Page 6 of Accidental Getaway

I should have known this shopping trip was going to be a disaster.

“What do you want your outfit to say about you?”

I raise an eyebrow and look questioningly at Sarah.

We’re at a thrift shop in Golden, working on my wardrobe for the trip.

Unlike Piper, who mostly shops in the men’s section, and me, who lives in hiking clothes, Sarah always looks fabulous.

Her style is timeless and yet also so unique to her.

I’ve always been envious of how she can throw together an outfit and look like a million bucks, even when living out of an RV.

So it’s good that she’s taken me on as a project, but she is definitely enjoying it more than I am.

“What about ‘I have no idea what I’m doing here; please don’t mug me’?”

Sarah heaves out an exaggerated sigh. She’s either amused or annoyed; I can’t tell which. She grabs the neon orange jumpsuit that I picked up as a joke.

“Yikes.”

Sarah returns the jumpsuit to the rack and moves on, blazing a trail through the colorful shop with racks upon racks of mismatched clothes. I follow behind, letting her take control of the shopping. It’s easier that way.

I booked my flights last night while on the phone with Piper and Sarah and we all squealed and cheered. I’ll need to find my passport soon so I can put in that info, but luckily, I was able to purchase the tickets without it.

As soon as we hung up, I crawled into bed and stared at the cracks on the ceiling, wishing I could anchor myself to the spot and never leave.

I dreamed my suitcase broke open in Greece and clothes exploded all over the hotel lobby, and rich, beautiful guests jeered while I tried to stuff everything back into my bag.

I woke up right before being swallowed whole by the mess.

Sleep was impossible after that and the girls were standing in my parents’ driveway by 7:00 a.m., ready for me to drive us all down the mountain for the day.

“I’m serious, Jenni. What vibe do you want to put out there? Don’t underestimate how much the right outfit can boost your confidence. I want you feeling comfortable and fabulous, but I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what you are looking for!”

Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz . I pull my phone out of my pocket and see my mom’s name across the screen. I hold the phone for a second, debating whether I should answer.

“Hello?” Sarah’s voice demands my attention. “Put the phone away! This is important.”

I don’t know , I want to scream as I shove the phone back in my pocket, choosing to ignore my mom. She probably just needs help with something.

I have no clue what I’m looking for. I’m too overwhelmed to think about any of it.

Earlier this morning, a friend of Sarah’s gave me my first professional haircut in years.

The stylist gave me a center part with loose sweeping waves that feather out from my face.

They also eventually convinced me to let them give me some highlights.

By the time they had dried and styled my hair, I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

I felt like I was pretending to be someone else—someone ten times more confident and successful.

So I guess the makeover worked, if that was the objective.

“Whatever you think is best, Sarah. I trust you.” I move around another rack that’s full of colorful dresses. Piper is off gathering the electronics and other travel supplies I’ll need.

“Then here, Try these on.”

I turn toward Sarah, who has her arms full with a pile of clothing. She hands them over and pushes me toward the dressing room.

The first outfit I pull from the pile is a bright yellow dress with poofy sleeves, ruffles, and a tiered knee-length skirt.

I look like a pineapple. This can’t be what Sarah thinks will land me this hotel deal.

I might be out of practice, but not so out of practice to think this dress looks good.

I slowly pull back the curtains, preparing to be laughed at.

Or worse, for Sarah to tell me she loves it.

“Oh, my gosh,” Sarah gasps, putting her hand over her mouth. “That was not supposed to be in the pile. You look like a lemon drop!” She bursts into a fit of giggles and I join her, relieved.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps out, trying to catch her breath from laughing. “It’s not you, it’s the dress.” She shoos me back behind the velvet curtain.

I slip out of the dress and into the next outfit from Sarah’s pile.

“I definitely don’t want to look like a lemon drop,” I call out. The comedic relief has broken through my nerves a bit.

“That’s a start. But really, you need to decide what you do want to look like. Otherwise, none of this will feel right.”

I pull on another dress. It’s a flirty, floral cotton dress that feels like sunshine and fresh starts.

Is that what I want? Maybe. I can picture myself strolling cute waterfronts and flower markets in this dress, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and stopping for fresh fruit from a market stall.

The image fills me with a sort of energy I’m not used to.

A boost that maybe, just maybe, I can pull this off.

“I like this one,” I tell Sarah as I emerge from the dressing room. “I think this is what I want. Bright, simple, and maybe a bit whimsical? Is that the right word?”

Sarah’s face lights up. “It’s perfect. I can work with that.”

After three or four changes, I put on a pale blue linen pantsuit over a white tee.

It is surprisingly comfortable. The pants make my butt look great and the jacket fits perfectly: not too tight around my shoulders or too short in the sleeves.

And when I catch my reflection in the mirror with my new haircut and pale-pink gel manicure, I believe I look the part.

I might barely recognize myself, and it’s a far cry from the black skirts and tops I wore in Chicago, but it just feels right.

I could rock this look at the board meeting.

“Jennnnniiii!” Sarah squeals as she peeks her head in through the curtain. “You look amazing! How do you feel?”

“Actually, I feel kind of—” I get cut off by my phone loudly vibrating against a discarded belt buckle.

