Free The Girl I Used to Be by April Henry Page A

finger.
    I can’t let go, but at the same time I can’t turn it. Am I ready to walk back in time? A sound makes me jump. It’s my phone. I pull it from my pocket.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œExactly when were you planning on telling me you were leaving?”
    My stomach does a flip. It’s Bill. My boss in Portland. I was so nervous about going to Lee Realty I forgot all about needing to call him before Chuck did.
    â€œSorry!” I say. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
    â€œWhy in the world would you want to live in Medford? You know what they call it. Dead-ford. Meth-ford.”
    Meth. Could my parents have been into drugs? “I just felt like I needed a change.”
    â€œThen dye your hair or get your belly button pierced or something. But don’t move away and leave me shorthanded.” Bill’s always been blunt. So if he was really mad at me, he would tell me. But still, there’s some emotion under his words.
    â€œI’m really sorry,” I say again. “I was visiting a friend down here, and I just decided I liked it. It wasn’t anything I planned.”
    â€œThere are a million other places I would pick ahead of Medford. Bunch of rednecks in a little valley with a bad economy.”
    Bill begins listing all the reasons why no sane person would live in Medford, and as he does, I put my hand back on the key. Only this time I turn it, push the door open, and step through. My breath is stuck inside me, not coming in, not going out, as his litany continues. The lack of big-city culture. Smoky forest fires. Californians who have abandoned their own state for ours. Unbearable heat in the summer. Fog as thick as cotton in the winter.
    As I walk into the living room, I’m prepared to be overwhelmed by memories, but the first hit I get is—nothing. Nothing about this place is familiar. There’s a gold velour couch in the living room, but no other furniture on the flat gray carpet, just dents where it used to be. The walls are painted off-white. At least they were years ago. Shadowy rectangles of various sizes show where pictures have been put up and taken back down again. Cobwebs hang in the corners. It smells faintly of fried onions and dust.
    â€œI’m not saying it’s forever,” I tell Bill. My shirt sticks to my skin. I pluck it away from my chest and let out a puff of air, finally able to breathe. “It’s just for now. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
    His voice loses some of its sarcastic humor. “Has someone on staff been giving you grief?”
    Does Bill think I’ve come down here to get away from some harasser or a relationship gone wrong? “It’s nothing like that.” I turn sideways to maneuver through the small dining room, with its scarred wooden table and rickety chairs. “And who knows? I could come back.”
    â€œAnd why would I want someone who might quit at any time, with no notice?” Bill’s teasing again. I think. Teasing with an edge, as he always does. “I told that Chuck guy you were a good worker but that you’re leaving me in the lurch.”
    Have I just thrown away my life for nothing? Burned my bridges with Bill for a job I might not even get now?
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just something that feels right.” It takes only four strides to cross the narrow length of the kitchen. At the back is a tiny alcove just big enough to hold a washer and dryer, with a door to the backyard. I look through the glass pane at the yellowing lawn bordered by a fence on the far side and laurel hedges on the others.
    He relents a little. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell Chuck that last part. In fact, I pretty much talked him into hiring you.”
    â€œThank you.” I press my forehead against the cool glass as I try to imagine playing out there. But still I recognize nothing. “I really appreciate it.”
    â€œLet me know if you come to your senses and