Beach Glass (4 page)

BY EARLY MONDAY morning, I’m getting used to my eyes being puffed up to twice their size from crying all night, and I’ve made up my mind. Money or no money, I need to get out of this tiny, lonely apartment and go visit my sister and her family and be distracted from the sound of my silent cell phone before I go crazy-ass crazy. Or even crazier.

A spark of excitement brings me back to life as I turn on my laptop. I’m not a big traveler by nature, but this is what I need—to get away. I can’t wait to get to the airline website page I bookmarked and buy that plane ticket. I have my credit card ready, though it may scream when I use it. I’ll figure out how I’m going to make the payment later. I click on the link—and then watch in horror as the page updates to a new, much higher fare.

No, no,
no
! Why did I wait? Why didn’t I just buy the ticket last night? Why did Daniel give me a watch instead of a ring and ruin my life forever?! Just then, my phone rings. My heart goes wibbly, thinking
It’s him!
But when I pick up my cell, there’s a number on the screen that I don’t recognize. “Hello?”

“Katy? It’s Dina Bradley. Remember me? We worked together at
Flash
Magazine?”

“Dina! Of course I remember you!” I have a sudden memory of sitting with Dina Bradley in a windowless room at
Flash
, a fashion magazine. We had to write captions for hundreds of runway photos, and she almost made me spit up my latte with her impersonations of model walks, especially the one we called The Hungry Angry Pony.

“Katy, I tried calling you over at Wakefield Media, but they said you weren’t there anymore,” Dina says. “Did you tell those shady bastards to shove that proofreading job and decide to give your own writing a shot?”

“Not by choice,” I admit. “I got laid off about a year ago, and I’ve been freelancing ever since. How about you? You’re not still at Flash, are you?”

“Ugh, no,” Dina snorts. “It was no fun after you left, and when you see camouflage Capri pants come back for the third time as a trend, you’ve been in the fashion business too long. I’m at
Bon Voyage
, the travel website.”

“Ooh, I love that site. It’s the best armchair travel ever. The photos are amazing, and the stories always sound like they’re written by real people.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling you,” Dina says. “Are you free for lunch?”

DINA AND I make “Squee!” noises and give each other a huge, girly hug when I get to the company cafeteria at the
Bon Voyage
offices. We pick up two Diet Cokes and two Greek salads, even though I catch myself drooling at the sight of the Sloppy Joe with fries. Having worked at women’s magazines since I graduated from college, I can attest to the fact that nobody eats, and all anybody talks about is what they’re not eating. I guess it’s not that different at websites.

“So, here’s what I’m working on,” Dina says, stabbing at her lettuce with a plastic fork. “Emerald Cove, a surfing and yoga camp on a black sand beach in Costa Rica.” My mouth is full, so I just widen my eyes, nod, and wait for her to continue. “Do you know Brigitte Kirke, the photographer?” Dina asks.

“Yeah, I met her a couple of times at the women’s magazine. She’s awesome. I always wanted to hang out with her, but she’s married and lives in the ‘burbs.”

“Plus she had the baby,” Dina adds between quick sips of her soda. “Well, he’s about two now, I think.” Another person my age, hitched and having kids. I wonder if it would be unprofessional to weep in my salad. “Anyway,” Dina continues, “the story’s totally easy. Fly to Costa Rica, learn to surf, do a little yoga. What do you think?”

“It sounds amazing,” I say, getting slightly bitter that Dina’s bragging about her assignment, which sounds like a dream vacation. Well, not the surfing part, but whatever.

“I know, it’s really cool,” she says, smiling. “I’m glad you’re up for it.”

A tomato falls off my fork, as if it’s as shocked as I am. “Wait. You want
me
to do the story?”

Dina peers at me from behind her nerd-chic glasses. “Uh,
yah
, Katy, that’s why I’m telling you all of this.”

While that makes total sense, I’m still blinking stupidly over all of it. A top-rated website wants me to surf and do yoga for a week in Costa Rica and write about it, and they’ll pay me? The check would take care of my bills
and
a plane ticket to see my sister.

And yet, I don’t hear myself saying yes.

