Lonely Me
My roommate, Jin, made friends quickly. I look over my computer screen to where she’s seated on our couch, cross legged next to her friend, Ming. They flip through a thick paper, swapping comments that I do not grasp—medical breakthroughs and prospects for disease treatments. They’re enthusiastic and intensely focused. It’s as though I’m not even here.
Some of their comments are in English, some are in Mandarin. It may as well all be in a foreign language, though. What do I know about bioengineering? Nada.
Maybe this school was not the right choice.
Davis is a little enclave. It’s more landlocked than I expected—with miles of wetlands separating it from Sacramento, and farmland fanning out in every other direction. It’s a bubble—an intensely academic bubble.
My family was over the moon when I was accepted. They gushed, “It’s one of the best schools in the nation, maybe the world…”
Correct...for science, medicine, and agriculture…I haven’t found anyone who shares my love for visuals and interior design. “Unserious studies” is what one of Jin’s friends called it when she thought I wasn’t home.
I sought out the challenge, the rigorous workload. I crave the pressure. I know what my therapist would say in this moment. The same thing she has said a thousand times before: If you don’t stop moving then you don’t have to face his death. You’re controlling what you can.
She’s not wrong. Here I am, still forging full steam ahead towards some finish line...not really sure what I’m chasing. Only now, I am in a new town with a total of...hold on while I count...
Zero friends.
I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with anyone my age since moving here two months ago.
I am twenty-three years old and, while I’m no social butterfly, I thought there would be opportunities to meet like-minded people. Solitude, I am no stranger to. I enjoy it, even. But while the solitude is not new, feeling like an outsider is.
I tend to crack jokes when I’m nervous. Well, that’s a lie. I crack jokes pretty much whenever I can whether I’m nervous or not. But they don’t seem to land well here. Which has led to many awkward silences.
My sad eyes show in the reflection of my computer screen. My eyes always give me away. Every emotion swimming in their pale blue depths. I exhale, feeling my shoulders slump forward as an audible, defeated sigh accidentally escapes my lips, drawing looks of concern from Jin and her friend.
Great. Be less cool, Elle.
They don’t say anything as they rise from the couch and head for the door. My roommate, Jin, from China, in her perfect designer clothes with her leather purse and impeccably straight hair.
“You going to get food?” I ask with a forced smile and desperation in my voice.
Jin shifts uncomfortably. “Um, we’re going to dinner in town with friends. Bio-tech people.”
There’s a weighted silence. Not followed by an obligatory invite.
“Oh, okay, have fun.”
“Yeah, see you later,” she says nice enough.
My cheeks burn red with embarrassment. Another trait that gives me away—my blushing cheeks.
“That was pathetic, Elle,” I say to myself, clicking out of the windows on my computer.
I dread nightime. I have become all-too attuned to the sound of the footsteps of Jin and her friends down the hall, and then the front door closing behind them, then the silence in their wake. I’d rather not eat at all than spend another night eating alone in the quiet of my apartment.
I throw on my oversized denim jacket and Vans, and pull a beanie over my wavy long, blonde hair. I walk into the brisk night and cut through campus. The trees have turned to fiery tones. The air faintly smells of wood-burning fire, something not found often in this area…something that reminds me of home. My bottom lip quivers and I wipe away the tears welling in my eyes.
I turn onto the nearby strip of restaurants. Each one of them is crowded—surprisingly so for a Monday night. There doesn’t seem to be anything enjoyable for one person, unless I want a table for two smack-dab in the middle of a bustling restaurant.
I continue towards the downtown core of Davis. Low buildings span several blocks in each direction. It’s quiet, most businesses have already closed, but there’s a large sushi restaurant that always has a crowd, and I could use the noise.
I weave through large groups waiting at the hostess stand and take a seat at the wrap-around bar. My bartender brings my glass of wine and sushi roll. He’s refreshingly friendly and keeps checking in. I welcome the connection, however minimal it might be.
My stare is locked on the TV on the wall as though I’m intently reading the closed captions. Monday Night football. I couldn’t care less. I would take out my phone and doom scroll, but I hate doing that. Seeing people my age living with an ease that has escaped me lately isn’t beneficial for my mental state.
“Can I get you anything else?” The bartender asks.
“No, that’s it, thanks. It was great.”
He lingers. “Are you a student?”
“I am. Just moved here for my master’s.”
“Oh, nice, in what field?”
People here say that often—“What field?” Because they are all experts in some field.
“The MBA program. With a focus on analytics and marketing.”
“How are you liking it?”
“Ummm…It’s been an adjustment, but it’s okay.”
The bartender runs my card and returns my bill. “Do you go to the university?” I ask.
“I do. I’m getting my PhD in genetics.”
“Wow, very nice,” I say with an unsure smile, not knowing what that even means.
“Are you guys hiring here by chance?” I ask timidly.
“We just hired a bunch of students when school started back, but you could always ask the manager. Come in sometime when it’s not so busy and talk to him. Do you have serving experience?”
I hesitate. “Not at all, but we all have to learn somewhere,” I say with a shrug.
He laughs at my response, which is a relief.
“I know it can be an adjustment moving here. Maybe a little isolating.” He’s reading my mind, or my sad eyes are giving me away like they always do. Humiliating.
“But then I started working here and it got better,” he continues. “I met a lot of people. Found my footing.”
“Well, thanks. I accept your words of encouragement.”
He offers another polite laugh before returning his attention to the crowded bar.
Maybe it was the friendly bartender. Maybe it was the wine. But my tension is less sharp when I step back into the cold night and decide to take the long way home. More time to breathe in the smell of fall around me.
Back at my apartment, I toe off my shoes and remove the crumpled restaurant receipt from my jacket pocket to throw away, but I pause when I notice handwriting across the top.
Try Silverton Farm in Dixon, next town over. My buddy is Cole Silverton, he’s a great guy. They’re always looking for seasonal work.
I quickly flip open my laptop on my desk to look up Silverton Farm.
Their website pops up. It’s simple, but warm…sentimental. Pictures of an old red truck with Christmas trees piled high in the back. Red barn structures adorned with garland and lights. Smiling children nestled into benches of a sleigh pulled by a tractor.And a large family of old and young crowding the entrance of the farm with a sign reading “Silverton Farm, bringing joy since 1939.”
As I scroll through their photo gallery, my attention is piqued by one person in particular who repeatedly appears in the background. He seems a bit older than me and has worry creased into a furrowed brow in most pictures, and lips set into a hard line against a stubbled jaw. I wonder if he is part of the Silverton family…though the festivities don’t seem to light-up his expression the way they do the others’.
My lips curve into a slight smile. The charm of this place tugs at my center—stirring something within me that has laid dormant for far too long.
And it’s beyond reason, but I can’t peel my eyes from the serious man in the pictures. He’s just so...
I run my fingers down the screen over his photo as my eyes narrow on him.
...So interesting.
