Hey, something new, folks...

I am writing a story about a 30ish young woman on a personal journey.  Her adoptive parents are dead. She has a career/job that is not meaningful. She realizes she is a 30ish-year old orphan. (Her birth parents do not want to be contacted or are otherwise unavailable.) When going through her parents' house and belongings, she finds boxes of foreign letters from her teenage years which inspire her to look for these people she used to share her secrets with, people she was matched with because they had similar interests. She starts her journey with a high school or college acquaintance who is living abroad already. She meets an old friend who is like a new best friend, and another who becomes a love interest. What she finds in the letters (and on the physical trip) surprises her: she realizes who she is and what her true purpose is, which is something noble.

Ah, yes, and the characters do not have names yet.  And I haven't come up with a title either, but I was leaning toward 'Depressed chick decides life is worth living after all." Best seller? Kidding of course.

Suggestions and criticism appreciated.  And if it is boring beyond words, what does it need?

The rotten smell of death swept toward her as she entered her parents' home, though it had been more than two weeks since the bodies of her parents had been found side by side in their queen size bed. They went to sleep and never woke up.  She had made the difficult decision to not look at their bodies at the funeral home.

Her parents'  front picture window had a nickel-sized hole right in the center with a dead bird on the ground next to the foundation. The suicidal songbird helped to let a little fresh air in after dying from blunt force trauma. Her dad would be upset at the cost of replacing that window. She imagined him lying in bed, upset about the broken window and that he "wasn't paying to heat the outdoors."  The mailman noticed newspapers on the porch and a few days' worth of mail in the box and rang the doorbell of a neighbor.  The county medical examiner had determined her parents died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

As an only child, all responsibility fell to her for final arrangements. Her father, a savvy "wealth advisor" had their retirement dollars calculated to the cent. Her parents had taken the initiative to plan their funerals, (which would now be consolidated into one funeral) with Miller, Butler, and Lowe, purchasing the plots, two urns for cremains, and the songs they preferred for the services. While she disliked the idea of cremation and baking her parents as if they were gingerbread cookies, she knew it was what they wanted. Due to the advanced decomposition, the funeral home insisted on it.

She was not ready to bury her parents before she turned 30. The only thing that comforted her was that they died together, pain free, as their bodies were slowly starved of oxygen. 

She entered the coffeehouse and walked to the counter to order her mocha, a luxury she afforded herself on occasion. A hot drink always envigorates me, she thought, and I need the caffeine if I'm going to accomplish anything today.  Only just midmorning, her to-do list was already longer than what was practical. With the funeral behind her, she was left to do a dreaded chore: go through the personal belongings of her parents.

A tall, dark-haired handsome man entered the shop and stood in line behind her, too close. She preferred a large personal space, and turned around to see who he was, encroaching on her bubble. She baby-stepped forward until she was more comfortable with the distance. She examined the pastries on the counter, cake, pie, scones, on mismatched plates under plastic wrap. As she considered whether the scone was raspberry or blueberry, she noticed this man had moved closer to her again, but this time her heart raced as she felt a twinge of fear, or perhaps excitement. She could smell him. At first, her nose burned, but then a calm, warm feeling fell over her face, then her shoulders, down to her hips, her thighs, to her feet, until she realized she had closed her eyes, for how long she was unsure. She was unable to move forward, away from him.

The barista behind the counter startled her. "Can I make something for you?"

"Medium mocha, nonfat milk please."

"I'll have the same," the man behind her interrupted. "I'll pick up the bill on these as well, if that's alright."

"That is really very kind of you, you don't have to," she started, but he immediately pulled cash out of his wallet and handed it to the barista.

"I want to." His eyes were the clearest, deepest blue she had ever seen against tanned skin. He was exceedingly attractive, and sharply dressed. His age was difficult to ascertain, but his face showed signs of experience. His arms were well-muscled. Under his shirt, she imagined an equally strong chest, with pectorals that were able but gentle, with just the right amount of chest hair.