“Dina, this sounds amazeballs, but I have to be honest, I don’t know if I’m your girl. I have no idea how to surf. My idea of athleticism is reading a book while sitting up. And I’m not very outdoorsy. Isn’t Costa Rica, like, all jungle, all the time?”

Dina laughs. “Well, most of Costa Rica is still pretty rugged. There
are
jungles and rain forests, volcanoes, and some of the most beautiful beaches you’ll ever see. Unfortunately, there are also a ton of developers building huge hotels and condos there. We want to get a story about this place before Costa Rica becomes a big touristic theme park. Besides,” she continues, “you’re not supposed to know how to surf. That’s the point of writing an article about going to a surf camp. And I remember you like yoga.”

“I love yoga,” I say. “It’s good for people like us who sit all day, and it really calms me down.” I could use some yoga right now, actually, as I feel like this conversation is going ninety miles an hour.

“Well, what is a surfboard but a hard, floating yoga mat?” Dina reasons.

“That’s moving at high speed,” I say.

Dina shrugs. “If you don’t want to do it
 . . .
”

“No! I totally want to do it,” I insist. “I just don’t want to promise something I can’t deliver.”

“Katy, you can handle this. I called you because you write well, not because you’re the Sportswoman of the Year.” Dina puts down her soda and says, “There are just two things.”

There’s
more
than the jungle and surfing? “Okay, tell me.”

“First, you have to go incognito,” Dina begins. “The reason
Bon Voyage
stories work is because our reporters pose as regular people. They don’t tell the hotels and resorts that they’re writing for a travel website, so they don’t get extra-special treatment in exchange for a good review. You’ll have to come up with a cover story. You can be anything but a writer.”

“That kind of sounds like fun,” I say. “What’s the other thing?”

Dina winces. “You have to leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Like,
tomorrow
tomorrow?”

She nods. “Right after we spoke a big story fell through, and we need this one to take its place. I was going to call and tell you to stay home and start packing, but you’d already left. Katy, it’s good money for a fun assignment, and you’d really be helping us out. Please tell me you don’t have any work or vacations or weddings on your calendar this week.”

This morning, all I wanted to do was go visit my sister and glue my broken heart back together with Fluffernutter sandwiches. Now, I’m heading to the wilds of Costa Rica tomorrow (
tomorrow
!) to learn how to surf, something I’ve never wanted to do before.

I tell Dina I’ll clear my schedule completely for this great assignment, which sounds better than saying I have absolutely nothing going on. Especially not a wedding.

WIDE-EYED AND slack-jawed, I wander out of the
Bon Voyage
offices and into the crisp, early fall weather. My breakup sadness has been replaced with a new feeling, a mashup of dazed panic. Two days ago, I had a boyfriend and a possibly too-quiet life, but I liked it that way. Now I’m single, and apparently I’m about to go on an adventure, one where I have to leap from my calm yoga mat onto a speeding surfboard.

It’s after lunchtime in midtown, so hundreds of people are scurrying back to their offices or cubicles, just like the one I used to sit in, where I read dreamily about women who went on adventures. They all sounded so exciting, but I’ll bet those women had more than twenty-four hours to prepare for their trips. My priority right now should really be packing, but I need a little walk to try to get a grip on where fate is taking me.

I’m a big believer in fate. I like to think everything happens for a reason, that there’s a grand plan and that life isn’t frighteningly random. I think this way even when the results aren’t apparently in my favor, like when I was let go from my job, but my belief in fate is especially strong when the outcome is good.

The way I met Daniel was totally fate at work. When I was at the fashion magazine, there was an upcoming cover story on the Wailing Walls, a stylish band whose singer was launching a clothing line. At the last minute, the writer got sick, and they gave me the assignment. My first official writing job!

The interview was at a recording studio. A tall, very cute guy was heading out just as I was coming in, but after he held the door for me, he turned right around and walked back inside. He held the elevator door for me, too (good manners = sexy), and as we rode up to the same floor, I sneaked a long peek at him. He was adorable, with straight black hair long enough in the front to fall into his dark, bedroomy eyes. His beard-scruff didn’t hide the dimple on his chin. He was wearing cool sneakers, black jeans, and a striped dress shirt with a loose tie. His rolled up shirtsleeves showed a tattoo of a cartoon superhero mouse, grinning at me. The guy was like the boy next door trying to be bad.

