The Opportunist

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Yes, you can. Think of it as a favor to me.”

  I cock my head.

  “I need some new friends—good influences.”

  My mouth opens, and lets out an extended Pffffffffing sound.

  Caleb raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m not a good influence,” I say, blinking rapidly.

  I shift from one foot to the other, distracting myself with a bottle of maraschino cherries. I could grab the bottle, toss it at his head and run, or I could go get coffee with him. It was only coffee after all. Not sex, not a relationship, just some friendly gabber between two people who supposedly didn’t know each other.

  “Okay, coffee.” I hear the excitement in my voice and cringe. I. Am. Disgusting.

  “Good,” he smiles.

  “There’s a coffee shop two blocks from here on the northwest corner. I can meet you there in thirty minutes,” I say, calculating the time it would take for me to get home and de-slobbify. Say you can’t make it. Say you have other things to do……

  “Thirty minutes,” he repeats, watching my lips. I purse them for effect and Caleb ducks his head to hide a smile. I turn and walk calmly down the aisle. I can feel his eyes on my back, making me tingle.

  I abandon my shopping cart as soon as I am out of sight and gallop toward the front of the store. My flip flops slap against my heels as I run.

  I reach home in record time. My neighbor Rosebud is knocking on my door with an onion in her hand. If Rosebud catches me, I will be involved in a two hour one-sided conversation about her Bertie and his struggle with the gout. I hide in the bushes. When she gives up five minutes later, my thighs are burning from crouching and I need to pee.

  The first thing I do when I walk through my door is rescue the picture of Caleb from the trash. Dusting it free of eggshell, I shove it in my silverware drawer.

  In fifteen minutes, I am walking out the door feeling so nervous I have to make a conscious effort not to trip over my own feet. The three block drive is torturous. I swear at myself and twice swerve into the turning lane to go home. I make it to the parking with a mild case of whip-lash.

  The coffee shop is full of dark blue walls and mosaic patterns. It is intense and depressing and warm all at the same time. With a Starbucks only three blocks away, this place is reserved for a more serious crowd—artsy-fartsy types that brood over their Mac books.

  “Hey Livia,” the little punk boy who works the counter waves at me.

  I smile at him. As I pass the bulletin board, something catches my eye. A printout of a man’s face is tacked among the flyers. I walk closer, feeling prickles of recognition. Along the bottom of his face the word: WANTED stands out in bold letters. It was the man from the Music Mushroom—the one with the umbrella!

  Dobson Scott Orchard, born September 7, 1960.

  Wanted for kidnapping, rape and assault.

  Distinguishing feature: birthmark on forehead.

  The mole! That was the birthmark the poster was referring to. What would have happened had I gone with him? I shake the image out of my head and memorize the number at the bottom of the page. If I hadn’t seen Caleb that day, I might have let him walk me to my car.

  Dobson escapes out of my head when I see Caleb.

  He is waiting for me at a small table in the back corner staring absently at the tabletop. He lifts a white porcelain cup to his lips, and I get a flashback of him doing the same thing in my apartment years ago. My heart accelerates.

  He spots me when I am a few feet away.

  “Hi. I got you a latte,” he says standing up. His eyes sweep from my feet to my face in one quick motion. I clean up well. I swipe a dark strand of hair out of my eyes and smile. I am jittery, my hands are trembling. When he extends a hand toward me, I hesitate before reaching out to shake it.

  “Caleb Drake,” he says. “I would say that I usually tell women my name before I ask them out for coffee, but I don’t remember.”

  We smile awkwardly at his terrible joke as I allow my small hand to be swallowed in his. The feel of his skin is so familiar. I close my eyes for a brief second and allow the absurdity of the situation to wash over me.

  “Olivia Kaspen. Thank you for the coffee.”

  We sit down awkwardly and I begin pouring sugar into my cup. I watch his face. He used to tease me about my coffee being so sweet it made your teeth hurt. He drinks tea, hot, the way the British drink it. I used to think it was charming and distinguished, I still do actually.

  “So what did you tell your girlfriend?” I ask, taking a sip. I am swinging my shoe off the end of my big toe which is something that used to annoy him when we were together. I see his eyes reach my foot and for a second, I think he’s going to grab it to stop the motion.

  “I told her I needed some time off to think. It’s a horrible thing to say to a woman isn’t it?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Anyway, she burst into tears the minute the words were out of my mouth and I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” I lie. Strawberry freckle face is cuddling with rejection tonight. It is a wonderful thing.

  “So,” I say, “amnesia.”

  Caleb nods, looking down at the table. He absently traces a pattern of circles with his finger.

  “Yes, it’s called Selective Amnesia. Doctors, eight of them, have told me it’s temporary.”

  I suck thoughtfully on the word “temporary”. It could mean my time with him is as temporary as hair dye, or an adrenaline rush. I decide I’ll take either one. I am having coffee with a man that formerly hated me, “temporary” didn’t have to be a dirty word.

