Something Like Normal

by Monica James

  “Fuck!” I yelp, looking up from my illegible list, mortified that I have run into someone.

  “I’m so…” I pause, “sorry,” I finish, looking up at my victim and sighing.

  “Oh, this is so getting into serious stalker territory.” Quinn chuckles, his boot braced on the bottom of the shopping cart.

  “If I knew it was you, I would have pushed a little harder,” I reply smugly, raising an eyebrow.

  Sarcasm is my friend, and it’s my way of coping with awkward situations. Just like this one.

  I can’t stop thinking about our encounter in his room last night. Everything about it has thrown me into the deep end, and I’m afraid I’m going to drown.

  He clutches at his heart dramatically. “Oh, Red. How your words wound me so.”

  “Whatever,” I reply, ignoring the happy feeling building in my tummy at the sight of him.

  I steer the cart around him, but he sidesteps so I can’t go any further.

  “So, whatcha doing?” he asks, placing his hand on the end of the cart so I can’t push him out of the way.

  “Trying to shop, but someone is in the way.” I fake annoyance, but he sees straight through it.

  “Whatcha shopping for?” he asks, not moving an inch, even when a shopper squeezes past us with a hand basket.

  I give her a sorry smile, but she turns her nose up, annoyed that I’m taking up the whole aisle.

  I can see Quinn is as stubborn as he is hot. So the quicker I tell him, hopefully the quicker he’ll leave me alone.

  “I’m looking for fresh nutmeg, but I have seriously walked around this place twice and come up empty,” I confess, blowing my hair off my face, exasperated.

  Quinn chuckles, his Adam’s apple bobbling with the movement. I tell myself to quit it, because I need to stop focusing on bullshit like this.

  “I just happen to know where that is. Follow me.” He smiles and releases his grip on the cart.

  “You can just tell me,” I retort, not risking a glance at him as I push the cart up the aisle.

  Quinn walks beside me with a skip to his step. “Where’s the fun in that?” he replies, casually strolling with his hands buried deep into his jeans pockets.

  I’m convinced Quinn takes pleasure from torturing me, as he seems to be finding this whole experience comical.

  “So, what’s the special occasion?” he questions, while reaching for a packet of Doritos and tossing them into the cart carelessly.

  “What occasion?” I ask, looking at the Doritos, shaking my head.

  “You cooking?” he replies, pitching a packet of beef jerky next to the Doritos.

  “Why does me cooking classify as a special occasion? As far as you know, I might be Martha freakin’ Stewart in the kitchen,” I reply, turning a corner and walking up the next aisle, blindly following Quinn.

  “That might be true, but surely Martha Stewart would know where the nutmeg is kept,” he replies, pointing to a rack with a smug smile.

  Trying not to look too humiliated as I grab what I need, I toss it into the cart quickly. Checking my list for the other items I require, I scratch my head, wishing I’d chosen a recipe that didn’t have a billion different components.

  “Here,” he says, snatching the list out of my hand.

  “Hey!” I scold. “Gee, rude much.” I playfully shake my head at him.

  As his eyes widen and a small smirk tilts at the corners of his lips, I suddenly remember there are a few embarrassing personal items on the list.

  “You’re so annoying,” I cry, snatching it back from him while he’s laughing his ass off.

  I huff, pushing the cart down the aisle away from him. Of course I can’t escape him that easily. He sprints ahead of me, turns to face me, and begins jogging backward.

  “Naw, I know you don’t mean that,” he says, tugging on his lip ring, his arms swinging high by his sides.

  “Yes, I really do,” I reply half-heartedly, reaching for a bag of apples.

  He continues talking to me whilst running backward, totally blind to shoppers who are behind him, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Well, how about you let me take you out, so I can prove to you how unannoying I really am?”

  “What?” I ask, stopping suddenly, nearly giving myself whiplash with the momentum.

  “You heard me.” He smirks, thankfully also stopping his backward jogging as he’s about to smash into an angry looking soccer mom.

