Finding Focus

by Jiffy Kate

  Finding Focus

  Copyright © 2015 by Jiffy Kate

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editor:

  Indie Solutions

  www.murphyrae.net

  Cover Designer:

  Jada D’Lee Designs

  www.jadadleedesigns.com

  Interior Design and Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  www.perfectlypublishable.com

  FINDING FOCUS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Sheridan

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE leaving?”

  “Dani, it’s no big deal. I’m just taking a little vacation—a little me time.”

  “But it is a big deal,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders. Graham, my boyfriend of four years, is leaving the country without me—for a week—and he doesn't see the significance of this decision. “It's not like this is a spur-of-the-moment decision to have a vacation without me. It's obviously something you've been planning.”

  He can say whatever he wants, but we both know what this is: a vacation from me.

  “You're overreacting,” he groans, rubbing his face with his hands and letting out a frustrated sigh. Did he think I'd be okay with this?

  I bite my lip to keep from saying something I'll regret. This has the potential to be one of the biggest fights in the history of our relationship, but I don't want him leaving the country with our last words spoken in anger. So, I ignore the overreacting statement. “Are you going alone?” I finally ask, changing the subject.

  “What kind of question is that?” he asks.

  “A legitimate one.” I hate having to ask, but why else would he be running off like this? He's either traveling with someone or planning on hooking up once he's there. I've never had any reason to accuse him of cheating before, but what am I supposed to think? I mean, our relationship isn't perfect—who's is?—but I can't seem to wrap my brain around his urgent need to leave like this.

  Well, that's not entirely true.

  If I'm being completely honest, I can admit I've had thoughts of escaping, too. Escaping the city, my job, and yes, even the dull relationship I have with Graham. The difference is I'd never actually do it. I certainly have my selfish desires, but I'd never fully be able to enjoy myself. I'm supposed to want to be with him, and he's supposed to want to be with me.

  “Don't be stupid, Dani,” he says after staring at the floor for what feels like forever. The way he can't make eye contact with me makes my suspicions grow. When he finally looks up and grabs his suit jacket from the back of the couch, there's nothing but annoyance. No remorse or sadness or second-thought. I'm more than certain he won't even miss me. And it hurts.

  “I'll see you in a week,” he says, shutting the door behind him. And just like that he's gone. No I love yous. No take care of yourself. Nothing.

  What an asshole.

  I can’t believe I wasted my time faking an orgasm with him last night.

  I dump my soggy, uneaten cereal into the kitchen sink before shuffling down the hall and unceremoniously plopping onto my bed. Letting out a frustrated groan, I throw my arm over my face to block out the sun and the world, allowing my soft down comforter to wrap around my body like a fluffy cocoon—a safe place—where negativity and shitty boyfriends can’t get to me. A place where only good thoughts and happy memories flow. While my mind drifts to blue skies and warm sunny days of a life I hardly remember, I begin to fall asleep.

  Moments, or possibly hours, later, the sound of a rapper declaring his love of huge asses stirs me awake. I blink my bleary eyes, trying to gain my bearings before I realize what’s happening.

  Piper.

  My arms flail wildly as I untangle my body from my comforter, just barely reaching my cell before the call goes to my voicemail.

  “Hey, Pipe.”

  “Sheridan Reed, are you still in bed?” she asks, letting out an over-exaggerated breath. “I’ve about had enough of your little pity party. Don’t make me fly all the way up there to kick your ass!”

  Piper Grey has been my best friend since the first day of our freshmen year in college. She’s spunky, artsy-fartsy, and has a tendency to take on a mothering role with me, hence her full-naming and threatening me all in one breath. I know she means well, and because I haven’t been mothered in a really long time, it’s nice to feel cared for.

  “It’s not just the job thing,” I sigh, suddenly trying to keep tears at bay. “Graham is going on vacation . . . without me,” I whine. “A vacation I could really use, but he didn’t ask me to go, and it feels shady. I mean, who goes on vacation alone?”

  “Whoa. That’s a douche-move—even for him. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I let out a deep breath and try to decide what I am. Mad? A little. Hurt? A lot. “I think I’m more shocked than anything. I mean, it takes huge balls to do that, right?”

  Piper guffaws into the phone. “You know better than anyone how not-huge his balls really are, so whose balls did he steal? That’s the real question here!” Her snort-laugh in my ear works its magic, and I’m laughing so hard, I can barely catch my breath. It’s no secret my best friend doesn’t think very highly of my boyfriend. They tolerate each other. And while I should probably defend Graham and his balls, I just need my best friend’s comedic relief.

  I sit up in bed and wipe my eyes, letting out a deep sigh. “Thanks, Pipe. I needed that.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not done with you.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity bubbling up inside me.