  “How did it happen?” I ask.

  Caleb clears his throat and looks around the room like he’s gauging who can hear us.

  “What? Too personal?” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice. It feels strange that he is hesitating to tell me. When we were together, he told me everything—even the things that most men would be embarrassed to share with their girlfriends. I can still read his expressions after all these years and I can tell that he is uncomfortable sharing the details of his amnesia.

  “I don’t know. It seems like we should start with something simple before I tell you my secrets. Like my favorite color.”

  I smile. “Do you remember what your favorite color is?”

  Caleb shakes his head. We both laugh.

  I sigh and fidget with my coffee cup. When we first started dating I’d asked him what his favorite color was. Instead of just telling me, he’d forced me into the car saying he needed to show me.

  “This is ridiculous, I have a test to study for,” I complained. He drove for twenty minutes, blaring the terrible rap music he liked to listen to and finally pulled up beside the Miami International Airport.

  “That, is my favorite color,” he said, pointing to the lights lining the runway.

  “That’s blue,” I said. “So what?”

  “That’s not just any blue, its Airport blue,” he said. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

  I turned back to the runway to study the lights. The color was eerie, it looked like fire when it burned at its hottest and turned blue. Where was I going to find a shirt in that color?

  I looked at him now, the memory clear in my mind and gone from his. What would it be like to forget your favorite color? —or the girl that smashed up your heart?

  Airport blue haunted me. It became a brand to me, a trademark of our broken relationship, and my failure to move on. Airport fucking blue.

  “Your favorite color is blue,” I say, “and mine is red. Now we’re best friends, so tell me what happened.”

  “Blue it is,” he says smiling. ‘‘It was a car accident. A colleague and I were on a business trip in Scranton. It was snowing heavily and we were on our way to a meeting. The car skidded off the road and wrapped around a tree. I sustained serious head injuries…” he rattles it off as if he is bored with the story. I imagine that he has recited it hundreds of times already.

  I do
n’t need to ask what he does for work. He is an investment banker. He works for his step-father’s company, and he is rich.

  “And your co-worker?”

  “He didn’t make it,” his shoulders slump. I bite my lip. I’m not good with death and the words that you’re supposed to offer as condolence. When my mother died people said stupid things that made me angry! Soft, fluffy words that carried no weight; “I’m sorry”—when it clearly wasn’t their fault, and “if there is anything I can do—” when we both knew there was nothing. I change the subject rather than offer empty words. “Do you remember the accident?”

  “I remember waking up after it happened. Nothing before that.”

  “Not even your name?”

  He shakes his head.

  “The good news is the doctors say I’ll remember. It’s just a matter of time and being patient.”

  The good news for me is that he doesn’t remember. We wouldn’t be talking if he did.

  “I found an engagement ring in my sock drawer.” His confession is so sudden, I choke on my coffee.

  “Sorry.” He pats me on the back and I clear my throat, eyes watering. “I really needed to tell someone that. I was getting ready to ask her to marry me, and now I don’t even know who she is.”

  Wow…wow! I feel like someone just plugged me in and threw me in the bathtub. I knew that he had moved on with his life, I spied on him enough to know that, but marriage? It made me itch just to think about it.

  “What do your parents think about your condition?” I ask, steering the conversation in a more palatable direction. The thought of Leah in a white dress made me want to laugh. She was better suited for slutty lingerie and a stripper pole.

  “My mother looks at me like I’ve betrayed her in some way, and my father keeps patting me on the back, saying, “You’ll get it back soon, buddy, everything’s going to be fine, Caleb.” He imitates his parents to a “t” and I smile.

  “I know it sounds selfish, but I just want to be left alone to figure things

  out—you know?”

  I didn’t, but I nod anyway.

  “I keep wondering why I can’t remember. If my life was as great as everyone keeps telling me it was, why doesn’t any of it feel familiar?”

  I don’t know what to say. The Caleb I knew was always in control. I always thought Jewel had him pegged, he was fashionably sensitive, but too cool to care. This Caleb is confused and broken and spilling his guts to someone he thinks is a perfect stranger. I want to kiss his face and smooth out the furrows in his brow. Instead, I sit frozen in my chair, fighting the urge to tell him everything that tore us apart in the first place.

  “So what about you, Olivia Kaspen? What’s your story?”

  “I…uhh…I don’t have one.” I am so thrown off guard by his question, my hands started shaking.

  “Come on…I’ve told you everything,” he pleads.

  “Everything that you remember,” I point out. “How long have you had amnesia?’

  “Three months.”

  “Well, for three months of my life I’ve done nothing but work and read. There’s your answer.”

  “Somehow, I think there’s quite a bit more to you than that,” he scans my face and I get the impression he is generating a history from what he sees there.

  I wish he wasn’t doing that—trying to see past my walls. I was never skilled at pretending with him.

