by Jo Willow
At eight I thought the building was being demolished. At least that’s what it sounded like to me. I was jolted from my dreams by loud and unrelenting pounding on my door.
“Dorothy, open up! I know you’re in there, the doorman said you haven’t left all day! Open the damned door!”
Great. The Lone Wolf was howling outside my door. I had no idea what he could possibly want with me, nor did I care. I still hadn’t made up my mind if I would continue to be affiliated with Mr. Sloan, and until I made that decision, I wasn’t sure if it was wise to talk to him. But the pounding had to stop. I did have a neighbor.
I went to the door and looked through the peephole. He was disheveled and possibly drunk. I didn’t need that either. He looked like he hadn’t shaved since last night, but at least he’d changed clothes. Speculating on his hygiene was getting me nowhere and I was still determined not to let him in.
“Deacon, take a hint. I don’t want to talk to you, so get the fuck away from my door. Go home. Leave me alone.”
There. That seemed clear enough.
I heard his hand run down the door and then a thud. When I looked out the peephole again, I saw the back of his head. The thud was his forehead hitting the door. What a drama queen.
“Dorothy, we need to talk. Buddy to buddy.”
“Fuck-you buddy. I’m nobody, remember? Not a date, not a friend, not anything. I’m nobody. You asked me if I trusted you Deacon and then you left me there on my own while you snuck out with... whatever she was. Some friend you turned out to be. Go home and leave me alone. I deserved better than that.”
My back was pressed to the door and I fought the urge to cry. I didn’t even know why, but I think it was out of frustration. Deacon was the first date I’d consented to in almost three years and I thought we were friends. I was buying into the “great guy” persona. I hadn’t even known him a week and I’d told him I trusted him. The sad thing was, I’d meant it. I did trust him. The end result proved why I can’t trust myself. And that’s why I wanted to cry. Not for him, I wanted to cry for me.
“You’re right. You did deserve better. I fucked up and I’m an idiot. I don’t deserve your friendship and you have a right to withhold it from me. That’s more than fair. Are you still gonna write about me?”
“I don’t know Deacon. The way I’m feeling right now? You don’t want to read anything I have to say about you. Trust ME on that.”
“Okay. I deserve that too. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I’m a shit friend but to be honest? I don’t have many friends.”
“Do you wonder why?”
“I guess not, what I’m saying is, there should be a learning curve or something. I’m not used to looking out for anyone but myself. It’s weird. I feel bad that I left you and I feel bad that I hurt your feelings. You were so beautiful last night Dor’. It was no reflection on you whatsoever, I swear. I have history with Sylvia and it was easy to...”
“Spare me the details Deacon, I could give a rat’s ass. We’re not going steady, hell, we’re not going anything. We’re not even friends.”
“Don’t say that! I wanna be a better friend and I want you to write my bio. Don’t give up on me Dor’. Please?”
“Go away Deacon. I can’t deal with you right now.”
“Okay I’ll go. But I’d rather come in and make this up to you.”
“Make it up to me? How? Do my nails? Scrub my floor? Watch a film? No thanks Deke. Just go home and let me sleep.”
“Sleep? It’s not bedtime yet, why are you sleeping? Are you depressed? Did I depress you bad enough that you’re sleeping all day?”
“Oh for the love of god Deacon, I’m tired! I’m wiped and sad and I wanna be left alone. I’m going to bed now, so go home. Please Deacon, just go home.”
My voice broke and I couldn’t help it. As sad as he sounded, I felt twice as bad. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and he had the luxury of perfect vision, but sorry or not, it didn’t change a thing. I couldn’t trust Deacon Sloan as far as I could throw the brunette he dumped me for last night.
If he said anything else, I wasn’t around to hear it. I gathered my pillow and comforter and traveled the hall to my bedroom. I closed the door and blocked out any further sound.
I slept so soundly, I don’t remember dreaming. I woke up to sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, with a hint of a headache that had the potential to be a pounder if I didn’t quiet it with caffeine.
I had a tank top and short jogging shorts on, I hadn’t looked, but I was positive I also had bedhead from hell. I didn’t care. All of the above could be rectified, but not without coffee. My priorities were clear.
