by Abigail Boyd
“Do you remember where we might have met before?” Searching my face again for a long moment, he settles on my eyes, like he’s trying to find the answer there.
“I thought maybe you had an idea,” I admit at last.
He shakes his head. “No, I can’t for the life of me remember. I’ve thought about it quite a bit. It’s like the closer I get the deeper the answer buries itself.”
He jumps up and takes a seat on the counter, his hands resting between his knees. I turn away from him so that I can load the dishwasher.
“It’s the worst when I’m trying to go to sleep,” he continues. “Your face just comes into my head, like you’re trying to tel me something. I’ve tried thinking back as far as I remember, but I’m getting nowhere.”
“You think about me in bed?” I tease, loading the dishwasher. “That’s probably prohibited between friends.” I’m just trying to relieve this heavy, sudden tension in the room. I’ve thought about him while I laid in bed, too, so to imagine him doing the same makes my stomach drop.
“Not just when I’m trying to remember, either,” he says softly, hopping off the counter. That only makes my heart beat faster, and if he gets too close right now I think I might combust.
“It’s almost like we’re strangers who knew each other in a past life,” he says. I turn to him now, frowning, taking in his solemn face. He’s not joking.
“You believe in past lives?”
“I’ll believe in anything, if I can prove it to myself.”
“And how would you go about proving your past life theory?” I ask, turning away again to the dishwasher, bending over at the waist.
I feel a snap on my butt as he hits me lightly with the dishtowel. I pop up in surprise and stare at him, and his shoulders shake as he starts to chuckle.
“Okay, so it’s a dumb theory,” he relents. I really don’t think that it’s dumb, but now I don’t want to tell him that and have him think I’m a loon. He leans with his arms back on the counter, and I watch his biceps flex. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Where did you grow up?”
“Florida. In different towns in Florida,” I amend. “I’ve never had a Christmas North of the border.” Not one that I can remember, anyway.
“Your family moved around a lot?”
I bite my bottom lip, wanting to tell him that I’ve never really had family. I feel way, way too comfortable around him, and that scares me, because it means I could knock every wall down around me and not even realize they were gone.
“I moved around a lot,” I say. “Especially after I hit eighteen.”
He gathers his supplies together, and I realize as he’s packing up that this is the point where he’s going to leave. I don’t want him to, but I don’t know how to ask him to stay without sounding desperate.
“Do you want a beer? I’m gonna go grab a couple while I drop this off,” he says casually.
“Sure.” That was not what I was expecting. It makes me a little too happy, my insides going mushy. I turn and catch sight of myself in the shiny surface of one of the pans. I almost don’t recognize me, the bright eyes and the smiling, hopeful expression. It’s dangerous to be with him, not because he puts me in danger, but because I might actually open up to him, and leave myself unprotected.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HE RETURNS WITH two Heineken’s and hands me one. I take a liberal sip and rub my lips together. He heads right into the living room and plops on my couch, lounging back. I grin at how at home he already seems to be and follow him, sitting beside him on the couch arm. Now that dinner and the smallest of my secrets is out of the way, the chemistry sizzles between us.
He points up to a single painting that hangs on the wall in a brown frame. It’s the only thing on any of my walls, a watercolor of a rich purple flower with pointed petals.
“Did you paint that?” he asks.
“Yeah, a few years ago. I bought the watercolors and the canvas right before I got on a bus the day I was moving. It was the only thing in my apartment for few days. But I felt like I had to paint it or the urge would go away. I’ve never painted much else.”
“It’s good. I’ve never seen a flower that looks like that before.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and pop the top on the Heineken, taking a drink. “I remember it from when I was kid, a flower that looked like that. I haven’t seen one since then, either. I just imagined it one day.” I wonder if I’ve said too much and opened a gateway for him to ask, but he doesn’t. ”
He leans back and looks up at me where I’m sitting on the couch arm. “So how long ago was that day when you landed your finger on the map and decided to come here?”
I have to think about it for a minute. He takes a sip of his beer and it leaves his lips wet, and I avert my eyes so as not to get distracted. I can smell his cologne from here every time I breathe, and that is plenty distracting enough.
“About nineteen months ago. I bought a plane ticket, and didn’t look back. I met Quinn at the airport, believe it or not, and we started talking about the boots she was wearing. She was here for college. She tells everyone that it was fate, because she had just gotten the job at Lucky’s, and got me in as a waitress the next day. I’d never waitressed before, but it was something I always thought I’d be good at.”
He puts is foot on his opposite knee, getting comfortable. “You seem like you are. I would have tossed a bucket of hot water at those assholes who were harassing you, especially the second time they showed up.”
That’s a strong dose of reality, making me remember how Tag and Tess surrounded me at the store. I chug down the rest of the beer and set the bottle on the table, but I can’t stop the shiver that sets in.
He reaches out and rubs my back, and the slow circles make a moan slip out of my mouth. I touch my lips, embarrassed, and he pulls his hand away. Our eyes meet and he grins apologetically. “I guess that’s not so friendly.”
“Probably not,” I say, and smile back. But part of me wishes I hadn’t stopped him.
