I sit down on my bed and open my computer because if there’s one thing that always grounds me, it’s writing.
I chose my career because I love storytelling. I love sitting in front of the television and letting the rest of the world fall away as I’m transported into the lives of the characters on my screen for thirty minutes. Having the opportunity to create something that could provide someone else with an escape was all I ever wanted. But, like many people living the constant hustle and trying to find their path in the glitz and glamour of Los Angeles, I became more obsessed with being successful than I was with the work.
I had a vision board next to my bed so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up. It was filled with all the typical “girl boss” quotes. There were pictures of designer bags and houses in the hills, all the crap that would prove to anyone who saw me that I was somebody. I was worth their time and attention. But in chasing the things that, when I really think about it, I don’t even want, I lost the reason I started writing in the first place. I stopped writing what called to me and began writing what I thought the market wanted.
Writing became a chore instead of what I loved to do.
I’m not at the point where I can look back at what happened and laugh—that’s going to take a while. But as I sit on my childhood bed and open my computer, I can feel grateful that the joy and peace I feel as I tap away on my keyboard has returned.
The stress of what could be and conversations to be had falls away as I lose myself in my script. My main character is arguing with her opponent in front of an elementary school as small children abandon their kickball and games of tag to watch two adults fight. I work hankering into Nate’s . . . I mean Jack’s dialogue and my laughter rings loud inside my quiet bedroom.
“What are you laughing about?” My dad sticks his head into my room.
I look up from my computer and set it to the side to wave him in.
“My new script. It’s loosely based on me running against Nate for the HOA crap.” It sounds just as ridiculous now as it did when I decided to run.
“I still can’t believe you’re doing it.” His long legs make quick work of my room. He sits down next to me and looks comically large on my tiny bed. “All of my friends are voting for you, you know. I brag about you all the time so they were sold the second they heard your name.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I bump my shoulder against his. “One more thing to add to all the reasons you’re the best.”
He looks down at me with that gentle smile of his. The small creases next to his eyes are the only sign of aging on his handsome face, other than the white strands of hair in his beard. Where my mom is loud and over the top showing her love for me, my dad is quieter. It’s in every glance, his love always shining in his dark brown eyes. It’s in the way he squeezes my shoulder every time he walks past me and how he laughs at all my jokes, even when they’re not funny. It’s in him mentioning my name in every room he steps in and being proud of me when I’m not proud of myself. It’s the way his strength cloaks me in comfort and safety anytime I’m in his presence.
“Well, you make it easy to brag,” he says.
“Okay, sure.” I scoff because I most definitely do not. The embarrassment that’s always lurking beneath the surface rears its ugly head again. “Nothing says brag-worthy like being jobless and living with my parents.”
“We love having you here. Obviously, we wish you were able to come home with better circumstances, but your mom and I are ecstatic that you’re back.” His voice has an edge that wasn’t there before and there’s a fire burning in his eyes. “My garden would be dead without your help, and Mom’s cakes might be edible tonight thanks to you. This retirement thing wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be; you coming home has made it so much better. I felt like I missed out on so much of your childhood because I was always working. Spending time with you in the garden, even watching those ridiculous shows with the women screaming at one another, has made me feel so much closer to you.”
See?
He’s the best.
“Have I told you how much I love you?”
He wraps his long arm around me and pulls me into his side, kissing the top of my head. “You have, but I wouldn’t mind you saying it again.”
“I love you loads.”
“Love you loads too. Now”—he pushes off my bed and his knees crack under his weight—“come get this cake from your mom, bring it to that boy, and figure out whatever happened between the two of you.”
I start to cough, choking on air. “What?”
“Oh, come on, Colls. Anyone with semi-decent vision who saw the two of you sitting all close on the back of that car could see that there’s something between you.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m your dad. I knew you two liked each other when you were kids. I kept my mouth shut, but I never liked Peter. Knew it wouldn’t last. Nate’s a good guy, always has been. I’ve been waiting years for you two to figure your crap out. Never thought it’d be because of the HOA, but I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”
I stare at him with my mouth agape. I never knew any of this!
“I didn’t know you didn’t like Peter!” I start with the easiest part. “You could’ve told me that, I don’t know . . . before he screwed me over.”
My parents were my first call after I found out what Peter did. Looking back, I guess they did seem pretty unsurprised when I told them what he had done.
“Collins,” he says my name like it explains everything, and I hate it, because it does.
“Fine.” I fall back onto my pillow and pout. “I wouldn’t have listened, but still. A heads-up next time would be nice.”
“Well, if you get out of bed and bring Nate this darn cake, I won’t have to, now, will I?” He extends his hand and pulls me up when I grab on.
“Sheesh.” I straighten out my clothes and smooth down the curls at the back of my head as I follow him out of my room. “You’re feisty.”
Because he’s used to me and my mom’s tendency to lean a bit on the dramatic side, he doesn’t so much as grunt to acknowledge that I spoke.
We reach the bottom of the stairs at the same time my mom is walking out of the kitchen holding a beautifully frosted cake atop a yellow ceramic cake stand. She’s walking so slow and careful, it looks like she’s on a tightrope instead of our oak floors.
“Oh!” She smiles huge when she sees us. “Perfect timing.”
I slip on my shoes before taking the cake from her.
“This looks really great.” I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but not only did I experience her dreadful baking firsthand, there are hundreds of pictures documenting how bad she was at decorating them. “I’m really impressed.”