When he saw that we were heading toward the same studio, he introduced himself, though he spoke so softly he had to say again, “I’m Daniel.” He held my hand for that telling extra second when we shook.

“Thought you were going out to lunch,” the record producer said to Daniel as he led me into the studio.

“Change of plans,” Daniel said. I caught him looking at me and smiling shyly.

The interview with the band was great, but I was even more excited when Daniel offered to walk me out, and when we exchanged phone numbers. Five minutes after I left, he called and asked me out.

On our third date, when I couldn’t wait any longer to sleep with him (and he wholeheartedly approved of that decision), we went over all the coincidences that led to our “chance” meeting. The reporter who was supposed to do the story got sick, so I got it instead. Daniel had been scheduled to work the evening shift at the studio, but just that morning, he got called to come in early. And if I’d come in a few minutes later, or if he’d gone out to lunch a moment earlier, we never would have met. “It’s all so random,” Daniel said as he kissed my neck.

“It’s not random at all,” I insisted, thinking I’d just met my future husband. “It’s fate.”

Then again, considering how the story has ended, maybe it wasn’t fate after all.

Looking up at billboards for Broadway plays, I realize I’ve wandered from office-filled midtown to tourist-filled Times Square. As I walk past shops selling electronics, souvenirs, and trendy clothes, I feel like maybe fate is making a big, splashy, Vegas-style comeback. Sure, I’m a little freaked out about leaving for Costa Rica tomorrow, and about where I’m going—a
surf
camp? Me? But I did say I needed to get away, and all of a sudden, I’m taking a trip that will not only get me out of the house—out of the
country
, even—but I’m getting paid for it. How can this be anything but the strange and wonderful forces of fate at play? The only weird thing is where I’m going. Maybe fate misheard me. California, Costa Rica
 . . .
they kind of sound the same. And broken-hearted, broke-in-wallet beggars can’t be choosers.

I know I should head toward the train to get home and start packing. Instead, my black ballerina flats are striding purposefully toward one of the biggest stores in Times Square, a shop that sells surf-themed beach gear. This is my chance to do some retail therapy and be properly prepared for my trip. Given my financial situation, or lack thereof, I shouldn’t be buying new clothes. But the only bikini I have is so sexy-skimpy that the first decent wave will render me topless, and it’s the one I wore on my last vacation with Daniel. Too little fabric, too many memories.

Besides, I have an idea.

WHEN I GET home, I shrug off my sensible gray, please-hire-me business dress and lay my new surf gear out on my bed. I got a cute white halter bikini top and red board shorts, which, together, are a great combination of sexy-sporty. There was a sweet teal sundress I know I’ll live in, an ivory hoodie for cool nights, and a pair of gold strappy sandals in case I need something dressier than flip flops.

I do my little fashion show, and everything fits perfectly. And it looks right on me, even though it’s not my usual uniform of yoga clothes or fashion magazine castoffs. I put the bikini top and shorts back on, and then I let my hair out of its ponytail. It looks a little messy but good. Like a woman who’s up for anything.

My friend and now editor Dina said I’m supposed to create a different persona for the trip, to be someone else. Okay, now I
look
different. I wonder if I can feel different, too.

The woman who’s looking back at me in the mirror doesn’t seem like the type who would be sad. She’s not a girl whose boyfriend would walk away instead of proposing. She’s not the person who knew she wanted to be a writer but never said anything about it while she worked at a job she didn’t love. No, she’d be having adventures and writing about them. She’d live her life, not wait for things to happen to her.

She looks confident. She’s adventurous and spontaneous, which I’m not, even on a good day, but dammit, I can learn. She’s ready to try new things, like surfing. Looking at my new persona in the mirror, I see something in this woman’s eyes. She’s not the type to wait for someone else to decide her future. She’d go for what she wants.

Wow. I like her. I want to be her.

I go to my shopping bags and get out the pretty, new beaded journal I got for the trip. I’m bringing my computer, but I have no idea how jungle-esque this surfing and yoga place is going to be or if I’ll even be able to charge my computer. Good ol’ paper and pen never need to be plugged in.

