October Sinclair sat at the enormous handcrafted writing desk wedged between her bed and the closet door. Still damp from her shower, she basked in front of the fan, which tossed out cool air like a tempest. The computer screen held the information she needed. Each morning before work, she ritually recorded her account balance in her journal.
Every penny of her twenty-four thousand, one hundred and nine dollars, and eighty-eight cents was there. It was more than money. It was her way out of Honeycomb Beach. It was a way to see the world.
She signed out of the online bank, reached for her spiral-bound productivity journal and a fine-tipped pen, then entered the date and time before constructing her goals for the day.
Today, I will gain one more sale at the newspaper. I will eat less sugar and bypass Glen’s Bakery on my way to work but will treat myself to a new roast of coffee at the Island Café. Today, I’m one step closer to my dream. I will reach my goal of $36,000. Italy, here I come.
The journal heaved with the places she wanted to visit, the food she wanted to taste, and the music she wanted to dance to. She used tape to hold the spine together, as her dreams, daily mantras, and visions for her future burst from every colorful page. She wrote in it every morning like clockwork, a habit she’d started shortly after her mother died, as a way of controlling something. Anything. Her newest vision board held glossy photos that would make her dreams a reality someday. Words like Success, Achieve, Voyager were among the words she used to describe her future. Her travel expenses would include a new wardrobe, so she cut out ideal outfits, mostly of Italian design, from the Vogue and Glamour magazines she’d swiped from the dentist’s office. To be the ultimate tourist would require her to blend in, not jump out as if she didn’t belong. She would meet new people, eat exotic food, and walk on unfamiliar streets. October Sinclair would finally be free from the mundane and boring confines of Honeycomb Beach. She closed her eyes and inhaled a couple of long, deep breaths and proclaimed her daily mantra.
“I deserve success.” She stopped when there was a knock on the bedroom door.
Summer Young stepped into the bedroom wearing a pink robe with her hair under a tightly wrapped terry towel. She was a social butterfly who loved people and hanging out at the beach. Her job title, Social Science Collection Development Support Specialist, was a mouthful. She worked at the library. The name itself made October envious, but she loved her friend and would want nothing but the best for her. And Summer would always want the best for October. Even if it meant leaving. Her roommate sat on the bed and waited for October to finish up her journal entry.
“Still up for dinner tonight?” Summer said. The two roommates had dinner almost every night after Summer finished up at the library and October got done with her job at the Honeycomb Beach Times. October had calculated all the money she’d spent on eating out. She’d be a lot closer to her goal if she hadn’t eaten her way through an eighth of her potential savings, but they were best friends, and it was what they’d always done. And she didn’t want to ruin it.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Summer patted October on the shoulder and kissed her on the top of the head. A motherly gesture they’d begun in high school.
“I’ll meet you at Jack’s Tiki Bar then.” Summer left October there and closed the door behind her. October looked up at the framed poster of Tuscany, the same one that decorated the wall at her office, and wished she were there now. Her hometown was a beautiful place but also a place where everything stayed the same.
She slid the journal into a drawer and drew out a book she’d been reading but was unable to finish. When the Night Leaves You was a bestseller years ago. October stared at the cover and brushed a finger over the author’s name. Lillian Sinclair. The large yellow font should have brought her joy.
The name Sinclair implied a penchant for poetry or novel writing, which October had tried with no luck and was a constant reminder of her mother’s criticism. After one hundred and fifty-two submissions and a handful of dry, unhelpful letters implying that she lacked her mother’s unique storytelling ability, October had thrown away her manuscripts and attended a community college for a degree in liberal arts.
She made twenty dollars an hour at the newspaper.
It was a pittance compared to what her mother must have gotten paid for her novel. No one discussed money, and after her mother’s death, a letter to the town’s lawyer had revealed her intention to use her royalties for other purposes.
Her father had taken it badly. October had gotten a piece of her mother’s income: twenty thousand, which she immediately put away in her bank account. Her father had sold the house and left Honeycomb Beach for a new life in California. She tossed the book back into her mother’s desk and closed the drawer.
