Roxy’s eyes rolled upward in their sockets. “I’ll believe it when he gets down on one knee and I don’t immediately think he’s trying to angle his face between my legs.”
“I’m calling it. Right here. Right now.” I pushed the pad of my index finger down on the table. “A proposal will happen in Maui. I can feel it.”
“Wrong. Will’s eternally happy in dating mode.”
“You’re the one who goes along with it. And if he’s getting the milk for free…” I puckered my mouth.
Roxy threw a straw wrapper at me, unamused I became the steel-toed vagina kicker for once. “Stop!”
Dick mitten stings, doesn’t it?
“Hey, don’t get mad at me.” I held up my hands in protest. “He’s the one who said it. Remember Christmas Eve? First Avenue? He peed in the fountain outside Peking Cocks while singing show tunes at the top of his lungs?”
“And I think I told him, ‘Why buy the pig if all I want is a little sausage’ to shut him up.” She gestured at herself from head to toe. “Besides, I’d like to see him get another cow as incredible as this one.”
With the focus finally deflected off me, I opted against the third piece of cheesecake I’d eyed in the glass case. Roxy flagged the waiter to have the bill tacked onto our business tab, and we said our goodbyes. Standard Monday night departure. I hopped in my Jeep and headed toward the beach. Home.
The sleepy streets of Cannon Cove were near-empty during the nine o’clock hour. It was normal for a Monday, especially in early July. Most were smart, like Roxy, to vacation elsewhere for the upcoming holiday. I questioned my intelligence in ignoring that memo when I noticed Barry meandering through an open field across the street with his metal detector. Alone. My foot pushed the gas pedal harder, hoping he wouldn’t notice me before I disappeared from view.
Wow. It hit me. The prime excitement around town equated to bachelor Barry searching for tin cans and rusty nails. My life hit a new low when I compared myself to BUTT that night. Who knew? Maybe I’d be the next gossip story in The Chronicle.
It amazed me reporters had anything to write about in the local section of the paper. The news stories of the season surrounded Eli’s and Annelies’s upcoming wedding. Before that, it was when a lubricant semi rolled over on Highway 101 a few months back. It happened right after a wicked windstorm ransacked the area, and a downed tree blocked both lanes. Branches and debris littered the roadway for days. The brilliant headline read, “Lube Truck Slides into Valley upon Penetration with Wet Wood.” No doubt, Roxy’s friend’s friend concocted the headline on that “Schmitty-Day,” too.
An ocean breeze blew in through the side window, the faint scent of salt and seaweed relaxing as I sank back into the heated seat of my Jeep. I rubbed at my sore shoulder, trying to ease the impinged nerve while embracing solitude. Roxy was an extrovert and didn’t understand, thinking she did me a favor by fixing me up with any and every man who stepped within a twenty-foot radius. I pushed Roxy, Barry, and the workday from my head. For the first time since Mr. Body Slide, I let go of some tension.
I’d lived in Cannon Cove since the tail end of high school. Before that, Seattle was my home. Back when I had a lot of friends. Back when my parents were still married. Back when life was simple. Back when I believed in happy endings.
Ten minutes later, I slowed atop the steep gravel driveway leading to a bluff overlooking the cove. Part of me didn’t want to go to Brady’s in the first place after my horny client, but weekly tradition won. Plus, an oath bound us— a pinky swear started it long ago. If Roxy or I bailed for Monday dinner without twenty-four hours’ notice or legit hospital paperwork explaining their absence, the offender had to take off their underwear, in public, and give them to Sasquatch Barry while singing Nine Inch Nails’ Closer. I refused to lose the bet, and it’d held us both accountable for over two years. Our nerdy accountant remained oblivious to the pact.
The horizon caught my eye, the tide getting ready to change while tugging both left and right in the distance. My happy place was being near that secluded beach, and I gravitated toward isolation like the moon’s pull over water. There was something therapeutic about the combination of darkness, moonlight, sea air, and sand. That late, the coastline was always empty, the world silent, and all of my problems temporarily forgotten.