  “I’m talking about the fact that I just got your recently-fired ass a job with Southern Style. As of tomorrow, you’ll be freelancing for me in the great state of Louisiana for a whole week. Think of it as your very own solo vacation. I mean, it’ll be work, but at least it’ll get you out of the city for a few days.”

  Being out of the city and away from reality sounds perfect, but her mentioning me being fired causes doubt to creep into my mind. What if I can’t do this? What if she’s putting too much trust in me? I start thinking of all the reasons I should say no:

  I’ve never worked on my own before.

  Did I mention I’ve never worked on my own before?

  And last, but not least, I’m scared shitless.

  “Piper, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t just pack up and
leave the city.”

  “The hell you can’t. What else do you have going on? You were just fired from your job, and your boyfriend is leaving the country. Sounds like this is perfect timing and exactly what you need. Plus, you’ll get to see me!”

  She’s right. Of course, she’s right.

  “So, tell me about this assignment,” I sigh into the phone, already mentally packing.

  The shrill sound of Piper celebrating my acceptance pushes me out of bed to pack for real.

  Aside from the normal clothes and toiletries, I throw in some sunscreen, bug spray, my laptop, camera, and my two trusty notebooks. One of the notebooks has a plethora of information I’ve been collecting since college: helpful tips and tricks, shortcuts for my camera, and notes from every job I’ve done since I finished school. The other notebook is probably my most-valued possession. It has all of my granny’s recipes in it and the beginnings of something I started a long time ago . . . something that’s been calling to me lately. I decide to bring it along, just in case inspiration strikes.

  Sheridan

  ONCE I BOARD THE PLANE, I relax back into my seat and settle in for the flight. Surprisingly, it’s peaceful—almost too quiet. There’s not one baby crying or one coughing passenger. So, I lean back, pull out my book, and try to enjoy the flight, but that only lasts so long. I shut my book after staring at the same page for twenty minutes. Everything seems to be cascading down all at once, and my mind won’t shut up. Thoughts about losing my job, Graham, the way he dismisses me so easily, the way it all makes me feel, crowd in, tearing away any excitement for this trip I was feeling.

  My thoughts inevitably drift back to last week when my boss called me into his office. Just thinking of it makes the disappointment fresh. I can’t say I’ve never failed at anything, but I sure as hell have never been fired. I felt like I had let everyone down, including Graham.

  Was I devastated? Yes. Surprised? Not really.

  I’d lost my creative mojo, my muse . . . my desire to do just about anything, months ago. I guess I should’ve been surprised I wasn’t fired sooner. Everything I’d put out lately had been shit. I knew it. My boss knew it. Graham certainly knew it—he wouldn’t let me forget it. He’s always so worried my performance will reflect on him. Heaven forbid his pristine reputation be tarnished.

  Graham has always held himself at a higher standard than everyone else. He was born into this industry. With his dad being a well-known newspaper editor in New York, he really has nothing to fear. His name alone could get him a job practically anywhere. There was a time when Graham’s work ethic appealed to me. He’s always been so take-charge. In the past, that quality made me feel safe, but in the last year or so, his motivated attitude morphed into controlling and pretentious.

  I bet he didn’t even fight for me. He’d said it was out of his control, but I’ve heard him use that excuse before when someone was fired or an account he wasn’t in favor of was dropped. It’s his politically correct way of saying he couldn’t care less.

  It’s not like I wasn’t trying; I was trying harder than I ever had in my entire life. I knew my job was at stake and unlike Graham and most of my friends, I don’t have anyone to fall back on—no family to catch me if I fall face first. But taking pictures of the local social scene in New York just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. It seemed like the harder I tried, the worse I did. And more than that, there was no challenge. It was too easy. Add in the disappointment in my relationship with Graham and the fact that my best friend moved to Birmingham, Alabama almost four months ago, and you have my very own recipe for disaster.

  Damn, can you have a mid-life crisis at twenty-five?

  I’ve always been one to keep my shit together. Ambitious to the core, I went above and beyond to ensure my work was done to the best of my ability, my friends were happy, and my boyfriend was taken care of. Somewhere along the way, though, I started losing my footing, and now that everything seems to be crumbling, I’m not sure how to get it back. It’s like my compass is broken and I can’t seem to find direction.

  Once Piper left, I didn’t have her there to distract me from how bored I was with my job or the fact that I’m not in love with Graham anymore. Actually, this might be the first time I’ve even admitted that to myself. I don’t know when it happened, and I don’t know how to feel about it, but my heart hurts. Maybe for what once was, or maybe because I’ve been defined by his presence for so long, I’m not sure who I am without him. Whatever the reason, it hurts.