"Have we met?" She gave him a look that said she wanted to know exactly what his motives were. She wished she weren't so skeptical about everyone.

"You will think I am crazy, but I noticed your shoes and backpack looked well-traveled, so I thought maybe there was a good story in them, and you."

"I saw the sandals on a trip to Spain and immediately knew they would be coming back with me. I bought them from a man in Barcelona on the Ramblas. Have you been there?" She felt invited in to his warm smile.

"Yes, I have. I spent some time in Europe a few years ago. Barcelona. I couldn't quite get the hang of the Catalan language though. And your handbag? The leather is beautifully weathered."

"The bag, I have had it for a long time, my dad gave it to me before...well, nevermind. What about you, I haven't seen you here before, are you new to town?"

"Yes, I was looking for a change, trying to start over. Not that it was bad before, it's just that I wasn't satisfied. I am trying to be adventurous, moving forward to an unknown place with the chance of a better life. And I suppose that is why I felt like I could buy a drink for you without knowing anything about you other than the fact that you had interesting shoes and an interesting bag."

"I'm A. It's nice to meet you."

"B. I am happy to meet you too."

"I wish I could stay longer, but I am supposed to be across town at an appointment in a little while. Any chance we can continue this discussion tomorrow?"

"Sure, I will be here tomorrow morning. I will save a seat for you."

"Okay."

"A" walked out of the coffeehouse as three noisy teenage girls walked in. Shit, she thought, I talked to this guy and all I found out was his name and he came here from somewhere else?  Ugh. I disappoint myself. He was much too kind, and it was suspicious to have a good-looking stranger buying a drink for me. He was definitely worth investigating further. Make a note now: COFFEESHOP IN THE MORNING.  Don't forget or you are an idiot.

It was the last thing she expected, to meet a kind stranger while she was so troubled by unexpected tragedy. She decided to reserve judgement until she could gather more evidence. Benefit of the doubt.

That night, the rain fell and fell. Large drops means it can't last long, right?
The rain was a heavy curtain keeping her indoors when all she wanted was to leave, to get out, to be free of committments. The weight of her obligations had become too much. The paperwork, the lawyers, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She decided at that moment to turn off her cell phone and take some time for herself. One hour. After which she would make the decision whether she was ready to focus again or if she needed something else.

Both parents gone, so quickly, she hadn't had time to fully map out what the possible consequences would be. She was so left-brained, she couldn't solve a problem without drawing out a pros and cons chart or making a list each time she went to the store. PDAs were invented for her. She considered buying stock in Franklin planners before the advent of the Palm Pilot and the Blackberry. Now she found herself in a situation with too many variables, too many unknowns. She was overwhelmed and found herself staring at the back of her left hand for at least four minutes. Okay, I need to take a mental break, but how is that even possible? What could I do? Take a bath. Read a book. I don't think I could read anything, I can't focus well enough. Ride my bicycle. Oh, it's pouring rain, damnit.

She began to draw water for a hot bath. She could attempt some personal time, maybe solve a sudoku while she bathed. She was a master at multitasking. Even personal relaxation time wasn't exempt from her nearly obsessive personality. Concentrating on the numbers actually helped her take her mind off of the everyday hassles she normally faced. Bath and sudoku, she decided. Maybe she should have a glass of wine while she was in the tub. She decided yes, she would have a drink with her bath and number puzzle. The bath filled up as she gathered materials for her personal time in the relaxing bath. After she slid into the hot water, she realized that none of this was relaxing to her. She sat in the water, quickly drank the wine, then drained the tub. She dried off using her largest, softest bath towel her parents had given her as a housewarming present when she bought her first house. There would be no more housewarming gifts, no more sharing in firsts, in accomplishments, no more sharing anything she cared about with them. They were gone forever. She poured another glass of wine for herself, finished drying off, laid down on top of her bedsheets and fell asleep.