“You know…like those priceless commercials. Ice skates, fifty bucks. Ice skating with your kids, priceless.”
“You’ve lost it. The man I knew, who’s been my best friend since high school, is gone. I don’t know who the hell you are.”
Quint laughed again. “It’s love, man. It changes you. Pretty soon you’ll be quoting this stuff back to me.”
“No, Quint. I won’t be.” It felt good to laugh, even for a few minutes, but the reality was, things weren’t going to work out between me and Mila like they had for Quint and Darrow.
“How did you leave things?”
“I left her at the airport.” I knew that wasn’t what my friend meant, but I was done talking about it. “I’m gonna ride out.”
“I’ll go with you.”
42
Mila
Home, I thought, looking out the plane’s window as we made our descent into Logan. I couldn’t wait to stop at my favorite market and pick up some fresh seafood, go home, and relax in the oasis I’d created for myself in my four-hundred-square-foot apartment.
It might take me some time to get used to the fact that I could sit in front of my air conditioner in my bra and panties if I wanted to without worrying that someone was about to invade my
privacy.
Tomorrow, after I unpacked and did some laundry, I’d look for a new job. It didn’t matter that I didn’t need the money; my life had never been about money.
If there was ever a perfect illustration of money not buying happiness, it would be my father’s life. In the end, it was his money that was his downfall.
As I walked through security and out of the terminal, I looked at the people holding signs with the names of those they were picking up. It wasn’t the first time since I left Texas that I felt the stabbing pain of missing Decker. That began as soon as he drove away after dropping me off at the curbside check-in. Even though it made no sense for him to do so, and I had no right to expect it, part of me thought he’d park and walk me in. When I leaned over to kiss him goodbye, he turned just slightly and kissed my cheek.
Looking out the window as the driver of the car service I’d called from the airport pulled up in front of my building, I didn’t feel the same giddy anticipation as when I’d gazed at the city from the plane. And when I got out of the car, the driver popped the trunk but didn’t get out to help me with my bag. That never would’ve flown in Texas.
I walked down the three steps that led from the sidewalk to the building’s entrance. Had it always been this dirty and grungy? I fiddled with the key that I’d forgotten always stuck, and when I stopped to get my mail, there was a card in it saying I had to pick it up from the post office since it had been full to over-flowing.
Instead of climbing the stairs, I took the elevator. By the second floor, I remembered why I rarely did in the past. It smelled. Horribly, in fact.
These were all things I knew, even if they hadn’t been at the forefront of my memory. That was why I’d painstakingly decorated my apartment in a way that would transport me from the griminess of the city.
I unlocked the door and stood on the threshold, waiting for that feeling of peace to envelop me. It didn’t. My decor didn’t look cool; it looked old, and not in a good way like that of the house off Old Austin Highway.
Leaving my bag next to the closet door, I went into the kitchen and saw my geraniums were dead, and looking out at my tiny patio, I saw the bougainvillea was dead too. It was to be expected; I’d been gone over a month, but still, looking at the sorry state of the place I’d consider my oasis, left me feeling depressed.
The next day, when I picked up my mail, there was another letter from Northeastern College of Music in the pile, this time saying they’d changed their mind and were renewing my contract, after all.
Instead of feeling elated, it pissed me off. First of all, the semester was about to begin and I was completely unprepared. Second, why did they put me through all the worry if they were going to change their mind?
I dropped the rest of the mail on the table inside the door to my apartment and then walked the two blocks to Northeastern’s faculty administration building.
“Miss Knight, it’s so good to see you,” proclaimed the receptionist who’d barely looked up from her desk the last time I was there and certainly hadn’t known my name.
“Um…yeah…hi. I received this letter and—”
“Mila, welcome back,” said Dr. Statler, head of my department, as he came out of the provost’s office. “Great timing. Come in. Dr. Berry would love to get the chance to talk with you since you’re here.”
What the fuck was going on? Before I’d gotten the letter saying they weren’t renewing my contract, I’d been an adjunct instructor, aka lowest on the totem pole. Why then, did the provost want to talk to me?
“Come in,” repeated the provost, who I’d never met before.
“Dr. Berry, may I present Mila Knight. She is the associate professor candidate I mentioned—also an NMC alum.”