Most nights, I’d walk down to the shore in my swimsuit, eager for the glossy water to greet my toes. The small swells would beckon me farther until I was waist-deep. I’d stretch my arms out on either side and lean forward, allowing the pain to deprive my lungs from functioning for a few seconds. On the inside, I’d been numbing for a long time, emotionally a shell of my former self. Irony compensated on the exterior, though. The freezing water that shocked my skin was needed— because not feeling hurt more than anything.
But my date with the sea went short-lived that night.
I backed the Jeep up, stopping where the gravel driveway overlapped onto patches of lifeless grass. Flashing lights caught me off guard when I pulled my keys from the ignition. Bright blips of blue, red, and white illuminated the surrounding foliage and scenery in brief bursts. The location didn’t matter; emergency vehicles were my catalyst. Every time. History tried to lure me in as my heart raced. Flickers took hold of my mind like one hundred Polaroids falling around me, showcasing painful moments I didn’t want to relive. Ambulances. Fire trucks. Police cars. All from the past. They fought for my attention, but I forced them away and fixated on the present instead.
I quietly closed the Jeep door, even though I was sure no one could hear me from over thirty feet above the water’s edge. There I stood with a premium seat to a show I didn’t want to see but couldn’t help to watch.
My stomach sank when I peered over the embankment, winding my long hair into a knot so the wisps wouldn’t veil my face. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I didn’t turn away from witnessing the disaster. Maybe I’d become that keen on punishing myself. Puffing out my cheeks, I slowly forced my lungs to empty.
The mist and the angle left their faces indistinct, but it looked like three men and two women moving as a fluid team. A pair of paramedics struggled to tug a waterlogged body to the shore while another pulled a stretcher from the back of the ambulance down near the dock. The limp, lifeless figure sank to the sand while a bald medic did a brief assessment, performed two rescue breaths, and began chest compressions. Determination fueled his face as he continued CPR, and his hope tingled in my own fingertips.
He continued to work on the unconscious body while time and my surroundings faded away. I was so focused on the view, I barely flinched when a mouse darted across the top of my sandal. “Come on,” I whispered, rooting them on.
Disappointment bled like dark ink over the bit of pure hope I clung to while I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
But nothing changed.
That twinkle of shimmering optimism extinguished when the medical crew admitted defeat.
It happened like clockwork. Roxy and I called the tragic event “The Curse of Cannon Cove.” Each year, in July, Mother Nature’s menstrual cycle kicked into overdrive. She’d claim one life in her PMS splendor at the expense of a drowning, leaving the media in a shark bait-speculated frenzy for days. And one life satisfied her until the next time planet Earth took a trip around the sun. What made that year different? The fact I witnessed the incident firsthand.
I sank to my knees, dewy grass soaking through my jeans. Guilt puddled in my stomach as if I should’ve helped instead of gawking from afar. My first instinct was to call 9-1-1, but someone already did. Clearly. My second instinct was to race down the hill and assist, but I’d have been a burden. Instead, I fought my reflexes and lurked in the shadows, the wind relentless while goosebumps tiptoed around my neck and raced down my back. It was as if the Grim Reaper wrapped his proud arms around me and left a clo
ud of heartbreaking sorrow in his wake. I squinted, I blinked, and I opened my eyes wide. It didn’t matter. Making out the identity of the figure on the beach was impossible from where I crouched, especially with my glasses tucked away in my purse. I thought about pulling them out, but the fog-like mist would make seeing through them impossible.