  “Look, when you get your memory back and can divulge all your secrets from the past, we’ll have a sleepover and I’ll tell you everything; but, as far as I’m concerned, until that day arrives, we both have amnesia.” He laughs a full-bodied laugh and I hide my contented smile behind the rim of my coffee cup.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad for me then,” he teases.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Well, because you’ve just given me permission to see you again and now I have a sleepover to look forward to.”

  I blush and decide that I can never tell him. He will remember eventually and this whole charade will come crashing down around me like a bad game of Jenga. Until then, I have him back and I am going to hold onto that for as long as I can.

  Chapter Three

  The Past

  The day I met Caleb Drake the sun shone a little brighter on my world. It was during that insufferable time of year when finals loomed, and the entire student body was starting to look bruised around the eyes. I had just left a study session in the library and found the sky besieged by grumpy looking rain clouds. Groaning, I walked quickly toward my dorm, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. I was halfway there when it started to drizzle. I took shelter underneath a willow tree and glared up into its branches like I blamed it for the rain. That's when he swaggered over like he was drunk on his own good looks.

  “Why are you angry with the tree?”

  I grimaced when I saw who it was. He laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Just a question Sunshine, don’t attack.”

  I glared at him. “Can I help you with something?”

  For a moment, I thought I saw a swatch of uncertainty cross his face, but then it was gone, and he was smiling at me again.

  “I was interested in finding out why this tree made you frown,” he said, repeating his lame starter line.

  I looked beyond his shoulder and spotted a cluster of basketball idiots leering at us. He followed my gaze and must have shot his rat pack a fierce look, because seconds later the gathering dispersed. He turned his attention back to me.

  Ah yes… I was supposed to answer his question.

  I looked at the trunk of the tree, which resembled badly braided dough, and realized how intensely I must have been staring at it.

  “Are you trying to flirt with me?” I sighed.

  He let out a sort of strangled choke. “Caleb Drake.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “My name,” he said, offering me his hand. Caleb Drake was a notorious name on campus and I had no intention of joining his fan club. I shook his hand firmly to make sure he knew I wasn't hypnotized by him.

  “Yes, I was trying to flirt with you, until you shot me down, that is.”

  I raised my eyebrows and forced a smile. Okay, I had to do this fast. Jocks had a painfully short attention span.

  “Listen, I’d love to stand around and feed into your ego with chit-chattery, but I have to go.”

  I moved passed him relieved to be heading toward the pint of heavy whipping cream and ice cream in my fridge. I was going to add chocolate sauce and make a bad-ass milk shake.

  His laugh caught up to me as I neared the curb. I stiffened, but kept walking.

  “If you were born an animal—you’d be a Llama,” he called after me.

  That stopped me. Was this douche seriously comparing me to a hairy mammal?

  “And why is that?” I kept my back to him, but my eye was twitching.

  “Google them.”

  Was this really happening? I twisted my head around, exorcist style, and glared at him. He looked so sure of himself.

  “I’ll see you around,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets and heading back toward his group.

  I rolled my eyes. Hopefully, that would be never. I steamed all the way to my dorm room. Before I could touch the knob, the door was flung open with gusto. Behold my freshman roommate.

  “Why was he talking to you?”

  She was dulcet, bright-eyed, blond, and as much as I wanted to hate her, she was a terribly cute little thing.

  “He was recruiting members for his fan club. I gave him your name, Cam.”

  “Seriously Olivia, what did he say?” she followed me as I stacked my books neatly on my desk. When I tried to ignore her, she started pinging M&M’s off my head.

  “He was just showing off in front of his friends, there’s nothing to tell. Really!” She let me pass. I was headed for my whipping cream, getting ready to drink it straight, when she blocked me.

  “You are s
o dense!”

  “Dense?" I shook my head. "Are you calling me complicated or stupid?” I looked longingly over her shoulder at the fridge.

  “Caleb Drake doesn’t go to girls, girls go to Caleb Drake. He just stepped out of his box to talk to you and you blew him off!”

  “He’s not interested in me,” I said sighing. “He was showing off.”

  “So he was showing off. Who cares? He’s earned the right. He's gorgeous!”

  I made a gagging noise.

  “Olivia,” she begged. “There is more to life than just books and studying!” she flung my textbooks off my desk for show. “Boy’s are…..they can…..do things,” she finished, nodding at me.

  “You,” I said poking her in the ribs “are a slut.”

  I rescued a textbook from the floor and started studying.

  “O-liv-ia!”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I hated it when she said my name like that.

  “Hmmm?”

  She snatched the book from my hands.

  “You listen to me, you ungrateful prude,” she grabbed my chin in her hand and yanked it up until I was looking at her. “He is going to talk to you again, just because you rejected him. He kind of liked it—and when he does,” she clamped her hand over my protesting mouth, “you are going to talk to him and flirt with him. Do you understand me?”