by Kate Davis
Not only did Shane use my dog to talk to her, he also had to bring her here and sample all the goods next door, so my dog and I would hear all the shameful details of his bedroom encounter.
I can only hope she won’t tell him about the weird neighbor with the crazy-lady hair. The one dressed in a pair of baggy pants that has seen the tumbler from the inside a few times too many. The one looming in the hall, eavesdropping on the hot couple having all the fun. That would be mortifying. That would be—
My cheeks catch fire.
That would be reason enough to move out. No! I’ve really come to like my apartment and the freedom that comes with being far away from my parents.
What if I don’t find anything else? What if I’ll be forced to move back in with Mom and Dad? I’ll be stuck with them until the end of my days, forced to endure weekly dinners during which Mom will continue to play matchmaker until she’s old and gray. I can already picture me—an old spinster in her sixties—and Mom—too demented to realize she’s trying to hook me up with a broom while yelling, “Samantha, dear, you can’t be so picky. You’re not twenty anymore. Your clock’s ticking and your boobs are sagging as we speak. Just choose a good Christian man already!”
Yeah, like those grow on trees! They’re probably harder to find than a romantic movie that isn’t trying to give Hallmark a run for their money when it comes to being cliché.
The picture of the future is so terrifying I start to hyperventilate. There’s no way I’m moving back home. No way! Not as long as I’m of a sound mind with my marbles still intact.
I need air, and fast, before I drop dead on the spot and Sammy, my poor pup, will have to feed on my limbs to stay alive until someone finally finds me, half chewed on, a week later.
“Sammy, let’s go.”
My ball of fluff doesn’t move from the spot.
Seriously?
“Sammy, move it. Come on,” I urge.
She cocks her head, probably thinking I’m speaking Chinese or something.
I groan inwardly. Is it my pronunciation? Or does she only like the gruff of a deep, male voice?
“Starbucks!” I yell and grab her leash. Thank goodness, that does the trick.
I head out, not even bothering to change out of my loungewear. What’s the point? I’m not going to meet anyone today. I’ll probably end up with a broom anyway.
Chapter Fifteen
It feels as though Rashid is already waiting with a steaming cup in his hand just for me. “Thanks.” I grab the concoction, whatever it might be, and take a long sip, savoring the sensation of full-fat milk and way too much sugar.
“Long day, huh?” he says with his usual smile.
“You could say that. First, my neighbor’s using my dog to get some chick’s phone number. Then I hear them doing the dirty deeds just inches from us.” I shoot him a grim, hopeless look.
“You should write a blog post about it.” He winks at me. “If you ever were to start blogging, that is.”
I nod. “I might. Who knows?”
He laughs and winks again knowingly, as though the fact that he’s my secret reader is such a great mystery.
“Your book’s coming along nicely, I bet.” He points at the laptop under my arm, which I must have taken with me without even realizing it. “I thought you might stop by. So I reserved you a table.” He inclines his head toward a far spot in the back corner. There are no nearby windows, and the lighting’s all fluorescent and hard on the eye. But the toilets are on the other side and the corner’s hardly frequented, so it’s my favorite spot.
“Thanks, Rashid. I love you for this. I really do.”
He beams at me. “For you, any time. Just don’t tell my boss.”
I make the “my lips are sealed” sign and take my seat at the back.
My inner misery turns out to have some benefits. I spend a few hours writing, pouring my heart out, while Shane turns from a toad into a turd. My story gets all the dirty details, and then some. When the blonde enters the scene, heads begin to roll. Thank goodness I’ll be changing names and places as soon as I’m done and no one will know who I’m talking about. But for the time being, I need real life to flavor my story so I can draw inspiration from it.
I pause for a quick snack, let Sammy perform her loo needs on the patch of green outside the café, and then I’m back to work.
Rashid’s hand touching my shoulder gently is what makes me realize it’s late. Very late. I peer past him at the night street outside, illuminated only by the soft glow of a dying bulb and the nightlights of the nearby shops. The other patrons are all gone. Rashid and I are the only people left.
“Sam, we closed ten minutes ago,” he says needlessly. There’s no anger in his tone. I’ve most certainly overstayed my welcome.
After a long day, he’s stayed in longer than necessary because of me, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I feel strangely touched that a stranger would show so much kindness. And even though I always thought we were sort of coffee shop friends, he’s basically a stranger. I once came in, took a seat in the corner. He served me my coffee, peeked over my shoulder at the blog post I was typing, said something like, “You’re a writer?”
I made a face and that was that. After that, he always made sure to serve my coffee with a donut and get me a nice, quiet spot where I could sit for hours, rarely ordering the minimum of beverages required to occupy that seat.
“I know you’re tired and everything, but do you want to get a drink? My treat.” I smile at him.
He smiles back. “Can we settle on tea?”
“As long as it’s not decaf. I draw the line at that,” I say.
