Read Online The Writer by Rebekah Dodson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebekah Dodson
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the magazine off the ground, and it was always nice to see my statements had such a low balance. I rarely went out, and when I did, it was almost always on Elijah's tab, who insisted it was his gentlemanly duty. We took turns buying coffee every day, and once a month I set aside a small portion of our profits for our lunch meeting at a local restaurant.
I really never paid attention to flyer miles. Where would I go? Everything I ever wanted was here. My job, my life, my...
Maybe it was time I stepped out of my fragile bubble.
Clicking through the email, I realized I had accumulated an astonishing 10,000 frequent flyer miles on my business loan, which was only a few hundred dollars from being paid off. It was a special "thank you" for being such a consistent customer.
Without giving it any thought, I started looking at airline tickets.
At first I thought of Florida. The sunny weather and a visit to some friends from high school would be rejuvenating. But I hated humidity. I looked at Nebraska, and contemplated seeing my retired school teacher father - that would be a welcome change of pace, to spend a few weeks on the farm with him.
But then I figured, why would I stop there, with a ticket virtually paid for anywhere in the world?
London, Madrid, Dubai. I could go anywhere.
Why should I spend another Christmas around my tree, sipping apple cider and contemplating my loneliness, when I could be snapping pictures of Stonehenge, or climbing the rock of Gibraltar?
Writing about all my adventures, maybe getting a gig as a travel journalist.
The problem with journalists – we always, always want to see the world.
My gaze floated to my tall bookcase, tucked in the corner behind the door. Journalism and psychology text books, references books, three different dictionaries, hard copies of Time magazine, Martha Stewart, and an encyclopedia crowded the shelves. My French dictionaries, from a long year I spent abroad. A framed copy of my first published story in Writer's Review sat next to copies of my degrees, including my journalism degree from the University of Paris years ago, a few honor societies, and certificates of works I had published over the years.
But next to that bookcase in the middle of the wall under the clock, sat my postcard, hanging in a carefully construction oak frame. The one I had sent home from France when I had studied my last year in graduate school. My father had given it to me on my graduation day, to remind me of how far I had come.
My life was told in a serious of framed plaques.
The flight was booked quicker than I could have thought, with surprisingly no blackout dates the week after Christmas.
No sooner had I hit print, then a knock on my door, startling me. With a quick click of the mouse, I closed the windows on my computer, and hit the "sleep" button on the keyboard, just to be safe.
Chapter Sixteen
No sense in stressing people out about this so soon.
Alex opened the door slowly. "You got minute, Ro?"
"Yeah, I guess." I felt guilty, as if he knew was I was doing, as if he knew I was going to run away. "What's up?"
"I'm just checkin' in on you," he said, crossing his legs in the armchair and wrapping his laced fingers around his knees. "Things were a little... weird today."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know. You and Elijah always come in at the same time, you're both here when we all leave, you guys always joke around. Today was just... quiet."
"Hmm. Guess we were busy."
"Rochelle, really, honey, what is wrong?"
I shook my head. We were not talking about this.
He gasped, putting a shocked fist to his lips. "Oh my god, did you guys sleep together?"
"No!" I said, adding: "Gross!"
"Something happened, what was it?" He rolled his eyes. "You know you'll feel better if you told me."
"Alex, I know we've been friends for a while, but this is not something we are discussing. I hate gossip, and I hate drama. I'm not doing it."
"Oh, you're doing it, alright," he said, smiling and
I really never paid attention to flyer miles. Where would I go? Everything I ever wanted was here. My job, my life, my...
Maybe it was time I stepped out of my fragile bubble.
Clicking through the email, I realized I had accumulated an astonishing 10,000 frequent flyer miles on my business loan, which was only a few hundred dollars from being paid off. It was a special "thank you" for being such a consistent customer.
Without giving it any thought, I started looking at airline tickets.
At first I thought of Florida. The sunny weather and a visit to some friends from high school would be rejuvenating. But I hated humidity. I looked at Nebraska, and contemplated seeing my retired school teacher father - that would be a welcome change of pace, to spend a few weeks on the farm with him.
But then I figured, why would I stop there, with a ticket virtually paid for anywhere in the world?
London, Madrid, Dubai. I could go anywhere.
Why should I spend another Christmas around my tree, sipping apple cider and contemplating my loneliness, when I could be snapping pictures of Stonehenge, or climbing the rock of Gibraltar?
Writing about all my adventures, maybe getting a gig as a travel journalist.
The problem with journalists – we always, always want to see the world.
My gaze floated to my tall bookcase, tucked in the corner behind the door. Journalism and psychology text books, references books, three different dictionaries, hard copies of Time magazine, Martha Stewart, and an encyclopedia crowded the shelves. My French dictionaries, from a long year I spent abroad. A framed copy of my first published story in Writer's Review sat next to copies of my degrees, including my journalism degree from the University of Paris years ago, a few honor societies, and certificates of works I had published over the years.
But next to that bookcase in the middle of the wall under the clock, sat my postcard, hanging in a carefully construction oak frame. The one I had sent home from France when I had studied my last year in graduate school. My father had given it to me on my graduation day, to remind me of how far I had come.
My life was told in a serious of framed plaques.
The flight was booked quicker than I could have thought, with surprisingly no blackout dates the week after Christmas.
No sooner had I hit print, then a knock on my door, startling me. With a quick click of the mouse, I closed the windows on my computer, and hit the "sleep" button on the keyboard, just to be safe.
Chapter Sixteen
No sense in stressing people out about this so soon.
Alex opened the door slowly. "You got minute, Ro?"
"Yeah, I guess." I felt guilty, as if he knew was I was doing, as if he knew I was going to run away. "What's up?"
"I'm just checkin' in on you," he said, crossing his legs in the armchair and wrapping his laced fingers around his knees. "Things were a little... weird today."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know. You and Elijah always come in at the same time, you're both here when we all leave, you guys always joke around. Today was just... quiet."
"Hmm. Guess we were busy."
"Rochelle, really, honey, what is wrong?"
I shook my head. We were not talking about this.
He gasped, putting a shocked fist to his lips. "Oh my god, did you guys sleep together?"
"No!" I said, adding: "Gross!"
"Something happened, what was it?" He rolled his eyes. "You know you'll feel better if you told me."
"Alex, I know we've been friends for a while, but this is not something we are discussing. I hate gossip, and I hate drama. I'm not doing it."
"Oh, you're doing it, alright," he said, smiling and
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