Jasmine Majewski collapsed onto her queen-sized bed, completely exhausted. Every last inch of her body hurt, and her head was no exception. She had spent an extremely long, strenuous day moving her furniture, household goods, and personal belongings up to her third-story walk-up apartment. Even with the help of her parents and two younger brothers, it had been a tedious process, taking nearly six hours from start to finish. Everyone had joked about how only Jasmine could fit so many things into a U-Haul trailer and a Lexus sport utility vehicle, but she didn't really find it to be particularly funny. The whole relocation experience and the circumstances surrounding it left her rather cold.
Her eyes surveyed the small bedroom, which was barely a third the size of the one that she had left in Nashville. Her bed was centered against one wall with her dresser placed directly facing it on the opposite wall, and her desk and chair on the far side, right across from the doorway. There was hardly any space left in which to move around. She had done her best to make it feel homey, decorating it with a plush area rug and a brand new orchid-colored Indian-inspired bedspread with gold embroidery detail and coordinating sheer gold curtains. But the stark white plaster walls and fluorescent overhead lights kept it impersonal. It lacked the warmth of a home. This place would take some getting used to, that was for sure.
The entire apartment was tiny; just a kitchenette, a miniscule living room, and a bathroom besides the shoebox of a bedroom. All the rooms were already crammed to capacity with furniture, most new, provided by her Ikea-happy mother, and a few pieces that she had brought with her. Cardboard boxes stuffed to capacity lined the walls and filled most of the available floor space, but she couldn't bring herself to unpack. She had absolutely no desire to lift a single finger for the remainder of the evening.
She could hear the cars drive by on the street below, and occasionally voices drifted up through her partially open windows. It had been years since she had lived in the heart of a city, and she wasn't accustomed to all of the noise. She liked it. It reminded her of her childhood, growing up on the other side of the Charles River in Cambridge, when she would fall asleep to the lull of wheels on the pavement of the Fresh Pond Parkway. The sound of the traffic was comforting; it brought her back to a much simpler time, back when she was innocent and optimistic about the life that stretched out endlessly in front of her. She longed to return to that time.
From somewhere in the kitchenette, her cell phone began to ring. She groaned as she reluctantly sat up and dragged her tired body off of the bed. She trudged the thirty feet from her bed to the stark white Formica counter and picked up the phone, glancing at the display to see who was calling. It was her mother, Mariele.
"Hi Mom," she greeted, hoisting herself up onto the counter, trying to avoid hitting her head on the white-lacquered pressboard cabinet that was mounted next to where she was sitting. "Miss me already?"
"Of course, dear," Mariele's voice came crackling across the line. "I always miss you when I'm not looking at your pretty face."
"Mo-om," Jasmine protested. "Don't get all sappy."
"Well, let me just say that I'm thrilled to have you back close to home. No mother should have to bear the burden of her child living clear across the country."
"Mo-om," Jasmine repeated, a warning note in her voice.
"All right, all right. I just wanted to make sure you had eaten dinner."
"What time is it?" Jasmine craned her neck, trying to get a look at the clock radio that hung under the adjacent cabinet.
"Almost eight. Don't tell me you forgot to-"
Jasmine cut Mariele off. "Mom, I'm 25 years old, soon to be 26. A grown-up. I don't need to be reminded to eat."
"But you didn't…"
"I wasn't hungry." That was a lie, her stomach was actually growling at that moment. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten. "I'll grab something after I'm off the phone with you. There are a million and one interesting-looking little places around here."
"I hope so. I don't want you losing any weight over this, Jasmine, do you hear me? I'm worried about you."
'This.' The fact that her mother referred to her present situation simply as 'this' and treated it as if it were some kind of obstacle made her angry. It was her prerogative. She had chosen her own path. Why didn't anybody understand that it was what she wanted?
"Mom, I'm happy. I'm not going to lock myself in my bedroom and cry, I'm not going to mope around feeling sorry for myself, and I am most certainly not going to starve myself. I am here because I want to be here. I left, Mom. Nobody made me." She felt so sure of her words, but she knew they came out sounding as though she was trying to convince herself as well as everybody else. Nobody wanted to believe that anyone would leave behind the life that she had left behind.
"I know, dear."
Jasmine could tell from the nuances in Mariele's voice that she really didn't know. "Mom, seriously, chill out. Everything will be fine," she said, trying to sound convincing.
But there was no convincing Mariele. "Fine pales in comparison to a fairy tale."
"Mom. I really am not in the mood to have this discussion right now," Jasmine muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm going to go get some Chinese food or something. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Do you want to have lunch?"