“Deal. Not today though. Is tomorrow okay with you? My little sister’s having her birthday party tonight and the whole family’s over. It’s a Pakistani thing. Very big deal.” He makes a face and I nod as though I know exactly what he’s talking about while I’m thinking that I literally know his first name and that’s about it. I never asked about his family or what he’s doing outside of work when he’s not serving me coffee. I never asked about his strong accent or where he perfected his English to the point of well, perfection. If it weren’t for the accent you couldn’t tell he’s an immigrant. I know next to nothing about him while he knows more about me than some of the people I grew up with.
I grab my stuff, wake up Sammy who fell asleep at my feet hours ago and seems a little groggy, and we head for the door.
“Thanks, Rashid,” I say to him while he’s locking up. “For everything.”
“That’s what friends are for.” He shoots me that honest smile of his that always makes people tip the tip jar. I noticed it a few times though I never paid it much heed. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
I nod. “We will be.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care, Samantha.” He turns to leave, then seems to hesitate, changing his mind. “You know what? Forget about the tea. There’s this thing,” he says. “It’s not a big deal. Something I help with once a week. You could come if you wanted.”
“What thing?” As I regard him, trying to make out his serious expression in the dim light, I sense this is important to him.
“I’ll take you with me. You seem troubled lately, more than usual. I think it’ll do you good. You’ll see.”
Do people really think that I seem troubled? More than usual? Do I come across that way?
“Tomorrow after work,” Rashid says. “Wear something casual, comfortable.”
“Isn’t that what I always wear?” I laugh, then clear my throat when he doesn’t join in my joke.
“See you then. Good night, Samantha.”
“Good night,” I say and watch him disappear down the street, toward the subway station no one should ever frequent after dark.
As I make my way back to my building, I feel more lonely than usual. It must be the weather, I figure. A crisp wind is blowing and the sky is overcast, heavy with the promise of oncoming rain. People are either inside their apartments, calling
it a day, or nursing a drink or two in a bar somewhere. The bar option has never been my thing, so I decide to order some pizza and then go straight to bed, ready to binge on way too many carbs and way too much reality TV.
I round the corner to my building and stop dead in my tracks as I spy the one person I’m always trying to avoid, even more than I try to avoid my parents. He seems to have been in a crouching position and is now straightening to his full height, as if I just caught him doing something shady.
“Samantha,” Pastor Rick exclaims. He greets me with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for your dentist.
Judging from his bewildered expression, he didn’t expect me to see him. The way he strengthens his shoulders and glances nervously around him tells me that I have disrupted something important.
But what?
“Pastor Rick.” I can’t say that I’m pleased to see him either, which makes me wonder. If he’s not here to see me, what exactly is he doing here?
I narrow my eyes, taking in his casual clothes (he’s still wearing that white collar, but he’s paired it with a pair of jeans and a shirt). He also has one of those man bags slung over his shoulder. I strain to get a better look and spy a folder before he notices my gaze and tucks it beneath his armpit, out of my sight.
What’s with the secrecy? Shouldn’t men of the cloth have no secrets, given that they’re working for the Almighty and are supposed to be perfect examples, open books, and everything?
If there’s something that instantly piques my curiosity, it is people trying to hide their business from me. Not that their business is any of my business, but he’s a member of the church, and we’re supposed to be one body in Christ. You can’t be one body if you’re hiding your toes from view.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, peering from him to the bush he’s standing next to.
Seriously, was he hiding in there?
Pastor Rick pales a little, or maybe it’s just the dim light giving that impression.
“I should be the one asking. What are you doing here, young lady, roaming the streets in the middle of the night?” His voice is stern, infused with the kind of authority that used to instill terror in me as a child. Whenever he talked to me in that tone I used to fear Hell would open and swallow me up whole and I would be dammed to eternal punishment just because I had sneaked into Mom’s kitchen to steal a scoop of ice cream before dinner or something similarly trivial.
Ha!
Not anymore, Pastor! That ship sailed a long time ago.
I narrow my eyes and reply coolly, “I live here.”
“Oh!” he says as if he’s just realized it.
Seriously? He visited me not too long ago, and now he can’t remember? Either there’s something wrong with the poor man’s memory or he’s even more distracted than I am.
“Yes, I live here. But you don’t,” I add for good measure.
He shifts from one leg to the other, like a bird trapped in a cage, unable to move. For the first time in twenty-three years, I’ve cornered Pastor Rick. Suddenly, his gray hair that I used to think implies ancient wisdom makes him look plain old. And the lines on his face no longer give him a menacing look, but are the signs of tiredness and time.
“What are you doing here again?” I press and almost feel sorry at the sudden flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Visiting friends,” he mumbles.
He can’t lie, and he knows it. Unlike me, I’m pretty sure he actually keeps to the commandments.
“What friends?”
“Samantha, it was really nice seeing you. You should stop by the service more often. We’ve been missing you.”
The man is eager to get me off his back. That’s not happening! He’s not going to turn the tables on me and guilt me into not asking questions because I know what this is all about.
“I know Mom sent you,” I say, accusatory. “I know it. She doesn’t trust my choices and has been wanting me to move back home even before I actually moved out. Were you spying on me?”