He sits up and takes both of our empties into the kitchen. When he returns, he says, “Why do you think they followed you to the store? Or could they have just been there by coincidence?”
I tell him about last night, how I felt like I was followed before I got to the Longhorn. That I’d felt strange the entire time I was actually at the club, and didn’t remember much.
“I can’t help but wonder if maybe they had something to do with that, too. Maybe they were there and I didn’t see them. This is the third time now that they’ve messed with me.” I vaguely remember a man named Leo, too, but he’s not important enough to mention.
“If you see them again, I want you to call me. Or call the police,” he says gravely, sitting back down beside me.
“Do you really think it’s that serious? Maybe they’re just a couple of jerks.”
“They’re obviously violent and I think it’s better not to underestimate them.”
I know he’s right, which I find very creepy. I don’t want to think about people being out for me.
He stands up and I wonder what he’s doing as he walks around to the lone bookshelf on the other side of the couch. On the bottom are DVDs of my few favorite movies, in the middle are some books I’ve read enough to tatter the covers, and on top are memorabilia I’ve collected over the years.
He kneels down and runs his fingers across from DVDs, and I lean on the couch so I can take an appreciative peek at his backside in his jeans.
“Are you trying to determine my taste in movies?” I ask.
“Yup. I’ve found it’s a good insight into the soul.” He peers back up at me. “This is too tiny to even be called a collection, you know.”
“I know. My one rule has always been that everything be portable because I move so much. I used to keep everything in boxes and only in the last six months bought the shelf.”
He pulls out a couple of cases and inspects them. “Spaceballs and 40 Year Old Virgin? You pass.”
He stands back up and looks at the top shelf, and now I have that eerie, exposed feeling again. He carefully picks up a dish full of loose seashells and gently lifts them up one at a time, studying the colors and patterns.
“Did you collect all of these?”
“Yeah. Except for the starfish, I bought those at a shop on the boardwalk in Sarasota.”
“I can tell you’re a Florida girl. It looks like you miss the ocean.” I nod at him and go to stand beside him. “I’m jealous, I would have spent every day on the beach.”
“Me, too.” Along with the shells are bottles of sand and a few framed photos of sunsets I took. He picks up one of the photos and studies it. Looking at all of this is bringing up memories, not the half-formed ones that hint at forgotten pain, but the ones that I hold dear to my heart.
“I only lived on the beach for a while, though, and that was the only time I saw it. It was the happiest summer of my life, but it only lasted for three months. Then I got shipped off to another foster family, and that was the worst time of my life. With this evangelical family that made me cut off my hair and wear knee-length jumpers. They thought that girls and boys shouldn’t even talk to each other, that it was sinful.”
“You’re adopted?” he asks, still holding the photo.
I’d let it slip without even realizing it. I knew this was going to happen, but now that it’s out, I hold my breath.
He just looks at me patiently, waiting to see if I’ll explain. I can tell he’s not going to make me explain, but I want to. I take a bottle of sand down and twisted it around so the shells inside clinked together.
“I was in foster care, but I was never actually adopted.” There are no emotions attached to this statement. I’m aware that it’s just the way that it is. I watch the shells disappear and reappear in the blue sand. “I got bounced around a lot, that’s what I meant by saying I moved. I lived with three different families and then in foster care the rest of the time. My best experiences were living on the beach, spending the entire day outside, digging my toes into the sand and swimming. I didn’t even know how to swim until I got into the water and took to it.”
He’s listening to my every word, watching my expression.
“They were very, very kind to me. I even had my own room for a little while. But only because their daughter was away. When she came back, out I went.”
“Do you still have contact with them?” he asks gently. I shake my head. I can sense that he suddenly has a thousand questions, but I’m relieved when he doesn’t ask the usual—do I know my parents, do I know why I was given up. I put the bottle back up on the shelf.
“I didn’t mean to get personal,” he said.
“It’s okay. It would have come out anyway.” I stare down at the floor because right now it feels like if I look at him I might cry, and I don’t even know why. My nose stings as I blink rapidly, but in a moment the feeling passes.
“I’m going to hug you now, so please don’t get mad,” he says, and he wraps me up in his arms, pressing his body against mine. I rest my face against his chest, feeling my body relax completely. I would not mind one bit staying right here for the rest of my life.
“Do you ever play cards?” he asks, pulling away from me. That was a pretty random topic switch, but I appreciate that it was for my benefit.
“Like poker? I’ve only played strip poker before,” I admit.
“Well, we could definitely play that, but in the interest of our friendship, I was thinking more along the lines of rummy.”
“Rummy?”
“Yeah. Do you want to play tomorrow, help me practice?”
“I’ve never played it before.” I admit as I cross my arms over my chest.
“That’s not a big deal. I could teach you, easy. I could teach you a recipe, too. If you don’t have anything else going on, that is.”
I almost feel like he’s trying to set up a date, but I don’t vocalize it. “No. I don’t have anything going on. That sounds like fun.”
“I don’t really have a lot of friends in town other than the guys I work with, and all they want to do is get shitfaced. Not my bag.”
