Where the Waves Whisper

Chapter Sixty-One

Today is the day. My forty-eight hours is up. I have to give Savannah an answer soon and I still have no clue what I'm going to tell her. I'm no closer to a decision than I was the second she said the words, "I'd like to offer you a job at Vogue," but she's not going to wait forever. There are hundreds of willing participants in the journalism world that would be – and probably are – lining up, willing to accept her offer. I'm a small fish in a vast ocean and if I don't give her my answer soon, she's going to give the job to someone else – understandably. Each hour that's gone by since I got Savannah's call, I've waited for an epiphany, a moment or a sign that would help me figure out what to do, but I've got nothing. No epiphany. No sign. No moment of clarity – just confusion and indecisiveness. Oh, and a healthy dose of anxiety.

It's going to be fine though. I'm going to talk to Greyson and we're going to figure out what to do – together. Back then, I made a life-altering decision without discussing it with him first. I ruined everything and my selfish behavior hurt him and kept us apart for ten years, so I'm doing it differently this time. Which shouldn't be hard considering I haven't made a choice yet and I don't know what I want. That's actually a lie. I know exactly what I want. I want to go to New York and accept the job with Vogue, and I want Greyson to come with me. Or better yet, I want Vogue to offer me a hybrid position so I can go back and forth between here and Manhattan, but mostly work from home so I can stay in South Grove with everyone I don't want to leave again.

Everything is going to be fine.

If I truly believe that then why am I lying in my bed like a corpse, watching shadows from the ceiling fan dance around the room, my body broken out in a cold sweat and my heart beating a million times a minute? If I truly believe everything is going to be okay, why the hell am I so damn scared to talk to Greyson?

I'm eighteen years old again.

I groan sleepily as I untangle myself from my comforter and throw my legs over the side of the bed, forcing myself to sit up. Looking down at my cherry red painted toenails, I dig my matching fingernails into the edge of the pillowtop mattress, squishing my cream-colored carpet between my toes and dropping my chin to my chest as trepidation begins to set in. It's not super early – a little past nine-thirty – but with my future looming over me and Will's text, I didn't fall asleep until well after three a.m. I've never been a morning person, but especially not when I'm stressed out and only on a few hours of sleep.

Lumbering into the bathroom, I turn on the shower and pull Greyson's worn-in Led Zeppelin t-shirt over my head, tossing it into the laundry basket. As I step under the showerhead, I moan when the hot water hits me, pressing my palms against the cold tile as I let the hard pressure beat against the top of my head and work the stress knots along my neck and shoulders.

I haven't rehearsed anything this time because I don't have any answers, just questions, and I don't know what he is going to say. He may tell me to take the job. He may beg me not to go. He might say he's proud of me, and happy, and that once things settle down in his life, he'll move to New York with me. He could say he loves me more now than he did when we were teenagers, and that we can make it work, or he might say he hates me for doing this to him again and wants me out of his life permanently. This conversation will go one of two ways – he tells me to go, or he asks me to stay. Jo is right. I can't make this decision alone this time. Mine and Greyson's lives are too intertwined now – like two vines growing on a trellis – and I won't leave him out of this decision again, because it's not just mine.