The Moment of Letting Go - J. A. Redmerski Page 0,19
bad position. I think it’s better I find another job before I get you fired.”
“So you’re really quitting?”
She nods and her hands fall into her lap. “Not right now,” she says. “I mean, I’ll definitely stay on board until Cassandra can find someone to replace me, but I’m just not cut out for this stuff. I don’t have the patience for it—well, for people like that.” She laughs lightly. “I have to admit, if it weren’t for you, I might’ve told that bitch off.”
I smile faintly.
“So what are you going to do when you leave?”
She pauses and says, “I’ve got something lined up—not that I’ve been planning to quit, but you know me. I’ll manage.”
This is true. Paige doesn’t really need to work to live like most of us do; she comes from a wealthy family in the real estate business and wouldn’t have to work a day in her life if she didn’t want to. But Paige likes to work. It keeps her busy and off the Lazy Citizens of America list, as she calls it. But mostly it gives her more of a reason to spend ridiculous amounts of money on clothes and shoes and all things expensive and in style.
I nod, a small smile tugging my lips—this is all such a relief. Sort of. I hate to see her go. But I understand.
“So then you’re still on for Jamaica?”
She smiles. “Yeah,” she says, “but I was hoping my first time there would be more”—she twirls her index finger in the air, a concentrating look in her eyes—“enjoyable. I was excited about Hawaii, but it didn’t quite turn out like I envisioned it.”
“Yeah,” I say simply and look out ahead again as the rest is cut off by my sudden deep thoughts. “I guess I can’t blame you.” My voice is distant.
“It’s gettin’ to you, too, I can tell.”
I look over. “What—” I smile to show her that she’s wrong. “Oh, no, I’m just tired. I’m always like this after an event.” This is only half true—this time I feel much worse.
She hooks her arm around my back, her hand around my arm, and pulls my shoulder against her side.
“We’re gonna go on a real vacation sometime,” she says. “We can go anywhere. Just name the place.” She points at me briefly and interjects, “Of course, it has to be someplace sunny where I can wear my bikini—nothing cold and no deserts or anything like that.”
I chuckle. “We’ll figure it out,” I tell her with a smile in my voice.
Paige stands up, her small frame hardly shielding me from the sun.
“We should get our stuff packed,” she says. “I can’t miss this flight. My family reunion is tomorrow. My mom will kill me.”
I stand with her, taking up my towel and beach bag and repositioning them on my arm and shoulder. As I walk alongside Paige toward the hotel, from the corner of my eye I see a tanned, athletic figure in navy cargo shorts and a red T-shirt tramping through the sand toward me. Squinting in an attempt to get a better visual, I put my hand up above my eyes to shield my face from the sun. And when I see that it is, in fact, Luke, my face breaks into a smile that I instantly try to conceal from my best friend.
I turn to Paige, stopping her on the sidewalk.
“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” I say.
Paige, without asking any questions, agrees and heads inside the hotel lobby without me.
I meet Luke halfway, stopping in the sand, glad that I’m wearing flip-flops this time and can stand up on my own. Luke appears out of breath, his feet like fifty-pound weights on the ends of his muscled legs, burrowing into the sand nearly to his ankles with every difficult step. His back is hunched over, his hands propped on his bent knees when he finally comes to a stop in front of me. The more I look at him, the more confused I become—surely he’s not serious? Everything about his demeanor seems overly dramatic and … strangely humorous.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says between quick, unsteady breaths. “I ran all the way here. You’ll never believe what happened.” He takes a few more fast breaths, his hands still propped on his knees to hold up his weight, the muscles in his arms hard and defined. “I was on my way this morning when a bicycle came out of nowhere and clipped me as