“What about all your weekends spent at the Longhorn, scoping for chicks?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. “Matt the bartender told us all about your escapades.”
“Yeah, he thinks I’m a regular Ryan Gosling.” He frowns and looks at me. “What did he tell you?”
I bite my bottom lip, not knowing how deep into the truth I should go. “That you go home with a different woman every weekend.”
He frowns in response, shaking his head. “That’s not true. I admit that I went home with a couple of girls, and I flirted, but I’m not that bad. No wonder you thought I was a slut.”
His use of the term makes me laugh, and he smiles as I walk him to the door. He grabs one of my wrists and curls his hand around mine.
“You know, this friends thing isn’t so bad,” he says. “It would be better with sex, but this isn’t bad.”
I put my hand on his back and pretend to push him out, and he laughs all the way into his apartment. I can still hear him chuckling when I shut the door.
I lean the back of my head against it, feeling like my insides are electrified. I know he’s awakening something inside of me that’s been dormant for a long time. But maybe this can be enough for now, just being around him.
It’s time for a cold shower to clear my head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“REMY, COME HERE,” Russell insists the instant I walk into work the next day. I groan internally as I walk over to him. “You’re going to do me a favor today,” he says, his eyes shifting around as though he’s looking for a more important person to talk to.
“I am?” I’m one of the few employees he treats like he likes, yet I still can’t stand the guy.
“We’ve got a new girl starting together, and I need you to train her. Her name is Beth and she’s a real nice girl, I’m sure she won’t give you any trouble at all.” He straightens his wrinkled tie. “I figured Sunday brunch would be a good induction.”
“Why would you start her on the busiest day of the week? Church will be out soon and we’ll be slammed,” I say, feeling more than a little irritated.
“It’s good to drop her right in the middle of the action,” he says, obviously not liking that I would doubt his judgment. “She’s had waitressing experience. She’ll do fine, you’ll make sure of it.”
“Why me?”
He touches my upper arm, in a creepy attempt to relate to me, and I stare down at his hand until he removes it. “Remy, you’re my best employee. I know you can do this.”
And that’s his final word, subject closed. Beth is standing in the corner, already dressed in her polyester Lucky’s uniform. A tiny, shy-looking girl, her shoulders hunch over, and her big, chocolate eyes peek out through fringed bangs. She scans the room like she has no idea what she’s doing there. I doubt this is going to be as easy as Russell said.
I introduce myself and she smiles politely at me.
“Where do we start?” she asks in a quiet, girlish voice.
“Just stick to my side today, if you need to. You’ll figure it out. It’s probably not that different from the last place you worked.”
But apparently it is pretty different or Beth is really nervous, because she seems to fumble a lot. It doesn’t help that she gets a run of custom orders—salad without any cheese or dressing, fried chicken without breading. She mixes up a few orders and we have to smooth the feathers of several angry customers.
“I’m sorry, this is my first day,” she explains to the woman ranting about her chicken. The woman glares at her but seems to give her a pass.
After the few hours, though, after the major traffic clears out, she hits her stride and I can actually leave her on her own. I feel a little flutter of pride at how well she’s doing now.
As the hours tick past, I keep looking up at the clock and thinking about the fact that I’m going t
o see James again tonight. I can’t tell whether I’m excited just because I enjoy being around him or if I’m nervous because of my attraction to him.
I’m in the break room when Quinn arrives to take over for Beth. Looking flawless as usual, she sweeps into the break room with her uniform over her shoulder, then stops and stares at Beth. The new girl is sitting on a chair, tying her shoes, her eyes darting in various directions as my friend assesses her
“Who is the new person?” Quinn asks me.
“That’s Beth, she’s really sweet,” I assure her. Beth smiles up at me and finishes tying her sneaker, standing up.
“Let me guess, Russell thought it would be a dandy idea to train her on the busiest shift save for Saturday dinner,” Quinn says, bringing her uniform around.
“You guessed it. But she did fine, once she got into the swing,” I say honestly. Quinn’s not a fan of new people, and it was surprising when we hit it off so well when we met. Beth gathers her purse and a soda, and comes up to me.
“Thanks for all your help today, Remy. Hopefully I wasn’t too much of a bother,” she says.
“You did fine.”
After she leaves, I notice that Quinn’s makeup is even more perfect than usual, which is why she was so striking earlier. Bronzer is contoured on her cheekbones, her eyeshadow is dramatic, and not one pore shows through her foundation.
“How is your experiment going with the makeup, by the way?” I take a bite of the crackers I’m hurrying to finish.
“The day I came with no makeup, everybody told me I looked sick.” She gives a little chuckle of amusement as she clocks in. “Then when I wore just mascara and concealer, a few old people told me how lovely I looked without makeup. Yet my tips were the same either way.”
“What’s the verdict?” I ask, leaning on the table next to her.
“So far I’ve learned no makeup equals deadface, some makeup equals no makeup. Tonight I’m going for broke.”
“Let me know your results.” I follow her into the bathroom as she shimmies out of her sweater and slides her uniform on over a tank top and shorts.