A heavy feeling is still sitting on my chest, and it has everything to do with how much I’m not looking forward to telling everyone that I’m a jobless, undatable loser and I guess Mason was right for being embarrassed to be seen with me when we were in high school.
I don’t wear mismatching clothes and tell people to call me Luna Lovegood anymore, but the sentiment is still the same.
Yes, I’m being dramotional again.
Deciding to look for apartments now that I have a clear head, I open up my laptop and go back to the new ones I looked at last night. Maybe I got the prices wrong in my sangria-hazed state of mind.
I didn’t.
The apartments are gorgeous, but way overpriced for Silver Ridge. We’ve grown a lot in the last few years, but I just can’t see people paying that much to live in our humble downtown, which I’m already biased toward.
“What about houses to rent?” I mumble out load as I type in a new search. There are two nearby and are affordable, but don’t allow pets. Well, that’s out.
“Oh! This one allows cats!” I click on the picture and flip through the images, almost able to see myself living inside the quaint Craftsman-style house, sitting in that window seat with a book in my hand.
And then realize the listed rent didn’t include utilities. Talk about misleading. I close my computer, needing a mental break, and try not to feel too sick about not getting a paycheck next Friday.
I’m going to have to start cutting things out and stick to a strict budget. Dad taught us to live below our means, since he and Mom struggled financially when they were newlyweds. They’re well-off now, but it wasn’t without years of struggle.
I’ve been a little lenient on my budget lately, going out to eat, getting Starbucks a few times a week and online shopping. But I had a good job that paid well.
I’ll get one again.
I close my eyes, blinking away tears, and repeat it in my head. I will get another job. I have an impressive resume. I’ll find something, and it might not be my dream job, working in the OR again, but it will be something.Snow crunches under my tires, and my Grand Cherokee rolls to a stop behind Sam’s BMW. Mason’s Range Rover is next to his, making the snowy driveway look like a photoshoot from a car magazine. But then I see Jacob’s truck pulled to the side and laugh. It’s covered in mud, blocking out most of the lettering on the driver’s side door that reads Jacob Harris, DVM.
I put my Jeep in park and run my hand through my hair, hoping that if I look put together, everyone will assume I’m all there mentally as well. I feel better than I did this morning, mostly because I’m not hungover anymore.
A blast of cold air greets me as soon as I step out of the Jeep. I flip my hood up and hurry into the house. I pull open the garage door, stepping aside to let the barn cats sneak in to get warm before they make the run from the back porch to the barn later when Dad goes out to feed the animals.
The house smells amazing as soon as I step inside, and I immediately feel ten times better just to be back in my childhood home. I have a lot of good memories here, and though I was bullied more than I wasn’t in my youth, my home life was always safe and comforting.
“Hello?” I call, stomping snow off my boots. I kick them off, grimacing when I step on a ball of snow and my sock gets wet.
“Rory?” Mom calls back, sounding like she’s in the living room. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I unzip my coat and shake my foot, getting all the snow off as I walk in through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
“I thought you were working until seven.”
I glance at the clock. It’s a little after five. “I was.” I swallow hard, feeling the lump rising in my throat. My family isn’t judgmental—at least not toward each other—but I still can’t help but feel embarrassed. “But I don’t have a job anymore.”
There. I said it. Ripped it off like a band-aid.
Mom, who was going around the island counter to pour me a cup of coffee, stops short. “What?”
“The new company that bought out the hospital made a lot of cuts. And I was one of the lucky one.”
“Oh, honey!” Mom sets the coffee pot back down and comes over, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward already. “I’ll find something new, I’m sure.”
“You will. You’re a smart girl. And maybe you can get better hours. You always worked so much.”