The past few minutes replayed in my head while I watched. After a persistent failed attempt at CPR, the paramedic’s shoulders slumped. My heart ached for him. I didn’t know his name, eye color, or favorite song, but I felt his sorrow. Sympathy wound around my chest like a strand of rusty, barbed wire, cinching tighter with each beat of my heart. The tone on the beach switched from urgent to melancholy as the workers loaded the wilted body onto a stretcher and drove away. I couldn’t stare anymore, but my legs weren’t ready to support my frame. Emptiness filled me, knowing I may have watched the exact moment someone died, soul severed from their body.
Maybe I could’ve prevented what happened if I’d bailed from Brady’s sooner. Maybe it could’ve been me there helping, and the outcome would’ve been different. So different.
Suddenly, that second slice of cheesecake seemed trivial.
Cheesecake.
My stomach didn’t like the reminder. Salivating turned to gagging. With my hand clamped over my mouth, I tried to stop the chain reaction, but dry heaving won. I regretted my fattening, sugar-filled dinner choice while it exploded out my mouth and onto the grass. Cold sweat and abdominal cramps wracked my body until I had nothing more to give while the bitter taste of stomach acid and sour dairy coated my tongue. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and forced myself to my feet, not remembering the walk back up to the house to unlock the door.
No, cheesecake. Never again.
I crossed the threshold and didn’t bother flipping the light switch. If it were pitch black, no one could see me weak, even though the rooms were empty. It kept me invisible. Bottling emotions was ingrained in me from a young age— especially sadness. But in the dark, loneliness accepted my friendship without judgment. As much as I didn’t want to give in, I relied on my usual fallbacks. Step one: expel just enough numbness overflowing in my chest so I could feel. Step two: relive a sliver of the past through the tears streaming down my cheeks. I’d save the rest for later, imprisoning myself by rationing the pain. After all, I deserved every bit for what I’d done.
Over time, I’d fought so hard to dig my nails into the present, staring forward at the unknown future and away from the vivid past. It was stupid. And hard. One red vehicle with colored lights held the power to ship me backward at lightning speed. As much as the memories hurt, history was cemented and didn’t require decision-making. Revisiting it held a special form of punishment. With quaking legs, I sank down to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees, allowing myself an overdue cry.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up to seventeen texts and nine missed phone calls.
For a few minutes, I forgot about the events on the beach from the night before.
Message number one came from Eddie, canceling his nine o’clock massage because of explosive diarrhea or what he called “poop soup.” The culprit? Undercooked chicken. I tried to skim past most of the creative descriptors he used, but a few jarred me. Toilet gravy. Shit storm. Brown flame. Shissing. Trouser chili. For the record, I’d told him medium-rare poultry was a bad idea many times. He didn’t listen.
Gwen, our receptionist, thought it’d be great for clients to have my phone number. It was a notion I quickly ended. She gave a quarter of my regulars the information before I found out, but only one messaged me. Eddie. Unfortunately, he held onto my number like gold. The old man texted every week, the day before his massage, to notify me of his current health concerns in essay format.
All calls and the remaining sixteen texts were from Roxy, spanning the six and seven o’clock hours. For her to reach out so early was unusual. The messages ranged from tame to hostile. I speed-read through most of them, only taking time to process six.
Roxy—”Roxicodone”
Hey…
Are you okay?
Did you hear about what happened down at the cove last night?
Bitch. Where are you?
Answer your GD text messages, Jade. This isn’t funny.
I’m on my way to your house.
The clock read 7:33 a.m., and the most recent text posted almost half an hour ago. For a split second, I thought about calling her back, but I knew better. She was only minutes away from crossing my welcome mat. It would only serve as an appetizer to the seven-course scolding I’d suffer through for ignoring her.
However, I forgot about Roxy and her dire messages when my open laptop sounded. The theme song to Jaws played, getting louder with each passing second. It was a ringtone I’d assigned to a special someone. A small circle floated around the screen with a caricature of a woman in the middle. The oval-shaped face donned a curly, red bouffant and an expression that always bore disappointment to match her outlook on my life.
My mother.
