“Time changed you. MS changed you. It wasn’t just me.”
She’s right. But I won’t let on. “What do you want?” I repeat the question.
“Fine,” she says. “I need to use you as a reference.”
My mind is confounded by her, and partially by the magnificence of my sandwich because it’s so damn good. I consider her request and find that an explanation is needed. “A reference for what?”
She looks down at the empty sandwich wrapper in front of her on my desk. It’s the first time she’s looked away the whole time she’s been sitting here. It screams mortification. “A job.”
I laugh. It’s not humorous, and it’s not degrading, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know what else to do. “You want to use me as a reference?”
She nods, eyes still downcast.
“Why don’t use past employers or colleagues?”
Her eyes draw up to mine, and she smirks. “Does the term ‘burned bridges’ mean anything?”
The same laugh escapes my lips for the second time in twenty seconds. “Are you seriously asking me that, Miranda?”
She just stares at me. She’s seriously asking me that. Sometimes I think she assumes that because I loved her once, she can do whatever she wants to me and there are no consequences. Love negates or counteracts bad behavior, it’s a screwed up scale. She piles up shit on one side, and I’m supposed to balance it with unconditional love on the other. It doesn’t work that way. Not anymore.
“So, burning bridges professionally means you have the dignity to acknowledge wrongdoing on your part and not ask them for favors because that would be in poor taste?”
She shrugs. “Pretty much. I overstepped my bounds. The business world is cutthroat. They take pleasure in exacting revenge.”
“What makes you think I wouldn’t?” As I ask it, I realize I wouldn’t do it. As much as I don’t like her, I wouldn’t sabotage her. I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.
She looks me in the eye and doesn’t hesitate. “Because, you’re a saint, Seamus.”
I shake my head to disagree. “Saints don’t have hateful thoughts like I do.”
“Will you do it? Be my reference?” She’s all but begging.
“Yes. But only because you need a job, and I need you out of my apartment,” I add.
She stands to leave and gathers her trash, satisfied that she got what she came here for.
“What’s the job you’re applying for?”
“It’s a director position.” Her answer is vague.
“What’s the company?”
She sighs. “It’s not important.” The sigh tells me it is important.
“Why won’t you tell me?” I press.
She turns at the door and says, “Because you’ll judge me.”
“Since when have you ever been worried about that?” This conversation is almost comical.
“Since now.” She sighs again and closes her eyes. “It’s a non-profit, a homeless shelter.”
Stunned. I’m stunned. So stunned that a chuckle escapes me. A stunned chuckle.
She opens her eyes and raises her eyebrows as if she’s calling me out.
“What? You can’t expect me to not be surprised?” I ask.
“Surprised is judging, Seamus.” She sounds hurt and leaves.
She’s right.
How is she right?
How did this get turned around on me?
I always have a choice
present
There have been times in my life I prayed for change.
For rescue.
For strength.
For answers.
There have been times in my life I blamed others for everything that went wrong, bypassing accepting responsibility, because it was easier.
And didn’t require self-analysis.
Or growth.
Or maturity.
And there was a time in my life I hit rock bottom, like a boulder dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. It was ugly.
And soul-splintering.
Like the darkest death.
Death that I survived.
Even though I shouldn’t have.
It shed perspective.
And in time, it led to research because, at that point, I had nothing to lose.
Everything, and anything, to gain.
Going to Kansas City again felt like a necessity, like picking a scab or scratching a mosquito bite, because in the end I knew it would only serve as an antagonist. An aggressive antagonist that’s selfish and unconcerned about others. When I arrived I intended to stay, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t think I had a choice.
Claudette reminded me I always have a choice.
And she bought me a bus ticket.
Back home to the only place that’s ever felt like it accepted me— imperfections and all.
The air, when I step off the bus, is warm. The warmth of an old friend I’ve missed, even though I’ve only been gone for a few weeks. I can’t resist taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with California, someplace I thought would always remain a memory.