Page 2 of Just Between Us

My gaze travels around this cracker-jack sized apartment, from the unpacked boxes, to my favorite YouTuber paused mid-sentence on the television, and then back to the dishes stacked precariously in the sink. I’ll never give Alan the satisfaction of knowing this, but the breakup has been hard on me. I’ve always felt I’m a good judge of character. At least, prior to Alan I was. But now I’m left doubting everything I thought I knew. My entire life was uprooted in a matter of hours, with no choice but to figure out how to start over.

Getting out of bed has been no small feat, but I’ve done it nonetheless. My aunt Ashley expects daily proof of life texts.

Each morning, I shower, shoot her a text while my tea steeps, and open my laptop to start my workday. As a therapist, clients turn to me for guidance, and for the most part I’ve managed to push my own dumpster fire to a small corner of my mind and focus on them. But as soon as evening comes, I don my emotional support sweatpants and couch-rot with a carton of ice cream. The first night here, I paired said ice cream with a bottle of cheap rosé. But hangovers in your thirties hit differently, especially after drinking the whole damn bottle.

The set of Alan-approved friends I had haven’t so much as texted to check in on me, which has done nothing to stave off how alone I feel. But here’s my truth I’ve yet to admit aloud. I felt alone long before leaving Alan. A loneliness that’s heavy, like looming clouds before a summer storm.

Taking one last look at my old life, I suck in a breath and snap my fingers. “Okay, that’s enough. This pity party ends now.”

Marching to the bathroom, I run a brush through my hair, pausing at my reflection in the mirror. Big hazel eyes I got from my mom, along with the dark hair she gifted me with. I’m acarbon copy of her, save one thing. With my pointer finger, I touch the widow’s peak I inherited from my father, and snort a half laugh, thoughts going to the time I shaved it when a kid called me Wednesday Addams. Middle schoolers really are assholes.

I gather my long hair into a claw clip and jab a finger at the face staring back at me. “You are Cassie James, and you have a whole life to live.”

Each word rings true like a mantra. I’m in a brand-new place—albeit, a brand-new tiny place—where I’m going exploring. Rediscovering who I am won’t happen at the bottom of a tub of Blue Bell ice cream.

My unpacked suitcase lies open, clothes strewn about, and after a couple sniff tests, I change into a simple white tank top and my favorite denim cutoffs. At the door, I put on my Converse and sling the strap of my purse over my head.

When I arrived in town a week ago, I saw a bar on Main Street that advertised nightly karaoke, and hell if I could use a change of scenery. The walk is short, but August humidity still clings to me like a cloak, while beads of perspiration quickly gather on the bridge of my nose and across my forehead.

Singing River is quaint and charming with its cobblestone street, likely untouched from a hundred years ago or more. As far as I know, there’s no big box stores or chain restaurants here. Target is a good thirty- to forty-minute drive, according to my maps app, making this place feel like a hidden gem, removed from the chaos and bustle of modern life.

So, the exact opposite of Dallas.

There, you could be surrounded by people, yet still remain anonymous. And I’m not sure I want to be anonymous anymore.

A dandelion catches my attention, a white tuft pushing its way through a crack in the sidewalk, and I stop to stare at it, a pang of nostalgia rushing through me. I think I was in high school when my uncle Brad went through his lawn care phase.He’d spend hours fertilizing the grass, but the dandelions weren’t going down without a fight. I walked outside one day to find him staring down at them, hands on his hips muttering to himself.

“The darn things will grow anywhere, Cassie,” he said when he noticed me standing there.

I think there’s a metaphor somewhere in that.

Crouching down, I pluck it from the crack, and, just for the hell of it, close my eyes and make a wish. With one breath, the seeds scatter into the sticky evening air and I take up my stroll toward downtown.

A record store and florist shop line the block, and just past them, an older man stands outside the barber shop sweeping the sidewalk. When I approach, he tips his hat and waves.

“Evening,” he greets me, his voice kind and grandfatherly with a deep Southern twang.

I’m surprised when a smile climbs up my face. A genuine smile that doesn’t feel false or flimsy. “Good evening.”

Then I’m surprised again when the man says, “Powerball’s up to 900 million. Heading up to Tennessee for some tickets tomorrow. Want in?”

“Do I want Powerball tickets?” I echo, making sure I heard correctly.

“Yes’m. There’s a group of us around town who go in together. Want in?” he repeats.

My smile stretches even wider. “Maybe next time. Good luck, though!”

He tips his head in thanks, and I take up my mission, once again.

Directly across the street is the bar, and since this isn’t Dallas, I don’t even bother using the crosswalk. I step off the curb and jaywalk right into the middle of Main Street. There aren’t any cars anyway. I’d be surprised if there’s more than one traffic light.

As I approach, my eyes land on a metal sign that hangs abovethe wooden double doors. Old Town Tavern. Sounds about right for a small town. I half expect someone to slide open a peephole and demand a password for entry.

Hauling open one heavy door, I spot an empty stage to my left, and a bar directly ahead. My feet carry me straight there to grab a beer. The bartender turns from where she’s cleaning glasses when I climb onto an empty stool.

“What’ll it be, doll?” Her Southern accent is cigarette rough, her smile warm with deep set laugh lines crinkling around her eyes.

“I’ll take whatever IPA you have on draft.”