If You're Going My Way

I Had Sworn to Myself I Was Content

Wednesday, October 7th

Los Angeles, California.

When you're in high school, miserable, slogging your way through the fifth pop quiz of the week and realizing that you're actually, literally failing pre-calculus, there's always that one sustaining thought that things are going get better. You just have to survive the "best" four years of your life and then another four years of college and then you'll be handed a piece of paper that says you're a tried and true Real Adult, trademark pending.

Then you get that piece of paper and realize that Real Adulthood is just taxes and bills and being too tired to go out with your ever dwindling pool of friends. Maybe you'll even get lucky and find a job you like that doesn't work you into the ground so hard that you swear you're going to die of exhaustion by 35. Maybe you'll find an apartment that doesn't suck you so dry you spend weekends staring at your online baking portal. Maybe you'll actually manage to keep some of your friends and pretend you still like each other when you have to have Real Adult conversations because alcohol gives you headaches now.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Or maybe, and more realistically, life would just stamp a big "Fuck You" on your fancy piece of paper, and you'd be left scrambling to pick up the pieces and fit them together into something that made sense.

For Adam Quinn, 28, a junior broker at an investment firm that only demanded 85% of his soul but that came with a commute that easily ate up the remaining 15%, that elusive maybe had meant meeting "the girl of his dreams" in a 9am freshman writing seminar. Maybe had meant getting engaged not even six months after college graduation and picking out baby names when they were drunk after a mutual friend's wedding reception.

And then maybe had meant watching her walk out the door and not come back.

And then there was just Adam Quinn, 29, in an apartment he hadn't decorated, completely alone for the first time in seven years.

"You should come on Friday, it'll be fun, I swear."

Adam leveled a tired glare across the table. "I told you already, I'm busy."

"Doing what, looking through Ikea catalogs with Patrick again?" His sister nudged his arm. "Your nesting is starting to get concerning."

"I'm not nesting, Sabrina, Jesus!"

She pointed a finger at him across the table. "Last week when I was over you two spent an hour looking at paint swatches on the Internet. You can't even tell what they look like properly!"

Adam rolled his eyes. "Our landlord finally gave us permission to paint the living room and we're trying to get it done before he changes his mind."

"So go to Home Depot like normal people?"

"You know that Patrick had that bullshit corporate retreat last weekend, we didn't have time."

Sabrina's expression turned bored. "Yeah, yeah, work, blah blah."

Adam pointed a finger at her across the table. "Hey, you asked."

Sabrina leaned in closer and put her own finger in his face. "Uh, no, I didn't." She fell back in her chair and stared at him.

"What?"

"You call Mom and Dad lately?"

Adam's spine straightened. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Just asking."

"Sabrina. Why?" he repeated.

She heaved out a sigh and looked up from inspecting her painted fingernails. They were a study in greens, the pinkies violently bright dimming into darker forest. . One of her thumbs was chipping. "They're worried about you," she let out in a rush.