Jasmine wasn't sure she was prepared to deal with her mother one-on-one. "I have a lot of unpacking I need to do. I'll give you a call tomorrow and we'll see what I can fit in."
"No time for your own mother?"
"No Mom, I just want to get this place decent before I start work on Monday. Otherwise I'll be living out of boxes for months." Jasmine hopped down from the counter and padded into the living room to look for her purse.
"We can have an early lunch at 11:30 or so, and then I'll go back there with you. Many hands make light work."
Jasmine stifled a sigh. An entire day alone with her mother would undoubtedly be torture, but refusal would likely bring about harsher punishment. "Fine. Where should I meet you?" She retrieved her black leather handbag from where it rested on the brand new teal-upholstered couch and made her way back to the kitchenette.
"I love the salads at California Pizza Kitchen. What do you think?"
"Anything, Mom. Anything you want." Jasmine pulled her classic black wool-trimmed trench coat off the old-fashioned wrought metal coat rack in the corner.
"Excellent. I'll meet you at 11:30 outside the CPK at the Prudential Center."
"Okay Mom. See you then." Jasmine hung up before Mariele could say goodbye, dropped the phone in her purse, and wiggled into her coat as she swooped out the door, making sure it locked securely behind her.
Later that evening, Jasmine relaxed in a hot bath, her stomach comfortably full of delicious miso soup and sushi. She luxuriated in the mimosa-scented bubbles, the dull ache in her muscles melting away to nothing. For the first time in several weeks, she felt completely free. She could do whatever she wanted, with nothing and no one to stop her. It was a wonderful feeling, yet so bittersweet at the same time.
Somewhere on the other side of the bathroom door, she heard her cell phone's polyphonic ring commence. She ignored it, instead slipping down against the back of the tub and submerging her face and head in the water. When she resurfaced, the sound had ceased.
She reached for the bottle of Bud Light that she had set on the corner lip of the tub, where soap or shampoo might normally go, and took a long sip. The bubbles tickled at her throat, and she felt refreshed. Some people liked to drink wine to calm them, but Jasmine had always preferred beer. Despite her appearance, which might suggest high maintenance to a casual onlooker, she was actually a very low-key kind of girl.
The phone began to ring again, and she rolled her eyes. 'Take a hint and stop calling,' she thought, somewhat irritated. It was almost midnight, which she thought was rather late for well-mannered people to be making phone calls, even on a Friday. Besides, she wasn't exactly in the mood for conversation.
The ringing eventually stopped, and moments later she heard the loud beep that indicated that the caller had left her a message. 'That's weird,' she thought, taking another long swig from the bottle. 'It had better not be anything important.'
Not in much of a hurry to find out, she soaked for several more minutes until her beverage was gone, then stepped out of the tub and grabbed one of the extra-large fluffy pink towels that hung from the metal bar mounted on the wall. She wrapped herself in the soft terrycloth and squeezed the excess water out of her long, thick golden brown hair before foraying out of the bathroom.
She plucked her cell phone from her purse, which she had discarded on the bar-type surface that, with its accompanying high stools, served as a kitchen table. She glanced at the display, which told her that she had missed two calls. When she saw who they were from, a large knot immediately formed in her stomach. "Clayton," she said aloud, suddenly feeling physically ill.
She crossed into her bedroom, the phone gripped tightly in her palm, and willed herself to remain composed. It wasn't working. She hurriedly changed into a tank top and hot pants, her pajamas of choice, and sat down on the edge of the bed before finally allowing herself to check her voicemail.
"Hi Jazz. It's me. Give me a call when you get this, I have to talk to you as soon as possible. Don't make me come after you. Because I will if that's what it takes." Clayton McHale sounded like he was trying too hard to sound shaken up, and there was an undercurrent of menacing in his last statement that reaffirmed to her that she had made the right decision. Still, his voice conjured up so many memories that she wasn't ready to remember. She wasn't out of the tunnel yet.
She plugged the phone into its charger, set it on her dresser and went to lock the deadbolt and shut off all the lights. Once she was done, she crawled under the covers, pulling the satin sheets up tight under her chin. She could feel traces of tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, but she was determined not to let them fall. She couldn't let him do this to her. It was her life, and if he wasn't going to let her live it her way, then he wasn't going to be in it.
But as her mind drifted back to that fateful night only a week before, she knew there was nothing she could do. She fingered the eight-carat emerald-cut diamond solitaire on her left-hand ring finger and the tears overflowed.