Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) (27 page)

“Or maybe you should’
ve answered the phone all those times I tried calling YOU.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me Laura, there are some things
even a best friend shouldn’t see. Like hours of continuous sobbing...” I shuddered at the memory.

“
Well it’s all in the past, okay?” She smiled at me reassuringly. “So now what?” She started sipping her coffee casually, the cloud in the air finally lifted.

“Well...
at first I thought I’d be clueless and hopeless without him, but surprisingly I have it figured out.”

“Oh?” She looked intrigued.

I nodded. “So here’s a summary of the things I’m sick of: a lazy boss who wears man-heels, parents who will be totally disappointed in me until the day I marry a nice Indian boy---which is NOT going to happen---and not having enough time to write.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god...I
think I know what you’re about to say.”

I smile
d. “Yes...Paris. Obviously I can’t afford a work visa, not to mention the idea is to have free time...so I’ll just have to live off the money I save.” I paused and started doing some math in my head. “Which means I might go broke if the book sales dry up, but then I remembered I get a pay-out of investments when I quit...”

“Oh my god! When is this happening?”

“It’ll be a couple of months before the paperwork is done, but June is way too early to leave.” I shook my head. “I’d like to save some money first, in case the book sales don’t stay steady. So I’m thinking...September? Autumn in Paris!”

Laura smiled warmly. “I’m so proud of you. And oh my god I’m gonna
miss you! How long will you be gone for?”

“Well without having a job in Paris
, I’ll have enough money for eight or nine months. Barely. But that’s the worst case scenario where I don’t finish my next book and get more money from that...which by the way I will totally finish!”

She squealed. “That’s amazing!
And oh...what’s the sequel about?”

“Well I was thinking...you don’t just have the most amazing experience of your life and
let it gather a bunch of dust, do you?” I winked at her, which turned out awkward since I really didn’t know how to wink. “So yeah, this insane and unexpected year? That’ll be my writer’s inspiration.”

“N
ow that is one book I can’t wait to read,” she said. “So when are you going to tell your parents?”

I practically choked on my cappuccino. “Give me some time to figure that one out.”

Operation: “don’t let them kill you” begins...

Chapter Twenty-Six

My thirtieth birthday was a bad number. A poisonous number.

I didn’t mind being thirty at all, and according to my plans it was going to be the best year ever.

According to my parents however, my age reeked hard of expired milk.

No matter how disappointed my parents were, they’d always manage to get us kids a grocery store birthday cake each year, which we’d always have to awkwardly cut as a family. Things were no different this time, as I sat in a chair with a confetti vanilla birthday cake before me. When we were younger, my parents used to buy those candles that were shaped like numbers to signal our age, but once our ages had become too embarrassing (
twenty-six
), they’d resorted to the single ambiguous candle.

My sister, b
rother, brother-in-law and parents sang “Happy Birthday” to me in a mixture of monotone (my brother) and off-key (my sister) tones, after I blew out the candle and made my wish of escape.

My parents handed me an envelope and kissed me on either cheek. I opened it to find the usual “
To the most amazing daughter in the world
” card, rich in calligraphy and flowers, even though the words in the manufactured greeting were never once acknowledged in real life. I also found a fifty-dollar bill as was custom.
Booze money.
 

Before I could even cut the cake
, my mother looked up to the heavens. “Just let her get married this year.”

Right.

This wasn’t the best day to be starting any family drama---like how I wanted to escape to Paris and live out my dreams---especially not when I hadn’t even processed my visa (a visa I’d be picking up in person at the French embassy, since I knew how much my parents liked opening my mail as a personal favour). Instead I ate my cake in silence, smiling when I thought I should smile at my brother-in-law Anil’s lame jokes, and counting down the months to the start of my scandalous life...

