Page 113 of The Check Down
Like a badass dragon.
My stomach clenches. Have I put myself and the man I love through hell for nothing? Did a sense of obligation to my parents masquerade as real interest in a job?
I shake my head. “There’s no harm in me going to the interview. I should be well informed about my options.” When I push away from the table, they’re wearing matching sad smiles. “I just…I just need to do this.”
“We’ll be here when you get back, love.”
I rush down to the hall bathroom and grab a tissue to erase my raccoon eyes, then into the bedroom to grab the blazer I brought to wear with my pencil skirt and silk blouse. The university is over an hour away, and I want to get there in plenty of time to scope out the campus before my interview.
I blow a kiss to my parents, who remain at the table like a pair of disappointed statues, and grab the key fob to Dad’s car. After tossing my purse, portfolio, and blazer into the passenger seat, I cruise out of the neighborhood and onto the highway.
As I settle into the drive, the shock and confusion that hit me during the conversation with my parents come crashing back.
But so does the truth of my mom’s statement. Until Griffin, I based every major life decision on the perceived expectations of others. As the child of unconventional parents, I chose the safe routes and stuck to them rather than veering off to forge my own path. Even keeping my dragon obsession from my friends because I was afraid they would find it odd. I caved when Jack begged me to move to Memphis because I didn’t want to disappoint him. And I stayed in that relationship well past its expiration date out of obligation to him and our shared history. I pursued a master’s degree and a doctorate rather than taking the scary leap to chase my dream—to become a published author.
This teaching opportunity appeared in my inbox, and its proximity to my parents led me to believe that I needed to try for it.
It isn’t what I want. But I’ve convinced myself that I’msupposedto want it.
Because wanting it means I’m doing the right thing—puttingmy parents first.
But it’s time to put myself first.
And putting myself first means finishing my book, then pursuing a path to publish it. It means nurturing and deepening the friendships I’ve made over the past few months. And experiencing new adventures in the city that’s become my home.
It means spending every minute I can with the man I love. Because, like my mother promised, he does make me soar. His love and acceptance have made me the absolute best version of myself—a woman who is confident, brave, and strong.
A woman who is ready to choose herself and follow her heart. And Griffinismy heart. Where he goes, I’ll go. Even if he’s traded to rainy Seattle or mile-high Denver or freezing-cold Buffalo. Even if he stays in magical Memphis.
Tears stream as I exit the highway and turn in at a roadside gas station. I pull down the visor and scowl at my reflection. At the eyes that no longer hold the makeup I applied this morning. At the way it instead runs in rivulets down my tear-stained cheeks. Certain I stuck a tissue in my blazer’s pocket, I angle over the center console to dig it out. Instead of fluff, my fingers close around a small, pointy plastic object.
I know what it is before I pull it out.
A tiny dragon.
A fresh batch of tears overwhelm me as scenes from the last few months spin through my mind: Me, reaching for his hand on a Memphis sidewalk. Him, snapping a picture of me where the King once stood. Me, beating him at Skee-Ball. Him, hugging me tight next to a miniature river. Me, confessing my secret author aspirations. Him, acting shocked every time I discover one of these little dragons hidden all over the apartment.
The two of us, laughing and fumbling our way through a secret handshake.
Every beautiful, brilliant moment of Memphis Magic.
I want to go home. To him.
And I want to tell him in person, not over the phone. Tonight.
Mind made up, and more clear-headed than I’ve been in days, I dig my phone out of my purse. Somehow, I steady my voice enough to make an apologetic, sincere phone call to the university’s HR department, thanking them for the opportunity, but letting them know that I won’t make it to the interview.
Next, I consider calling my parents and asking them to look up flights while I drive back. Instead, I drop my phone into the cupholder, anxious to get back so we can have the conversation in person.
I make it home in record time, grabbing only my phone and tiny dragon friend, then rush into the house. I kick off my heels at the door and stumble to the kitchen, where my parents are puttering.
“Hey,” I breathe, heart racing and breaths coming fast. “I need to look up flights. I’m not interviewing, and I need to get home. Dad, where’s the laptop? Mom, would you mind getting my toiletries while I pack everything else?”
It isn’t until I’ve fired off all my directives that I realize they’re staring at me, unmoving, with huge grins on their faces.
“What’s going on? Let’s move.” I flap my hands. “Come on, I’ll explain—”
Mom’s eyes dart to a spot over my shoulder, stopping my panic, and a shiver coasts down my spine.