I stumbled down the hall, my eyes half open my goal in sight. I didn’t have time to go out, I’d have to settle for my trusted Mr. Coffee. Then, a shower.
I’d pulled down the cannister with my Guatemalan specialty coffee when the doorbell chimed. I moaned and placed the cannister on the counter.
“No. Not this early. No way.”
I crept to the door and peeked into the hallway. A young man stood there holding a vase of roses. Flowers? This early? Well shit. It wasn’t the guy’s fault and I couldn’t in all good conscience take it out on him when it all fell on Deacon.
I twisted the deadbolt and opened the door. It was an ambush. The guy thrust the flowers at me and as I was taking them, Deacon made a squeeze play right through my door. I thanked the young man in a hurry and slammed the door. Son of a....
“Deacon? What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”
He turned to me holding a Grande Latte and a goody bag.
“It’s coffee and muffin time, Dor’. I pegged you for a latte kind of girl. Am I right?”
I snatched the coffee from his hand and sat down at the table. I popped the lid off the cup and took a deep sniff. Then I began to sip. Every time he’d try to say something, I held my hand up for him to stop. I seem to recall motioning to a chair and he sat down quickly, but he didn’t speak. He might be an idiot, but he had fleeting moments of wisdom.
I ran my hands through my already messy hair and peered at him over my half empty cup.
“What’s the actual time Deke?”
He looked at his watch and finally looked ashamed.
“Almost seven-thirty.”
“It’s seven-thirty on a Sunday morning and you’re sitting at my kitchen table. You wanna explain that?”
“You like Starbucks and I wanna be a better friend. I knew you were an early riser like me, so I ran to the corner. Next time, you can go.”
I took another sip and began to feel somewhat human.
“Next time? You think this is going to be a regular gig? You and me dropping in on each other early in the mornings with coffee? Tell me something, ‘buddy’. What happens the first time I drop in unannounced with coffee for two and a bag of muffins and you’re...entertaining someone?”
He looked at his folded hands on the table and seemed to consider my question.
“Tell you what. When I have overnight guests, I’ll automatically do the coffee run. If I’m not here by eight, assume the coast is clear and you can make the run.”
He was grinning as if he’d learned to tie his own shoes. I shook my head and mumbled.
“I’ll be saving a fortune on coffee...”
“What? Were you being sarcastic Dor’? It’s a little early for sarcasm, don’t you think?”
“It’s a little early for your bullshit is what it’s a little early for. I’m still pissed at you Deacon.”
He looked down and appeared to study my tabletop.
“I know and I’m sorry. Look, you need to know something. I don’t apologize to anyone for anything. Ever. It’s not in my genetic makeup. I’ve apologized more to you in the last week than I’ve ever apologized to anyone in my entire life.”
“And?”
“And what? What do you mean, ‘and’? I’m stating a fact.”
“Why? You owed me those
apologies.”
He raked his hands down his face and blew out a sigh.
I never said I didn’t owe them to you. I’m saying I’m off balance Dorothy! This is not me. I’m the guy in charge. The leader. The Head Kahuna.”
I’d busied myself filling the coffee pot from the tap and missed part of what he was saying. As I poured the water into the top of the Mr. Coffee, I responded to what he’d said.
“Did you just say something about being a Tuna? Because if you did, you lost me.”
“Not Tuna. Kahuna. The Head Kahuna.”
He walked into the kitchen and took my hands in his, effectively forcing me to look at him.
“Dorothy, I feel like shit. I can’t sleep and I’ve lost my appetite. I’m sorry I hurt you. I made a stupid mistake and I hurt a friend in the process. It wasn’t worth it and it’ll never be worth it. You, are worth it. You’re lovely and you make me laugh. Nobody with the exception of Anton, makes me laugh. I don’t want to lose that. There’s too little laughter in my life. Say you forgive me and you’ll give me another chance. Please Dorothy. I may kill someone if I go another sleepless night. There’s a barista at the Starbucks that’s just begging to be slapped.”
“Is it the little dark haired one that talks through his nose and is slower than molasses?”
His eyes grew huge and he drew me into a hug.
“You understand!”
He pulled back and leaned in conspiratorially.
“I swear I almost punched that kid. He annoys the livin’ shit out of me.”
I whispered back just as seriously.