***

My real birthday present came a few days later, when I received an e-mail from a France. It was about the apartment I’d been trying to secure in Paris’s Latin Quarter. They had just received my deposit which made it official:
I have a place to stay in September!
I’d found the apartment through an online agency that specialized in long-term rentals, and discovered this little jewel at a rate I could actually afford (thanks to book sales that were still holding steady). The place was fully-furnished but tiny, and thankfully it had its own private bathroom (my research had alerted me to several apartment listings that said “shared bathroom” in the tiniest font). The apartment didn’t have an oven or full stove, but one cooking ring would be enough for me to sauté the hell out of anything.
Though I guess I won’t be baking cookies for a year.

Perhaps the best part of all was that the place was right above
a cute café that had a lovely terrace.

Parfait!

***

Two months later
...

With my apartment in place, my book royalties growing in my bank account, and the income from my investments finally calculated  (a number I’d secretly obtained without my boss finding out), I finally had my long-term visitors’ visa.

This
meant the time to break the news to my parents had arrived.

Each night before this day of doom, I’d been praying that my sister would announce a pregnancy, since being a grandparent was the ultimate self-actualization of an Indian adult.
But nooo...my sister just has to stay carefree and childless! Damn her.

It was just
as well, because if ever there was a time when the only person who could save me from my life was me...well this was it.

I entered the family room, where my father
watched his Indian news on the big-screen TV, and where my mother sat reading the paper with her usual frown. I hadn’t been on the best of terms with my parents, as I’d continually rejected every printed husband profile they’d sent my way. Meanwhile I was spending more and more time in my room working away on the sequel. I was, in short, a disappointment.

I took a seat on the empty cou
ch facing my parents, which to them was an instant alarm bell, since my brother and I avoided family meetings like rabies-infested syringes.

My dad h
it the mute button on the news and looked serious. “Oh no,” he said, turning to my mother slowly. “It’s happening.”

My mother folded away her pap
er and looked ready to kill me. Or him. “It’s your fault. I told you this would happen.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You don’t think we know?” said my father. “We always knew you would come out with a boyfriend to shame our family name.”

I wondered how much worse thi
s would be if I was actually “coming out” of something...like a closet. I realized then that Paris wasn’t as bad as bringing a girlfriend into the house, so dammit they would learn to live with it! This gave me a little extra confidence.

“I DON’T have a boyfriend,” I began, “but you know I wrote a book and I’m working on another...”

“This book nonsense! When will you stop?” My mother had smoke coming out of her ears. At least in my imagination. It was grey.

“It’s not nonsense!” I said, my voice coming out louder than I’d expected. I cleared my throat. “
I’ve almost been making a second salary with this book; it’s what I’ve always wanted to do since I was a kid.”

My fa
ther shook his head. “No, when you were at school you were SO strong in science and math. You wanted to be a doctor!”

“But t
hen who knows what happened,” my mother said.

“I never wanted to be a doctor!” I cried. “That’s always what YOU wanted. You never even asked what I wanted. I’ve been writing since I was sevent
een but you never even knew! And you still don’t know me now because you never want to know the truth!” I lowered my gaze to my feet. “I’m like a stranger to you,” I added quietly.

‘So what then?” said my father, s
till sounding quite upset.

“Well...I need to focus on my writing, so I can make it even better
and sell even more.”

They looked at me with blank stares.

“So...I’m going to move to Paris for a year, because I need to start seeing the world so I can be a better writer.”

Once I broke the
news, there was approximately...fifteen seconds of silence.

“France?” my father whispered.

“Yes.”

My mother it seemed
was too angry to even weigh in.

“What about your
job?” my father asked.

“Well I’m leaving in Sept
ember, so I’ll tell my boss next month and I’ll work until the end of August.”

“What do you mean you’re leaving in September?” my mother asked, her v
oice sounding extra venomous. “When did we give you our permission?”

I tried not to laugh. “I’m thirty years
old; I need to make my own choices now.”

“You mean throw your life away!” she cried.
“Who will marry you when you come back? NO ONE!” That was enough for my mother, as she threw the newspaper in my direction and stormed off.

My dad still seemed to be in shock,
and only managed to utter a few final words. “Why would you ruin your life like this....”