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head.

  On the outside I might appear cool and calm, but inside, my heart is beating frantically against my ribcage.

  “And why not?” he questions, cocking his eyebrow mischievously.

  “Because I don’t know you. You could be a creepy pervert for all I know,” I lamely respond, attempting to sound stern.

  “Do I look like a creepy pervert?” he asks, turning in a circle playfully, his arms stretched out wide.

  “No,” I reply softly, as I totally check out his butt.

  “Well, what’s the problem, then?” he questions as he takes a small step toward me.

  The problem is, you don’t want to take me out. The real me, that is. If you knew what I did, you wouldn’t even want to talk to me.

  Think, Mia. You need to shoot him down so he leaves you alone.

  Married to Jesus? Ugh, Bible freak.

  Genital herpes? Nah, Gross.

  Lesbian? Might be a turn on?

  I settle for the truth. Well, kinda.

  “I can’t. I have a date tonight,” I reply, walking away from him slowly.

  “Oh?” Quinn asks, his cheeky grin slowly dipping into a small scowl as he keeps in step beside me. “Who’s the lucky fella?” he asks, and I swear I see his eye twitch.

  “Oh, just someone I work with,” I reply dismissively.

  Blindly reaching for the closest shelf to distract myself from Quinn’s probing stare, the first thing my hand passes over are condoms. Pulling my hand away like I’ve just been burnt, I can’t help the blush that begins inching up over my cheeks as I bite my lip, totally mortified.

  Quinn frowns.

  Great! Now it looks like I’m a total slut, reaching for the condoms for my big ‘date.’

  “Well, I better leave you to it then,” he says. The playfulness in his voice has gone.

  He reaches for his items, snatching them out of the cart as he gives me a tense smile.

  “Well, have fun. I’ll see you around.” He turns away without waiting for a reply.

  I don’t know why, but it bothers me as I watch him walk away. But I have to let it be. This is for the best.

  I can’t let Quinn in, because I know once I do, I’ll never want him to leave.

  ***

  Lugging in all the bags filled with the items I purchased from the supermarket and plonking them onto my bed, I realize I may have overbought.

  I don’t cook, but it’s not because I don’t like to eat.

  It’s because I never had anyone to share my meals with. It got awfully depressing pretty quickly, sitting alone at age ten in a filthy kitchen, staring at the mac and cheese you prepared for your father, knowing he won’t be conscious to appreciate your effort because he has passed out after a three day bender.

  After that I just gave up.

  As I got older, I always grabbed something on the road. Most of the time it was bland, but it stopped the hunger pains, and gave me enough energy to traipse around the streets delivering drugs.

  However after a while, I trained my body not to be hungry. Eating at the same, cheap takeout places was like eating cardboard, and probably as nutritious as eating dirt. So I ate when I absolutely had to do, and that’s why I got so skinny, which I hate. I’ve always been small framed, but now, now I just look scrawny.

  Changing into a loose Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt, I grab my shopping bags, ready to make a start on dinner.

  I lock my door and trek down the quiet hallway toward the office. Hank said there’s a little kitc
henette in the office, behind the maroon curtain, where I’m welcome to cook our meal.

  Gazing out into the green, grassy terrain, I can’t help but think how my life has changed in the span of only a week. It’s crazy, but I feel alive. Who would have thought coming here, to place that was meant to be boring and quiet, could actually turn into a place I could happily call my home.

  But of course I can’t.

  Strolling into the small office, I hear the TV humming from behind the curtain.

  “Hank?” I call out, pushing the curtain aside carefully as I don’t want to barge in, just in case he’s sleeping, which I’ve found him doing on a few occasions.

  This time is one of them.

  I look around the faintly lit room, which is simple in belongings. But fancy, modern equipment would look out of place in a classic room such as this.

