“Okay,” Murphy said slowly as she rose to her feet as well. “I’m actually off for the next two days, so I’ll see you when I see you.”
With that, I sensed that Murphy wanted to keep us—whatever us was, or is—in the past too.
A little too late, I realized that the gnawing sensation in my gut was disappointment as I turned to leave, an empty mug in my hand and a hollowness in my chest.
4
Murphy
I woke up on Saturday morning to absolutely nothing—no traffic noise outside my windows, and no work or social obligations.
Even though I’d lived in Vermont for a few months, the difference from New York City still rattled me. The utter quiet, the slower pace, the way I could actually hear birds chirping. There were no horns blaring, no ambulances, and no shouting in the streets. It was so different from what I was used to, it was unnerving.
Wishing I had to work, I set about cleaning my tiny apartment before doing a mini facial and giving myself a manicure.
In my past life, I would have spent half the day at a spa, having another person tend to my body while someone else scrubbed and scoured my apartment. I didn’t have those luxuries anymore, but no one had to know. The pictures I posted on Instagram these days all featured me enjoying the Vermont landscape, looking as happy and beautified as I once was.
Take that, old life. I wasn’t sure who I was proving anything to, but it still felt important to keep up appearances.
As I popped a K-cup in my Keurig, I thought about stopping by the Bean, but I hadn’t just popped in since I started working there. It felt awkward to stop in for my own pleasure and have my coworkers wait on me.
I’m sure Roddy would love to see me and wouldn’t think twice about my picking up a coffee and a sweet treat. He’d probably try to hand me one of his homemade soft pretzels, telling me it would be on the house, and we’d have our usual sweet versus salty debate. Nine times out of ten, I went with sweet. It was how I was wired, or a subconscious snub at my mom, who was always lecturing me about curbing my sweet tooth.
Instead of treating myself to a real cup of joe, I suffered through a not-very-hot, semi-acceptable cup of coffee while looking for any new marketing job postings on Craigslist. To my surprise, there was a new post for a social media intern for a place called Hunnie’s Honey, Home of Vermont’s Most Golden Honey Infusions.
Although an intern position was definitely below my Ivy League credentials and age, if this Hunnie gave me a chance, I could easily pivot the opportunity into something else. Plus, it sounded official, as if Hunnie’s place had their stuff together.
And beggars can’t be choosers.
Who told me that? Oh, right, it was Ben back at Pressman.
We’d been studying biology, and I asked him why he ate in the dining hall on Sunday nights, when most of us ordered Chinese delivery and watched movies over greasy egg rolls and lo mein. Afterward, we’d usually jump in someone’s car and grab a few pints of ice cream for dessert, but Ben said it wasn’t in his budget. The dining room was included with his scholarship, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. Of course, I offered to pay for him, but he declined, saying something about the Sunday pasta night being one of his favorites.
Turning back to my internet search, I hunted around Hunnie’s site, noticing they sold at the Capital City farmers’ market, which happened to be open tomorrow. With nothing better to do, I decided to go walk around the market the next day.
Until then, I would do some self-care at home, since paying for a day spa was way out of my budget. Also, there wasn’t anywhere to go nearby, which was probably for the best.
Standing up, I walked to the corner of the room and snagged my Manduka yoga mat, a symbol of another time and place, and set it up under the window.
The next morning, in a sleeveless green blouse tucked into white jean shorts, I checked myself in the mirror.
This month was the first time I’d been able to wear my summer clothes. Even May had been chilly here in Vermont. In the city, we would have already been sweltering. I was hopeful that later this month and July and August would be warmer. Of course, an even layer of sheer zinc was smeared under my makeup to protect my skin from the sun. My mom’s voice was still a constant in my head. After pulling my red waves back into a loose ponytail, I put on a wide-brimmed sun hat and my black shades.
When I first arrived in Vermont, my first thought was you’re not in the Big Apple anymore, Toto. Shaking my head, I freed myself from old memories of Thanksgiving-break movie nights at home in our palatial mansion, a babysitter on the couch and The Wizard of Oz on the television.
As I parked my car at the farmers’ market, I sighed. Like an idiot, I’d forgotten how muddy the ground was at the market, and scowled at the flip-flops on my feet. Not wanting to waste money on gas to drive home and back on the winding roads to my quarter of a duplex off the highway, I climbed out of my car and took in the market.
Right away, I saw a corner booth with a bumble-bee-decorated flag and decided to see if it was Hunnie’s. A woman about my own age with two perfectly plaited brunette braids and a worn-in baseball hat greeted me as I approached.
“Hey there.” Her smile was extra wide, her enthusiasm infectious.
“Hi.” Clearing my throat, I said,