I slowly left the room, hoping he would call me back to say something encourag
ing, but he didn’t. It hurt not to hear a “good luck,” or even one “congrats” for all the things I had accomplished as a self-published author. It hurt a lot, but all I could do was feel lucky they didn’t pull out a shot-gun. My whole life had revolved around avoiding the proverbial shot-gun, while so many other parents felt pride and even encouraged their children’s dreams. But this was my special life.

It could be worse.

I climbed up the stairs and felt stronger with each step.
I’m going to Paris...

***

On a humid day in late July, I leaned against the vent in my cubicle. The cold air blasted onto my skin, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my insides were burning up.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my
tight khaki capris, straightened out the front of my ruffled blue sleeveless blouse, and focused really hard on my Outlook calendar.

It’s time.

I walked to my boss Shawn’s office with careful steps, wearing the highest heels I’d ever worn outside of practice sessions in my bedroom.

Domination is essential today
.

When I knocked on the open door
he smiled. “Let me just finish this e-mail.”

He typed away furiously, which surprised me since I’d never seen
him doing any work in almost a year and a half.

Once he finished, he ran his ti
ny fingers through his spiky orange hair and smiled. I almost wished he would stand so I could tower over him.

“So,” he said. “You called this meeting...what are we ‘checking in’ about? Is
it that presentation I’m doing on Thursday? Because I’d love to get some more of your help on that.”

I tried
my hardest not to roll my eyes. I had one objective, and it was quitting this job on the best of terms, so I’d have a first crack at coming back when the money ran out.

“He
re’s the thing: it’s been great being on your team for a year and a half.”

His face went translucent-white. “You’re quitting? Is it a competitor? If it’s a competitor I have to walk you out right away, but then I won’t be able to know what’s going
on with all the projects you’ve been doing...” He quietly started muttering to himself, liked he’d forgotten I was even in the room.

“I’m not going to a competitor,
” I said.

He sighed loudly. “W
ell where then? And why would you want to leave retail? Are they giving you more money? Maybe we can match that...”

For the first time ever, I started to wonder if Shawn was a cocaine addict.
Calm down dude!

“Actually
, no one’s paying me more. I’m just taking a year off to pursue writing...in Paris.”

I smiled but he didn’t smile back.

Instead he started laughing. Hard.

After finally catc
hing his breath he raised an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you too old to be taking a year off to travel?”

Excuse me, asshole?

I cleared my throat. “It’s not like that. I’m actually a pretty successful author, so I figured it’s time to start seeing a bit of the world and---“

“Wait,” he said. “You’re a successful author? Like J. K. Rowling?”

“Well no...”

“That’s the thing. I’ve never
even heard of any of your books. And maybe ONE DAY you’ll be successful, but you can’t throw away a career over that. Why don’t you just write on evenings and weekends? Like how most people do with their hobbies.”

Hobby?

“Look,” I said more firmly now. “This is my personal decision, and I’m telling you now because I’m giving you a month instead of two weeks notice. So I can help you transition before I leave.”

Since you’re an idiot and you need all the help you can get.

He rolled his eyes. “Wow...well thank you for that generous month,” he said sarcastically. “And don’t worry; we’ll be able to replace you without a problem.”

Or really?! After everything I’ve done for you?

“Great!” It was my turn to sound sarcastic now.

“Just remember one thing,” he added in a sinister tone. “Once you throw your career away, you
won’t be looked upon fondly when you try to come back. So yeah...good luck with all...‘this.’ I hope it works out for you!” He gave me the thumbs-up with his tiny appendages, as I considered taking all five-foot-one of him and body-slamming him into a file cabinet.

Instead I
took a deep breath and stood from my chair, towering over him at last. “Okay then, I guess I’ll go see HR to figure out the details. And by the way...I don’t think I’ll have any time to help you with your presentation this week. You know...with so much stuff to wrap up in the transition.”

I tossed him a “fuck you” smile and walked away, promising myself that no matter what happened in Paris, I would never work a corporate job again...