  A small TV is propped up on a wooden cabinet, flashing a rerun of I Love Lucy, and the ceiling has a few water stains, spotted around the corners, but somehow, it seems to match the faded green carpet and cloudy white walls. An old wooden dining table for two, which has seen better days, sits in the center of the room, and is set with a red tablecloth, which matches the tartan sofa that Grandpa lies upon, snoring softly.

  As I watch his chest rise and fall with his soft breathing, I wonder if I look at peace, just like Hank does when sleeping.

  Somehow, I doubt it. The nightmares I have aren’t what one has during a peaceful night’s sleep. But I have no one to blame but myself.

  Finding the remote lying on the floor, which has slipped from Grandpa’s outstretched hand, I mute the TV and tip-toe into the kitchenette. I’m impressed that something so small can hold enough utensils and facilities to prepare a meal.

  Scrolling through my iPhone, I find the recipe for tonight’s dinner and begin pulling everything out of the shopping bags. Tossing everything onto the small white counter, I take a deep breath, slightly overwhelmed with the task ahead.

  I take extra care in reading the directions, wanting everything to be perfect. This is the first meal I’ve cooked for someone who will actually appreciate it.

  ***

  After a few hiccups and nearly slicing my finger in half, I think I’ve got the hang of this whole cooking thing.

  I’m halfway through chopping the apples when I hear Grandpa yawn.

  He’s finally woken up. I’ve tried to be quiet, but I guess the clatter of pans and a few choice curse words are enough to wake the dead.

  “Hello, child,” he says from the doorway.

  I spin around and hold back a laugh at the sight of him looking rumpled and fluffy from sleep.

  “Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

  Grandpa cackles, rubbing his eyes.

  “Hey, how do ya think I keep my handsome looks? Gotta get my beauty sleep,” he teases while stifling a yawn behind his wrinkled palm.

  I give him a small smile and turn around to continue my chopping.

  “What you making?” he asks, shuffling into the kitchen, looking over my shoulder, but making sure not to smother me.

  “Pork chops with apple sauce, green beans, and roast potatoes. So far, so good,” I laugh quietly. “I haven’t burned the place down, so that’s a start.”

  Hank chuckles and lets out another muffled yawn.

  “Go sit down. Dinner shouldn’t be too long.” I smile, measuring the ingredients for the apple sauce.

  “Let me set the table,” Grandpa offers as he reaches into a cupboard against the wall, and begins pulling out mismatching crockery.

  “You’re such a stubborn man,” I say, shaking my head at him.

  “You sound just like my Betty,” he says with a sigh, and as I turn at the waist to look at him, I can see his eyes sadden at the mention of her.

  “What happened to her?” I ask cautiously, hoping I haven’t overstepped some line.

  He holds the blue and yellow plates to his chest tightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he peers out the small window in front of him.

  “She passed three years ago from a heart attack. Fittest thing you’d ever meet. But one day, she just didn’t feel like her normal morning walk. I thought she was coming down with a cold and was going to call the doc, but she insisted she was fine. And I was not to worry about her. She said in her usual, teasing voice, ‘Go do your chores, Hank, they ain’t gonna do themselves.’”

  Grandpa looks like this memory is a bittersweet one. It’s one I can imagine he revisits often, as it’s the last memory he has of Betty. But what a sad memory to have.

  “I kissed her goodbye,” he continues, “and that was the last time I saw her alive.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, Hank, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, child. The doctor says it was instant, she didn’t suffer. It was just like she went to sleep and never woke up,” he replies, trying not to upset me.

  “But still, that’s a hard thing to deal with,” I say, giving him a sympathetic look, but not pity.

  I hate that pity look.

  “It is. But I know my Betty and she’s up there, looking down at me and scolding me for slacking off, and telling me to get back to work.” He cackles as if he can hear her telling him just that.

  “She sounds like an amazing lady,” I say with conviction.

  “She was. She was the heart of this place. She made sure there were fresh flowers in every room, and chocolates on all the pillows. All those little things she did without a second thought. This motel radiated her love for the place. But now, it’s just a sad withered shell of what it used to be.”