I point at the bushes and take a menacing step forward. I’m on a roll now and I’ll get to the bottom of this.
“What?” Pastor Rick looks scared now, his eyes wide, as though he’s dealing with a madwoman.
“You were hiding in there.” I point at the bushes. “And the folder in your arms is filled with notes about me. Were you taking photos too?”
He shakes his head. “Samantha, I don’t know what—”
“Give me that.” I reach for the folder and almost drop the laptop I’ve been holding. Sammy, the good watchdog she is, senses my anger and begins to yap.
“Give me that now! No one’s spying on me. Not even my mother!” I reach for the folder again. Pastor Rick gasps loudly and hides it behind his back. As he takes a step backward, his legs seem to get all tangled up (he’s probably not used to jeans, given that he’s usually wearing that long, black dress of his. Yes, even in summer. He must be sweating buckets). He loses his balance and tumbles over, right into the bushes, with a loud thud.
As he struggles to get up, our eyes connect and I think I see fear in there.
“Are you—” Okay, I want to say and reach out my hand to help him but he swats at it.
“Go away. It’s all your fault.” He scrambles to his feet and glares at me as though I attacked him.
Seriously, don’t wear jeans! I feel like yelling at him. He’s so going to tell my mother that I attacked him, and the entire neighborhood will gather to pray for my lost soul.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you recently, young lady,” he mumbles and glares at me some more.
“You can’t blame me.” I laugh and his face pales again, like the devil’s just offered to buy his soul.
“You really need to consider which path you’re taking,” he mutters.
I raise my chin defiantly as I stare him down. “I will, as long as you stop spying on me. And tell my mother I don’t appreciate it.”
“Good evening, Samantha,” Pastor Rick says coldly and walks away, ambling and not with as much grace and purpose as he usually puts into his stride, probably because the legs of his jeans are flapping slightly around his ankles, hindering his progress.
I shake my head and let myself into the building, ignoring the pangs of guilt washing over me. Pastor Rick probably just wanted to help out. He probably meant well. After his visit a couple of days ago, he called several times. I ignored every call, the way I always do. He didn’t bring it up, but the lack of confrontation doesn’t make me feel less guilty.
I decide to text him a simple apology.
* * *
Me: I am sorry about what happened.
* * *
I wait for a while but don’t get a response. He’s probably busy doing church stuff, but it still bugs me.
An hour later, while I’m enjoying the previously mentioned carbs, I still can’t wrap my mind around Pastor Rick’s strange behavior and the fact that Mom’s decided to send him to spy on me. Given that he still hasn’t replied, I feel increasingly bad that the old man felt threatened by me.
“He should have told the truth in the first place. I’m a grown-up,” I mumble. “People need to accept that.”
I reach for my cell phone and type up a message to my mother.
* * *
Me: Mom, I can’t believe you sent Pastor Rick to spy on me. I understand your concern, but I really don’t appreciate your lack of trust in me. Please don’t ever do that again.
* * *
The phone pings with an incoming message almost instantly.
* * *
Mom: I don’t know what you mean, darling. Are you ok? Do you want us to pop over? We could spend the night.
* * *
No! Not if I can help it.
* * *
Me: You sent Pastor Rick over because I wouldn’t return his calls.
* * *
Mom: Why wouldn’t you return his calls?
* * *
Me: That’s not the
point. You sent him over.
* * *
I’m all riled up, my blood boiling. Her indirect denying by not addressing the actual issue is making me fuming mad.
The phone’s screen lights up with Mom and Dad’s picture. An instant later, it begins to vibrate. She’s calling because she knows I will not back down on this, and so she’ll be trying to talk her way out of it.
“Samantha, your mom and I don’t know what you mean,” Dad’s voice says as soon as I’ve pressed the cell to my ear.
He sounds earnest, concerned.
“You didn’t send Pastor Rick over? You didn’t ask him to keep an eye on me?”
“No,” Dad says, and for some reason, I believe him.
My dad’s never lied to me, which means he isn’t now. Mom didn’t send Pastor Rick.
“We asked him to call you, but that’s it. Are you okay? Are you sure you saw Pastor Rick and not someone else?”
Now he makes it sound like I’m delusional.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. “Listen, can I call you back some other time?”
I disconnect before he can reply and toss my phone onto the bed, next to my half-eaten pizza. My appetite’s gone as something else takes center spot.
Why was he hiding in the bushes, because I know for sure that’s what he was doing?
The question keeps me up all night. I can sense something there, a mystery surrounding his sudden appearance.
“What was that folder all about?”
He clutched his bag so tightly, his knuckles were almost white, and I’m pretty sure he was trying to hide it from me.
I grab my laptop and begin to write, adding Pastor Rick to the entire mix.
By morning, I have most of a first draft done. Shane is the mysterious neighbor, and Pastor Rick is the mysterious acquaintance lurking outside without a reason. I see the story, a great story, I just need to connect those two dots. If only I knew how.