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There was no cell service at the cabin.
When I did finally find service, I was usually blown up with dozens of text

messages. There were messages were pleading for me to come home, and as much
as I wanted to, I knew that I needed a break from the world to restore my mental
state.

Missed calls. Unanswered texts and Facebook messages.
My ex-boyfriend's stopped coming, after a little while.
I kept my phone in a drawer with my clothes sometimes, to remove myself
from the memories that had damaged me. It was nice to walk to the general store
for my breakfast in the morning without the weight of home heavy in my pocket.
I would peruse the warm fruit pastries with a hungry eye, the colorful collection
of delicacies that they baked fresh every morning that cost less than a coffee at
Starbucks.

Somehow, I felt less there than I did at home, disconnected from the people
there. It was simple to turn off my phone and ignore the people that made my
mind noisy, simple to go and take a kayak out onto the open water where no one
could call me back.

The world was easier here, somehow, plainer, and I could speak to the corners
of my mind that had never been addressed before.

I could speak to the memories that created nightmares, the ones I'd never
touched with bare hands. I could sit amongst them in quiet and acknowledge that
they were a part of me, they had happened, and it was not my fault.

I was a different girl than before.

I was quieter, pensive, and tended to react less. Whereas he'd left someone
that had cried almost every day and lamented over small things, I now tried to be
reflective, instead. I didn't wear a lot of the same clothes or listen to the same
music; rather, I dressed quite plainly, instead of wearing band t-shirts and bright-
ly colored dresses. I possessed only a few items of clothing; enough for about a
week, and kept them in good condition.

When I started working for The Miller's Thumb, they requested a certain level of
dress. I had not brought any of my dressier clothes from home, so I took a trip with
Robin into Burlington to hunt down a consignment shop and snag a few more
clothing options. Robin wasn't very dressy or very girly, but her presence was
practical and kind, and I enjoyed her company. We walked through the streets
together with laughs and wide smiles, the brightly colored townhouses and flowers
lighting our way. When we reached the shops, the street ended, and we were
surrounded by cafe tables and lounge chairs of every nature. The people milled
about tranquilly, passing murals and art galleries and odd collections of sculptures.

The consignment shop we went into was a remarkably short trip. Robin was
quick to tell me what flattered me and what did not, and we had lunch and were on
our way before too long.

I was not afraid of solitude in the same way. Somehow, it felt productive to
me. Long hours would pass where I lay in the sun staring at the water or walking
around the lake, feeling the dew of the leaves in early evening, letting my hands
trail across the flowers, the mosses, the greenery. I spent my days in relative quiet,
avoiding the boys, talking to Robin, sitting at the gallery. I'd sit in front of the
fireplace at night and write page after page in my novel, watching the people come
and go through the living room. There was Robert, who usually went to parties with
friends and returned with a sleepy smile before heading to bed. There was also
Chris, the loner, who I'd give my best attempt to convince him to just go to bed;

but most times, he'd shuffle back outside for a cigarette and I'd be in bed with the