  My heart goes out to Grandpa. I may have never experienced that kind of love before, but I can imagine how much he misses her.

  “But I go on, Paige. That’s what we do. We have to live for the ones who can’t. That’s the only way to keep their memory alive.”

  Looking at the man in front of me, I can’t help but wonder about Hank’s life. All the hardships and experiences that have led to this moment, to the here and now, was his life everything he hoped for?

  I hope so.

  A car door outside interrupts our conversation, and I subtly wipe my eye with the back of hand. I’m not crying, but my eyes water, listening to his story—anyone’s would.

  “I better go see who that is,” Grandpa says, wiping his own eyes and leaving me to my thoughts.

  Will I ever find anyone as special as Betty was to Hank?

  I hope so.

  It’s not something I have thought about in the past, but it would be nice to have my own story to tell, about how much another touched me as much as Betty did Hank.

  I shake my head and brush aside such nostalgic thoughts aside, as I have a dinner to make.

  I’m cutting potatoes up into quarters when I hear Hank chatting to someone out in the office. I can’t make out who he’s talking to, but whoever it is, they’re making him cackle, so this person is okay in my book.

  “Paige?” I hear Grandpa call out. “Is there enough food for another person?”

  Looking at the heap of food in front of me, I shout, “Yes, Hank, there’s enough to feed a small starving nation.”

  Hearing him chuckle, he continues talking to whoever’s out there.

  I look out the small window in front of me and smile to myself when I notice the butterfly lace curtains, swaying lightly in the breeze. No doubt this was the work of Betty.

  I wish I could have met her.

  I’m just about to place the potatoes in the oven when I see Grandpa reverse his truck and park it off to the side, near the shed.

  What is he doing?

  My questions are answered when I see who Hank was talking to.

  Quinn.

  The dish I’m holding nearly slips from my fingers when I see him sauntering over to Hank, with an old aqua toolbox in hand.

  I lean up on the edge of the sink and boost myself forward so I can get a better look at what Quinn is doing here.

  Hank pops the hood and Quinn turn
s his black baseball cap around to prevent his long bangs from spilling into his eyes. He rests the toolbox on the engine and pulls out the tools he requires as he leans under the hood, and begins fiddling with God knows what.

  As he reaches further underneath and his t-shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of skin, I find myself involuntarily advancing forward to check out the side of his torso, because as he turns to fetch something out of the toolbox, I can see a hint of ink.

  Tilting my head to the left to get a better look, it seems like the tattoo is an extension of something running down the left side of his body and leading into the waistband of his jeans.

  He ducks out from under the hood, peering around the side to talk to Hank, who nods, before the engine roars to life.

  Quinn stands back, listening to the engine with his hands on hips, deep in concentration. He motions with his hands to cut the engine, which Hank does. Scratching his chin briefly, he then pokes his head back under the hood, blindly reaching for a tool near him.

  The further he extends into the car, the more I can’t stop staring at how tight his butt looks, and the way his back muscles ripple under his tight t-shirt with each of his movements. Inadvertently, I lean further and further over the sink until my forehead is basically resting against the curtain to get a closer view.

  Thanks to Betty and her knack for interior decorating, I can totally ogle Quinn without him knowing I’m so checking him out right now.

  Or so I thought.

  He slowly turns at the waist and peers over his shoulder, staring straight at me.

  I’m pretty certain I’m cloaked behind the curtain, but now I’m not so sure, as his green eyes flicker with humor, looking at the window.

  My hands slip off the edge of the sink as I pull away quickly, and I push back from the window to drop into a squat. I am breathless, and my heart begins beating quickly, doused in adrenalin from being caught.

  I wait around thirty seconds, and then I do something silly. I evenly place my hands on the edge of the sink and pull myself up a fraction, so the top of my head and eyes are the only things visible through the window.

  But Quinn has gone.