Page 70 of I Saw You First

I found no answers in the relentless waves hitting the shore or the sun beating down on my face.

“Sure, Mom,” I say, even though a weekend anywhere with a mother I barely know anymore and my grown siblings with lives of their own sounds awful. “Maybe you can be here for the kick-off game at the Metrodome.”

Every spring, early in the season, the Twin Cities Hometown League hosts an event for players and volunteers at a Minnesota Twins game, and it’s been one of the highlights of my year for as long as I can remember.

“That would be fun.” She sounds hesitant and so far away. “Email me the details, okay, and I’ll see if we can make it.”

“Will do.”

“I’ve got to run. Lovely to hear your voice. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, sweetheart. Love you!”

“Love you, Mom,” I say, but she’s already hung up.

EIGHTEEN

“LOVEFOOL” BY THE CARDIGANS, 1996

ABBEY

Working retail during the holidays has been like a snow squall—a blustery, blinding white-out of long days that knocked me sideways and left me aching and off-balance. On my rare days off, I’ve slept like a rock until I’ve had to get up and do it all over again.

The silver lining is that I’ve had zero time to think about what a fool I made of myself the night Wil gave me a ride home. Except, of course, for the days that I’ve wrapped myself up in his buffalo plaid blanket after work and watched recorded episodes of The Oprah Winfrey Show with a microwaved burrito for dinner.

I’m an idiot, although Oprah would probably tell me that I’m very brave to have asked the question. At least I know now. Hometown Electronics and the Wilshire family will always come first for him.

The day after Christmas—which is stupidly busy with returns and fans spending their gift certificates—an enormous floral arrangement of snow white and deep red blooms appears on the media desk. Only my name is on the card, nothing else, except for a gold, embossed logo and the words Fieldstone at The Galleria—an exquisite floral experience. I’ve never bought myself such an extravagant bouquet, and then I realize I haven’t bought myself flowers since Thanksgiving.

“Where did these come from?” I ask Lavender when the foot traffic finally settles down mid-afternoon.

“I have no idea. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in snotty ankle-biters asking where to find Super Mario 64. Maybe you have a secret admirer.”

I don’t have time to figure it out, not today. I take the flowers home at the end of my shift, and I smile every time I walk past them.

New Year’s Eve at Hometown Electronics is relatively quiet compared to every single day leading up to it since Halloween. Wil somehow scored today and tomorrow off, so at least I don’t have to work hard to avoid him. Only a few fans trickle in, so I work through reports and prep product for ad set. I’ve hung up the elf costumes and Santa hats. I’m back to wearing a demure (boring) pair of bootcut khakis and my Hometown jersey with a perfectly matched hunter green long-sleeved T-shirt underneath, but at least I have a cheap silver headband with two silver stars on springs and strands of tinsel meant to look like fireworks to spruce up my uniform.

My HEAS inbox is ridiculous because I’ve rarely had time to read emails the last couple of weeks. It’s the perfect day to sift through them—questions from the media TCs group, a Christmas Eve message from Jeremy to the leadership team filled with typos, and a note from Felix thanking me for a record-breaking holiday season with an invitation to take me, Kevin, and Lavender out for lunch.

With the holidays over, the regional secretary has started sending out the careers email again, which lists all open positions in the Midwest region. Before I got busted after my interview, I’d applied for every journalism job in the Twin Cities—except for The Green Thumb Gazette, that is—and I’m tired of looking. I’m just plain tired.

But I remember my resolve from Black Friday. It’s time to get promoted. I scan the openings for merch managers, but there aren’t any in the Metro. I click on Baxter, in Minnesota’s Brainerd Lakes area.

Merch AM, available Feb 1 due to relocation. Smaller footprint, no appliances. Lake country. Summer tourism, outdoor recreation. Six mos TC experience preferred but not required. Apply through HEAS only; no emails. Close date: 1/6/97.

I read the posting again and grin like a complete loon.

The Brainerd Lakes area is a couple of hours north of here, and I love it. Every summer until I graduated from high school, we stayed at the A-Frame Resort in a cute cottage nestled along the lakeshore and woods. There was a record store in the main cabin—a record store! The owner would kick me out and tell me to go enjoy the sunshine, but I loved spending time flipping through the bins, looking for treasures that I’d later play on Papa’s turntable.

This is it, the sign from the universe that I’ve been looking for, and on New Year’s Eve to boot. The perfect time for a fresh start. I don’t have six months’ team captain experience, but I survived a record-breaking Woodlake Christmas. That’s got to count for something.

I make a mental list of pros and cons. I’d hate to leave Brianna, but we can’t stay roommates forever. I could drive down and visit Glamma and my parents on my days off, a short enough trip to go back and forth in a day. This would be a promotion, and more money, and the cost of living is lower. I could start paying my student loans again.

The application only takes a few minutes and when I press submit, I’m hit with a barrage of emotions: anticipation, nervousness, guilt… but mostly excitement. Maybe this is my true career path. I laugh at the idea but apply for openings in Sioux Falls and Cedar Rapids, too.

The media phone rings a short time later. It’s Cesar. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Working, same as you,” I say.

“I mean later.”