Blowing the stray locks of hair out of my eyes, I punched my pillow with a one-two blow. Winning wasn’t possible. If I didn’t get the call over with, she’d haunt me for the rest of the day, send smoke signals, a carrier pigeon, and a singing telegram by horseback. The consolation prize for ignoring her was equally miserable. If I were unlucky enough, I’d earn a visit. Mama Nash was as relentless as Roxy with being snubbed. Before the tune shipped the call to voicemail and left me dead in the water with a bucket of bloody chum, I flung back the covers and rubbed my face with a groan.
“Hey, Mom.” I cleared my throat of gravelly morning voice and balanced the computer on my knees. “What’s up?”
“Where have you…” She paused, wrinkling her nose in standard Iris Geraldine Nash fashion. “What happened?”
I eyed the picture-in-picture and found little wrong with my appearance. “It’s called, ‘I just woke up.’”
She surveyed my face long enough to make the conversation awkward. “You look like something I scribbled with my left hand and my eyes shut.”
My response of choice? Silence.
“Well, you might do something about the mop on your head before you take off to that place you call a job.”
“We’ve talked about it a million times. You can say ‘massage therapist.’ It’s not dirty.” At that moment, I wished I hadn’t opened the pixelated chat window.
“You’re a rubber and a tugger. Can’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”
“I rub, but my office is a tug-free zone. There are far worse titles out there than being an LMP.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Burrito historian who has a side hustle as a porn professor? Professional sperm donor?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose in disgust. “Hold on, Jade A’Lynn Nash. Did you just say ‘professional—”
“That’s not the point. I make good money doing massage, and—”
“You mean by palming stranger’s naked flesh slicked up in oil.” Iris shuddered. “You don’t know where they’ve been. For all—”
“Label it how you want. I’m paid to help people relax, ease pain, and enhance their well-being.”
“No doubt whores attest to the same.” Her rigidness made the words feel ten times more degrading.
Whoever invented video chat needed a high five to the face. I narrowed my eyes and knew to choose my sentences carefully or I’d regret it. “My job is legit. I went to nearly one thousand hours of school. Passed board testing and am licensed. The state is well-aware how I make my money.”
“The state won’t turn a blind eye if you sell organs on the black market as long as you pay Uncle Sam his taxes.”
“It’s a legal job! I don’t steal kidne
ys from people who’ve been roofied, and I sure as hell don’t hide their bodies in ice baths at raves.”
“Okay,” she mouthed with a mocking nod. “I know better on the kidney thing. You hate blood, but I’ve heard all about what goes on in those ‘happy endings’ places.” She used air quotes. “Two weeks ago, I saw a segment on the news.”
“And the media always portrays…” I fumbled my way into a sweatshirt, closed my eyes, and counted to three. “You’re right. Every one of my clients, at the established chiropractic office, wants to fuck me because I manipulate their muscles. They line up by the dozen, starting at four in the morning. It was getting out of hand, pun intended, so we bought one of those take-a-number—”
“Don’t be a sass. I’m not stupid. Shoulders aren’t the only muscles you manually stimulate behind closed doors.” She held up her hand, index finger curled into her fist, and slowly extended it into a horizontal point. “See? Erect as can be.”
“Did you just imitate a makeshift hard on?” I hit my breaking point. “Why did you call or was it to shun my choice of profession, which is where most of our talks funnel to?”
“The abomination in the newspaper yesterday,” she said matter-of-factly. “Did you see it?”
At first, I thought she meant Roxy’s discovery of the name pairing humor, but my dingbat of a mother continued before I could stop her. The jokes in The Chronicle sailed right over Iris’s tower of carrot-colored fluff.
“I can read between the lines. Is your father footing the bill for this thing? He can’t possibly make enough money in that excuse for a medical practice.”
“Considering he already served his sentence with paying child support and every alimony payment has been on time? I don’t think it’s our business how much he makes or what he spends his paycheck on these days,” I replied.
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