Everything from the mundane (milk, bread, eggs) to my dreams (open a mermaid-themed bar, adopt a kitten, learn Spanish), I write down.
I have daily to-do lists, weekly planning lists, monthly big picture lists. Notebooks filled with lists. Goals and hopes and dreams. Lists of wardrobes, favorite synchronized swim routines, Etsy shops that sell shimmery fabric for the custom mermaid tails that I make by hand.
Today's Tuesday and I'm sitting in my office at Mermosa, my newly formed business — oh, I love the sound of that — and I'm working on a list. Naturally. It's a mega to-do list for the coming week.
Let's see. Interview servers, meet with contractors about the giant tank where the mermaids will swim, attend the Chamber of Commerce meeting... I bite my lip and doodle small check mark boxes next to each item. Being a business owner is way more involved than I had expected, but I'm loving every second.
Oh, social media. I need to tackle that soon, too. In careful cursive, I make a list on a new page.
From the time I arrived four months ago in Cypress Grove, I knew it was home. After Mom handed me the check that day at the diner, I'd driven two towns over and opened an account with my massive deposit. Then I went back to Brent's and pretended nothing had changed.
Then I made lists. Secret lists in a password-protected app. I planned and plotted for a solid week until my departure. Everything was orchestrated around the fact that Brent didn't know I was leaving, because he'd have begged me to stay. Or talked me out of it.
And then I left. He thought I was going to work, but instead, I hopped in my old truck and drove. When I crossed the county line, I sang Katy Perry's "Roar" at the top of my lungs and sobbed. I felt featherlight, as if I could float away. The heaviness of the past year lifted. I was free.
Oh, sure, it was scary. In Cypress Grove, I'd rented a little furnished bungalow a block from the historic downtown. For the first month, I barely went anywhere, too paralyzed by anxiety. Sleeping alone at night, I'd wake with a start at every creak and crackle. Was it Brent? I'd remind myself that the wooden bungalow was old, and the orange, feral kitty outside liked to hunt after dark.
It was strange, though. Even those scared, sleepless nights, I felt the spring out there, somehow. Like the town was already pulling me in.
Then something turned on inside me. I'd been given a great gift. The world once again took on vibrant colors, and I decided to really live. I signed up for one of those online therapists, and met with her via video chat once a week, talking to her about everything I'd been through with Brent.
Then I started searching for a commercial space. Amazingly, a former bar at the far end of Main Street was empty, and the owner cut me a deal on a two-year lease.
And just like that, I was a businesswoman. I've been amped up and edgy for weeks. Not the kind of churning unease I'd experienced with Brent, the walking on eggshells out of fear I'd say something wrong and he'd freeze me out for days. This is a different kind, a thrilling vibration of starting something new and incredible.
Something that's mine, and mine alone.
Even looking around my empty bar gives me a feeling of giddiness. I need to fill it with furniture and mermaid kitsch and love.
The space had been a longtime fish house, and then briefly, one of those ice-themed bars. Apparently, tourists didn't want to revisit their chilly, northern memories while on a Florida vacation, and the business tanked a few months after it opened. The ice walls, tables, and chairs have all melted and washed away via drains in the cement floor, and all that's left behind is a sparse, white interior. Which is perfect for me, because I can turn it into an underwater paradise.
Taking a sip from my water bottle, I grab another notebook. It says PART TIME MERMAID, FULL TIME DREAMER on the front. I leaf through the pages, all written two years ago, right before I'd met Brent. That had been when I'd first come up with the concept of Mermosa. I'd held onto the notebook and considered it my "someday dream list."
Those someday dreams are here, looking me squarely in the eye. And I'm staring right back, with a smile on my face.
I flip through my early notes about the bar. I have sketches of a massive aquarium tank where mermaids will perform live shows. There are pages and pages of ideas, for bachelorette parties, kids' birthday parties, mermaid photo shoots, you name it. If it's mermaid-themed, it's jotted in this notebook.
At the end of the notebook is a different kind of list. I'd read an article online about writing out a "dream guy list" toattract my soul mate. When I met Brent, I was convinced that I'd conjured him with my list.
I laugh out loud at how wrong I was.
I'd written in careful script, taking up two whole pages. I read the items out loud, my voice echoing around the bar.
THE PERFECT MAN
* Tall
* Handsome (six-pack abs a bonus)
* Someone who believes in me
* Treats me like a queen
* Has a sense of humor (laughs and smiles a lot)
* Doesn't make fun of my mermaid obsession
* Excellent kisser