“Your phone has been ringing off the hook. Who is it?”

“It’s my mom.” I groan. “She won’t leave me alone.” Although I’m starting to worry that something is wrong. “Maybe I should just answer it.”

Sarah shrugs and retreats back into the shop. I call my mom back, and she picks up on the first ring.

“There you are! I need your help. I can’t get the computer to connect to the printer, and I need to print out the new patterns for our knitting group. Are you going to be home soon?”

Of course, it’s a tech emergency. I don’t know how my mom functioned before I moved home .

“Sure, Mom. I’ll take a look. I bet the Wi-Fi just got disconnected. I’ll be home in a few hours, okay?”

“I really need to get these to the ladies this afternoon …”

I sigh. I shouldn’t complain. Helping with computers is the least I can do to repay my parents for taking me in when they really didn’t need to, so I don’t tell her that I’m busy or that it’s important. I just tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can.

Sarah and I filter through the clothes, but my excitement is more lackluster now because I’m realizing I’m actually going to have to tell my mom about the trip.

“Oh, your hair is different,” my mom comments, her hand on her chest. I had all but forgotten about the cut, highlight, and style when I walked into the den where my mom sits at the computer. This morning feels like ages ago.

“I just thought I would do something different,” I say. I’m not ready to tell her about the trip. I know she’s going to worry, and I don’t know if I can handle her worry on top of my own. “Do you like it?”

I pull out my phone to check if it’s connected to the Wi-Fi. Sure enough, it’s not. The router probably just needs to be reset.

“It’s different,” is all she says about my hair before turning back to the printer. “I just don’t know what happened. All I did was type the pattern into my computer and press print. I’ve pressed all the buttons on the printer. I put new paper in. I changed the ink cartridge. Nothing is working!”

And there goes an expensive printer cartridge that I can almost guarantee didn’t need to be changed. “No worries. We’ll fix it. I’m just going to go check the router.”

Mom follows me to the living room.

“What is the haircut for? Did you meet someone? ”

The only thing that might be worse than telling my anxious mother that I’m leaving the country is talking to her about my love life.

“No, I didn’t meet anyone. I’m actually going on a trip … for work.”

“Oh? Really?” She sounds skeptical.

“My boss had some meetings scheduled that she can’t attend, so I’m going instead.”

“Can’t you just do that remotely? Where is the meeting?”

Mom was thrilled when I moved back home, even though she didn’t know what to do about my depression.

She never wanted to talk about that, but I think she secretly loves having someone other than my dad in the house.

She is always inviting me to join her and making sure we eat together. I think she’d be happy if I never left.

“Mykonos.”

“Mykonos? Where is that? California?”

Mom is tidying up, gathering coffee mugs and stray knitting needles.

“No, Mom. It’s in Greece. Like, in Europe.”

She drops her handful of knitting needles, and they clang on a glass side table. I am currently crawling behind my dad’s armchair to inspect the router so I can’t see her face. I can only imagine it’s full of worry lines.

“Oh, wow. That is quite the trip.”

“My boss is trying to sign a new hotel on Mykonos. The owner wanted her to fly out there, but she can’t do it because she’s pregnant. So I said I would. It’s a really great opportunity and could finally get me back into a real marketing job.”

The words tumble out of my mouth in an attempt to say as much as I can before she rebuts any of it.

“Aren’t you a bit worried? I don’t think I could ever …”

Of course I’m worried. At this point, though, that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s happening. I have to pretend like I know exactly what I am doing so that she doesn’t worry more than she has to.

“It will be fine, Mom. I know what I’m doing,” I say, and emerge from behind the armchair, having solved the problem. “Next time you want to plug in an extra lamp, try not to unplug the router. You shut off the internet, so the computer couldn’t send the document to the printer.”

I pick up the extra lamp she uses when she’s knitting with black yarn and place it on a different table. She sheepishly apologizes before we head back to the den to make sure the printer does its thing.

“Are you sure about this trip, honey? You’re feeling up to it?”

Oh, my gosh. Can she just stop meddling?

“Yes, Mom. It’s going to be fine. It’s not a big deal. All I have to do is go in, give a presentation, and answer any questions. I would barely consider it traveling. I’ll probably be at the hotel the entire time working.”

I don’t believe most of that, but I’m trying to reassure her. As I’m doing so, the corner of a gray box catches my eye beneath a pile of papers—the fire-safe box. It’s where Mom and Dad keep all our vital documents, like birth certificates and social security cards.

I pull off the pile of papers.

“Mom? What’s the combo for the fire box?”

“Your brother’s birthday. But what if something goes wrong? Will anyone be there to help you?”

I enter the six-digit number into the padlock and hear a click.

“Nothing is going to go wrong, Mom. And I’m sure the general manager will be able to help me if anything does.”

It only takes me a second to flip through and find what I’m looking for—tucked in a manila folder with my name on it. My passport. “Finally. I’ve been looking everywhere for this.” I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“You should have asked,” Mom says. “I put it there that weekend you came home before junior year. Safe and sound.”

I should have known. I close the box back up and replace the pile. Surely, this has to be a sign that I’m doing the right thing. It has to be. I slip the passport in my pocket.

I’m doing this.