Life Without You

“Aren’t you forgetting about the money thing?” I asked, sure I was going to bring this idea crashing back to reality. “And what about interviews?”

“You do those over the phone most of the time, and you know it,” she retorted. She was determined to make me come around.

“Not always, Charlie. Sometimes I actually have to go to meet these people when I write an article. And besides, maybe I’m too busy with things to just pick up and pack up and go.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I could tell she was trying to muster every ounce of patience she had in her. And, as the mother of three small children, she had patience in spades.

“I know you have a lot of jobs going, Dellie, and I’m really proud of you for that. We’re all really proud of you,” she said gently. “But you need some time away from here, some space. Some fresh air, if you want to put it that way. It would be good for you to get out of your routine for a bit.”

“I happen to like routine,” I said, far from convinced by her argument and wanting desperately to get off the phone.

Charlie sighed. Clearly, this was not going the way she wanted it to.

Tough cookies.

“I know you do. But you’re also a slave to it, Odelle Simms. It controls you, rather than the other way around. You realize that, don’t you, Dellie?”

I glared down at my toes in frustration, feeling misunderstood and wishing I could glare at her in person. We may have lived only forty-five minutes from one another, but it was at times like this that those forty-five minutes seemed like light-years.

“If nothing else, maybe you could find some more people to write for—new magazines that would like to work with you?” she suggested, forced pleasantness creeping into her voice.

She was tiring of this argument as much as I was.

My mouth clamped shut, biting back my protest. I hadn’t actually thought about that. New contacts, new markets to reach. It was starting to sound interesting. Maybe she was onto something with that one. Still, the whole idea of this was overwhelming; there were far too many factors to weigh in, complications that could potentially tangle me up into a bigger mess than I already felt like I was in.

“Don’t put a limit on your dreams, Dellie,” Charlie said, breaking in to my rampant thoughts. “You got enough of that from your husband.”

The words felt like a slap in the face. A bucket of ice water.

My nose stung with looming tears.

“Don’t let him win this one,” she whispered. I could hear the tears in her voice, even with the phone line between us.

How did she do this to me? I wondered as water pooled in my eyes and trickled slowly down my cheeks.

“Charlie, I—” I sniffed, hearing my voice crack.

“Just think about it, please? Promise?”

I nodded into the phone, still staring down at my toes but no longer seeing them.

“Dellie?”

“I promise,” I squeaked back.

I knew, as I hung up, that this was one promise I would not easily break, as unsettling as the idea was for me. It was impetuous and adventurous, something I hadn’t allowed myself to be for a long time—even before I’d taken the walk down the aisle to start my short-lived failure of a marriage. This was one promise, one idea, that would haunt me for days, torturing my wakeful hours and whispering to me in my sleep.

Don’t limit your dreams, Dellie, I heard a voice whisper. Let go and dream them.

Chapter Two (#ulink_c4e463a7-f4f5-5a88-929f-7d3d4efdd6b8)

“My sister thinks I need a vacation. A long one. Like, a month-long one,” I said to my friend Bette a week later over lunch.

She looked up from the plateful of fries she was attacking, one eyebrow arched.

“And this surprises you, why?” she asked around a mouthful.

I put down my sandwich to reach for a sweating glass of water, not thirsty but feeling a bit unsettled and trying to figure out as many ways as I could to stall. It was a mystery even to me why I had brought up the subject at this point. I had danced myself right in front of the firing squad, so I guess I deserved her pointed question. Not that it really was all that pointed or unreasonable.

In fact, it was more than logical.

For most people, it might have even been a simple question. But right then, I was so confused about what I wanted and how I felt about the whole thing that the most uncomplicated inquiry could send me off-kilter.

I left the glass where it sat, puddling moisture on the tabletop, and traced a finger down the side, keeping my focus fixed on it. Anything to avoid her green-eyed gaze.

I shrugged.

“Come on, Dellie. Really,” she said, exasperation thick in her voice. “How long have I been telling you the same thing? You work too much, and you don’t do anything with anyone anymore.”

My eyes shot up to her face, a protest ready to spring from my lips. “Yes, I—”

“No, you don’t,” she cut in, poking a fry in my direction and shaking it for emphasis. “You don’t. Every time I ask you to come do something with me, you tell me you have work to do.” She pouted, her lipstick still perfect even though she’d eaten her way through half a plate of fries. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like doing things with me.”

“No, Bette,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all, and you know it.”

She dunked the French fry in a pool of ketchup before popping it into her mouth.

“Well, then you’re going to have to show me. Otherwise, I will not be convinced,” she said, shaking her head. “In the meantime, back to the vacation thing. Your sister thinks it. I think it. And I know your parents think it.” She tilted her head to the side, her jewel-like eyes boring into me. “So why do you seem so…defensive about whole idea? Most people would just say, ‘Yes, I agree,’ or ‘No, go to hell,’ and move on.” She finished chewing and swallowed, pausing thoughtfully. “But you? You act like we’re telling you we think you need to move to Uganda or something.”

I shot her a look.

She shrugged again. “Okay, maybe not Uganda. But something risky or life-altering. We’re talking about a vacation,” she emphasized. “A break, you know? Something most people enjoy and recharge with.”

“Uh-huh, most people,” I shot back, picking up my fork to poke through the lettuce in my salad, in search of peppers. “And when was the last time my life resembled most people’s?”

“So maybe a vacation could be your reset button, and you could start having a somewhat normal life?” she posed.

I speared my salad, giving up on the peppers and shaking my head.

“A vacation isn’t a magical cure-all, Bette. And there are things that I can’t just leave here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, many things.”

Bette ran a hand through her very thick, very raven hair to tuck it behind a heavily pierced ear.

“Name one.”