Why I Love Singlehood: Read Online Free PDF Page B

vehemently opposed to selling the house at first, but Olivia said that it would be nothing more than an empty tomb if we held on to it. She didn’t want to live there, and I didn’t want to live there without her. The truth was that I was afraid to leave home, to lose the last remnant of the family I once had, to never know the feeling of home again. And I didn’t want to go out into the world where nothing was safe or sure, but I’d never considered that Olivia was itching to get out into the very world I was avoiding.
    So that was that. We sold the house and split the money, of which my half went towards my tuition and living expenses at SUNY Stony Brook as an English major. From there I went on to a master of fine arts degree in creative writing at NCLA, thanks to a scholarship. And when I’d written a novel as my thesis project and it was published, receiving favorable critical reviews, my value increased tenfold.
    Sitting at an oval-shaped table in yet another English department conference room, facing yet another hiring committee for yet another tenure-track position, my novel and copies of my curriculum vita were spread out like evidence in a police interrogation. Words like “impressive” and “promising” danced about the air.
    And then I smelled it: bread .
    A nearby sandwich shop in the campus student center had just finished baking several loaves, and the wind directed the heavenly aroma right into the open conference room window, like a telegram delivered just for me. My academic life then flashed before my eyes—but instead of seeing myself delivering papers at conferences and attending guest lectures or book signings, grading papers and advising students, the images were of me bringing chocolate chip cookies to study groups and baking birthday cakes for my fellow grad students. When I was a TA, I’d been invited to serve on faculty committees with hopes that I’d attend meetings armed with pitchers of smoothies or platters of lemon bars. The other stuff—grading and lecturing and publishing and all that—suddenly seemed like an indefinite sentence of manual labor.
    “Eva?” the creative writing program director had piped. “Is something wrong?”
    I hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
    I left the interview that day vowing to never go on another, and the following day, I applied for a business loan to open a coffee shop. For the next year, I turned down job offers and stayed on faculty as an adjunct at North Carolina Liberal Arts College until The Grounds was up and running. Of course, being a tenured professor would have given me prestige, my own office with a window and my name on the door, and some job security. But being in a place where I could both bake and gather with the college crowd less than a mile away from campus seemed like the natural thing to do.
    Leaving Olivia in New York was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done—worse even than selling the house and packing up all of our parents’ belongings. For the first two weeks, I had called every night (and sometimes the following morning) and cried, pleading for her to either come get me and take me home or to pack up and move down South with me.
    “It’ll get easier,” she promised. “You’ll see.”
    “Don’t you miss me at all?” I once cried.
    A quiet sob followed a long pause before she answered, “You’ll thank me later.”
    She was right. On all counts.

     
    After pouring this year’s custard into the shell, I drizzled the raspberry glaze on with darting strokes, the spoon leading my hand and wrist.
    When I dialed Olivia’s number and got her voice mail, I hung up without leaving a message, satisfied at having heard her voice, at least. I sliced the torte into slivers and arranged them on a plate for my customers to help themselves.
    “What’s the occasion?” Scott asked as he sampled a sliver. I shrugged without saying a word. “Whatever it is, we should celebrate it more often. This rocks.”
    I had