I want to be a writer, telling people’s stories. Maybe I can write a new story for myself. I jump on the bed and turn to the blank, creamy first page, the page I’m going to use to create the person I’ll be at the surf and yoga camp.
I write down all the things I was thinking when I looked at that woman in the mirror.
Confident. Spontaneous. Adventurous and carefree.

But when
I look at the words, they feel as foreign to me as the idea of going to another country and learning how to surf. I’m so not any of those attributes right now, on the tail end of a breakup and with this important trip looming. This assignment could be the start of something great for me as a writer, so I really can’t screw it up.

Well, I can act like I’m this new version of Katy. Or try to. Really hard. Sure, I can do this. If I can’t be her, I can be like her.

HOURS LATER, though, I’m still me.

I had every intention of packing and going to bed early so I could be fresh for my trip. Instead, it’s almost midnight, and my clothes are all over the place because I’m freaking out about the trip, the assignment, my life, everything. Did I pack an extra pair of contact lenses? Can I actually write a travel feature about surfing? And a good one? Not helping matters is my iPod’s insistence on playing only sad love ballads that are making me cry.

I wouldn’t be so nervous if Daniel were here. He knows exactly how to calm me down. All he does is wrap his arms around me and give me one of his endless hugs. He’s warm, he rocks me slightly back and forth, and he’s never the first to let go.

Cue fresh tears. Sadness and nervousness are a bad cocktail that make me hit the wine, and it only takes me half a glass to break down and call Daniel.

He picks up with a quick, “Hi.” Not his standard
Hey pretty Katy
, but the kind of
Hi
that says things have changed.

“Hi,” I answer, just as awkwardly. “Are you busy at work or something?”

“Yeah. Well, not at the moment. I’m on dinner break,” he says. “Not really hungry, though.”

I wait for him to say something, but eventually I have to break the silence. “Aren’t we supposed to be having a painful discussion about our relationship right about now?” I say, trying to make a joke.

“Katy, you told me we were through,” Daniel says, the hurt in his voice clear. “That unless we were going to get married, move in, and get pregnant, all right this minute, that we were over. Has any of that changed?”

Pacing the short distance of my apartment, I feel my face go hot. What I want, when Daniel says it, sounds like so much, even to me. Yet when I come to a stop in front of the mirror, what comes out is, “No.”

There’s a sigh on the other end. “But all of that would turn our lives upside down! Does everything have to change, and overnight? Do we even have enough money between the two of us to raise a child properly?”

“Other people get by,” I say feebly.

“So we’ll figure it out as we go along at the kid’s expense,” Daniel snaps. “And where would we live?”

“Your place is big enough.”

“I have a roommate who’s on the lease for another year,” he answers. “He’s on tour now. What do I do, send him a text that says, ‘Dude, your stuff’s in storage, and you’re homeless because my girlfriend put a gun to my head’?” When I don’t answer, Daniel says, “Look, Katy, we can take this in stages. You could move in for the time Chris is on tour. Then we can figure out where to live, all the other things. I just feel like doing everything so suddenly is going to make us implode!”

“Daniel, everything you’ve said sounds logical and practical, and like another way of saying you’re not ready. I know you’re freaked out about marriage and children, but I don’t know when you’re going to feel safe enough to take the next step. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for you to start yours!”

The truth leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I wish I hadn’t said this. I’m glad I did. I feel horrible. I feel liberated.

After a long moment, Daniel says, “You’re right.”

A spark of hope flares. “Then
 . . .
you’ll do this with me?”

“Katy,” he says, and the way he says my name, the spark dies. “I’m not ready. If you’d just
 . . .
” He sighs again. “It’s too much all at once. My parents rushed into things, and I saw what it did to them and to me. I feel like I’m going to lose you if I do this, and you’re telling me I’ll lose you if I don’t do it. Maybe it’s better to lose you now, when you’ll hate me less.”

My face twists with a fresh sob. “This isn’t the way we were supposed to happen.”

“I have to go back to work,” he murmurs. “I’ll—” He stops short of signing off with our usual
Talk to you later.
Instead, his strangled final words are, “Katy, I love you. Always.”

I don’t know how to respond, and he hangs up before I can.