  Thirty-thousand feet in the air and halfway to Baton Rouge, I begin to wonder how the hell I’m going to pull this off. This could be the most epic of my failures yet. Disappointing Piper would be the straw that breaks this camel’s back. But the fact that she has enough trust and faith in me to offer me this job in the first place helps a little with my lack of confidence. I mean, if she’s willing to put her neck on the line for me, I’m willing to put forth the hard work and effort to show her how much I appreciate this fresh start. Besides, what have I got to lose?

  A week taking pictures of the Landry Plantation, along with the family who owns it, and the small community surrounding it, sounds amazing. Add in the opportunity to eat some delicious Cajun food, hang out with Piper, and refuel my desire to be a photojournalist, and you have a happy Dani Reed.

  Thinking of being in the south, getting out of the city, is enough to put me in a better mood. I’ve always wanted to travel, immerse myself in a new location, and tell its story through my lens. With that thought, I can’t stop the excited smile that covers my face—stupid boyfriends and pink slips be damned.

  The airport in Baton Rouge is surprisingly busy, even for a Friday, and I’m thankful I thought ahead and reserved a car online last night. Once my luggage and equipment are loaded into the rental and I set the GPS to my destination, I pull onto the highway, heading toward I-10.

  Even with the typical road construction and idiot drivers, I don’t mind the drive through Baton Rouge. It’s amazing what a little change in scenery can do for your mood. When I take Exit 166 leading me from the hustle and bustle of the city into the quiet comfort of country life, I relax back into the seat and enjoy the view.

  The nearest hotel to French Settlement is over twenty minutes away in a neighboring town, so I settle for a quaint, locally owned, roadside motel. If I’m going to get a good grasp on who these people are and portray them in the most honest light while writing the article, I figure I need to have a first-hand experience, so Willow Oak Motel it is.

  I pull into the gravel drive, humored that my rental is the only car in the parking lot. From first sight, I would assume they’re closed, but the man on the phone last night assured me a room would be available and I wouldn’t need a reservation.

  When I walk through the glass door, the old bell above it chimes. A pretty blonde about my age with tall, big hair and a bright smile, greets me in a thick southern twang. “What can I do for ya?” Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle when she looks at me. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. The wood paneling on the walls has to be from the seventies, and the decrepit green sofa obviously came with it. Actually, the entire room must have been a packaged deal. I focus back on the woman, trying not to let my overactive imagination run wild with cliché horror movie scenarios.

  “You must be the girl from New York City,” she says with a slow drawl when I don’t respond.

  Funny, I’m pretty sure I spoke with a man last night.

  “Um . . . yeah, Dani Reed. I spoke to a gentleman last night about a room.”

  “My daddy told me to be watching for you. Said you were worried we wouldn’t have a vacancy for you,” she explains with a giggle.

  “Well, you never know when a hotel will be booked. I like to be prepared.”

  The girl throws her head back and laughs like I just told the funniest joke ever. I furrow my brows in confusion, obviously not getting the joke. As she continues to hoot and holler, lost i
n her own hysterics, my expression morphs to incredulous. I just want my room.

  “Honey, make no mistake, this is a mo-tel, not a hotel, and the only time it’s ever full is on prom night.” She winks. “You’re adorable, though. The guys here are just gonna go crazy over you.”

  “Any room you have available will be fine, I’m sure. And I’m only here for business. Besides, I have a boyfriend back home.”

  Why did I just say that?

  She ignores my room request again. “But,” she says, drawing out the word, “have you ever been with a southern boy?” She leans over the counter, positioning herself closer to me as her voice drops an octave. I shake my head in answer, slightly shocked by her forwardness. She shakes her head in return, pity in her eyes. “Girl, you are missing out! Especially the crazy Cajun guys we have around here,” she continues as she walks to the wall behind the counter and peruses a row of keys. “They’re very . . . passionate, I guess you could say.” She winks at me over her shoulder and her knowing smile tells me she has personal experience in this matter—probably a lot of it.

  “Uh, well, thanks?” I say, but it comes out more of a question than a statement. I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for, but I don’t know how else to respond to her or her claims to the ways of the south. I’ll just have to take her word for it. “So, um, I’m guessing I’m the third door down?” I ask, looking at the number on the extra-large key she hands me. A real, honest-to-goodness key. I didn’t even know hotels—motels, rather—still had these.

  “Yes, ma’am. Third door down. And if there is anything we can get you to make your stay more comfortable, please let us know!”

  Her chipper voice carries through the open door as I make my way back out to my rental car to retrieve my belongings.

  When I turn the key and step into the room, I’m relieved to find it’s not as creepy as I thought it might be. It’s sparsely decorated, but after a thorough inspection, it seems clean enough. The most important thing is it’s quiet, just like the rest of the town. Actually, I’m not even sure you would consider this place a town. I think I counted one stop light and a handful of stop signs. There’s a neon sign lit up down the street that looked like an eating establishment and a gas station across the street from the motel, but other than that, I hadn’t seen much industry or retail on the drive in.