced to join some dating app. She wanted to fall in love, but she wanted to do it organically.

“Excuse me, miss?” she heard a voice say behind her, as a young man approached her in trepidation. “I’m sorry but you’re sitting awfully close to our restaurant,” he said, pointing to a small outdoor eatery, lit up in Christmas lights, with a man playing a guitar serenading the tables. “And smoking isn’t really permitted. I’m sorry. It’s just I thought I’d warn you before my manager shooed you away. He’s a grumpy goose.”

“I don’t blame him,” she said, as she put out the cigarette on the curb, and then tossed the stub into a trashcan. “I feel like a grumpy goose these days too,” she said with a shrug, turning to face him with tired eyes.

And then she saw his. Kind. Open. Welcoming. A warm chocolate brown that appeared hazel in the streetlights. He smiled at her, not with sympathy but with intrigue.

“Ah well, I refuse to be surrounded by two grumpy gooses!” He wrinkled his nose. “Gooses? Or is it geese?”

She shook her head in amusement.  “It’s definitely geese. I’m a writer, I should know.”

“A writer. How interesting. What are you writing about right now?”

She smiled. “I don’t know.” She paused and loudly sighed. “But I’m pretty sure my muse is just around the corner,” she said, smiling cheekily at him. Despite her mood, he was cute, and she never passed up an opportunity to be flirtatious with the opposite sex. It was a skill that paid off when wooing clients as a PR person, and later in wooing publishers as an aspiring writer.

He cocked his eyebrows at her and gave her a flirtatious smirk back. “Or maybe, your muse is right in front of you.”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Arden, by the way.”

“Hello Arden, it’s nice to meet you,” she said as she stuck her hand out for it to be enveloped by his for the first time, but definitely not for the last. 

She had a feeling her luck was about to change. 

33

“And another thing, I think the arguing between the characters continues to create the sexual tension even after you’ve definitively broken them up, so fans will probably expect them to rekindle things,” her publisher told her on facetime, pushing the glasses further on his face, as he keenly observed the parts he had highlighted in her manuscript.

“Yes, I understand that, but I think romanticizing on again/off again dynamics sends the message to our readers that relationships are only fun when there’s drama and leads them to look at secure well-adjusted relationships as boring…and frankly…”

She cut herself off, hearing the baby cry. She sighed. She scheduled the call for midnight because the baby would be asleep and yet here, she is, crying like…a…well…baby.

“Honey, can you get Amber? I’m on the phone,” she called out from the study where she was in, but no answer. He was asleep. Of course, he was. Although he did do the day shift, so it was only fair it was her turn.

“I’m sorry Doug, but I have to go tend to my daughter. I’ll make the changes, maybe I don’t have to get them back together per se, but I could add like a drunken confession of feelings followed by a heart to heart the next day where they decide they’d be better off as friends,” she said hurriedly.

“Well, it’s your book. Good luck with the kid!” Doug said, as she hung up.

She crept into the nursery to see the baby had stopped crying and now miraculously was fast asleep. She stared at her innocent cherubic face for a second, just savoring this moment. Her whole life she was scared that being a mother would make her too soft and would reduce her drive to succeed.

If anything, Amber had spurred her on even more, to prove herself, to show her that they could have it all. Although, a supportive partner helped too. Her motivations and priorities had changed, but now she had new experiences to look forward to, her daughter’s first steps, the birth of her second child in about 6 months, celebrating her 5-year wedding anniversary soon, and the launch of her fourth book and her media production company.

She was content in her life, and while it was hard juggling motherhood and a career, she liked the challenge. She was excited to see what lay ahead.

55

“Do you sometimes wonder about what’s next?” she asked her husband now, as they both stared at the dusky sky in front of them, enjoying the orange hues slowly turn an ashy grey.

“Not really, it’s hard to visualize that when you are our age. I mean what IS next. Our kids are grown up. We’ve retired. We had good careers. I wasn’t ever as future oriented as you, you know. I sort of just go with the flow.”

“Yeah, I always was in such a rush to prove myself. The perfect writer. The perfect wife. The perfect mother. Now I don’t have a challenge. I have nothing to prove. I guess my question is what happens after the happy ending?” she said thoughtfully, downing the last of her green tea.

He smiled at her.

“Nothing. Now we finally get to enjoy the destination. After having gone through the journey. I mean, it’s better to have gone over the hill than under it, right?”

She smiled and squeezed his hand in assent. “I guess for once, I’m happy right where I am."