“I’d have bailed you out. No questions asked.”
He raised his fist and I bumped it as expected. We stood staring at one another, each one waiting for some revelation to occur. I turned around and reached into the cabinet for two mugs.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Both please.”
I added both to both cups and turned around again with my arms crossed. He stood silently waiting.
“Okay Deacon. Here’s the deal. I don’t care who you date or sleep with. I’m your biographer and maybe your friend, we’ll see how that goes. The thing is, if you’re out with ME, and you introduce me as your date, there are certain expectations that go along with that. I expect a certain amount of attention and consideration. I expect a ride home if you’ve provided the ride there. Do NOT introduce me as your date if that’s not how you’re prepared to treat me. Understand?”
He made the sign of a cross over his heart and kissed my hand.
“I promise and you’re right. Completely and totally right. Last night will never happen again Dorothy. You have my word.”
I turned around and poured our coffee, then handed him a mug.
“Yeah? Well your word is worth shit at the moment Deacon, so save your promises.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear. You’ve never seen me on a mission yet and you have no idea how shitty I feel about Friday night. I’ll earn your trust back Dor’. I will.”
I playfully jabbed at his abdomen with my fist and took a sip of my coffee before leading him back to the table.
“Good-luck with that Wolf. I don’t trust anyone to begin with. So trusting you was a giant leap of faith for me. Trusting you again? Highly doubtful.”
I was opening the muffin bag so I missed the brief look of grief and pain that flashed in Deacon’s eyes.
“Blueberry? Fair guess. But next time, grab a chocolate one too.”
I handed him a muffin and I smiled, but the smile I got in return was forced and never touched his eyes. Something I said chased his dimples away and I felt the sadness pass between us. I couldn’t take it back and I wouldn’t if I could. If we were going to be friends, there had to be honesty. We’d never have anything if we rebuilt everything on playful lies meant to soothe hurt feelings. Something needed to be said and I felt that I had to be the one to say it. I reached across the table and took his warm hand in mine. He squeezed and I squeezed back.
“Deke, if we’re gonna do this, there has to be honesty between us. I can take the pain, I can’t take the lie. That will kill me every time and I’ll walk away. Every time. You say you never apologize? Well I never give second chances. But here we are. You’re apologizing to me and I’m giving you another shot. I don’t know what that means, but I have a theory. You wanna hear it?”
“I do indeed.”
“Alrighty then. I think we see something in one another that’s strangely familiar. Maybe something that we see in ourselves. Maybe it’s something we’re missing that’s right there within reach. Who knows? Whatever we see in one another, it’s something we want to keep and that makes it something worth trying for, to both of us. So you apologize and I forgive. We’ll build this friendship and I’ll write your bio. You’ll learn it’s latte’s and chocolate muffins and I’ll remember it’s cream AND sugar in your coffee. I’ll cook and you’ll drop in and eat. We’ll become friends. How does that sound?”
This time the smile was genuine and I relaxed and took a bite of muffin.
“It sounds like something I need in my life. You’re a righteous chick. You know that Dorothy Lincoln?”
“I do indeed Deacon Sloan. You feel like answering some questions today?”
“You gonna take a shower first?”
“Are you implying I smell funny?”
“Nope. Just asking the question.”
“Then probably. You goin’ home or hangin’ out?”
“Hangin’ out I guess.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
We ate our muffins and drank our coffee and it was. Good I mean.
Chapter Five
At this point in my story, I could tell you that I had some life changing epiphany during our day together, but that would be a lie and I’m not about to start telling porkies now. I’m not a big fan of lies. They tend to grow hairs and it never ends. The truth is what it is and you never have to wonder later on what you said in the first place. Truths can be verified. Lies have to be justified. So we’ll stick with the truth.
I showered and he cleaned the kitchen which involved washing two cups and wiping down the table. No biggie, but I had to wonder how many times the CEO of a major corporation had performed that simple chore. In all fairness, he did it like a pro. When I emerged twenty minutes later fresh as a daisy and ready to roll, his shoes were near the door and he was draped casually across my sofa, flipping through my TV channels. I took a minute to study him.
My folks hired a decorator to do their house. It’s beautiful and had been featured more than once in architectural and decorating magazines. It’s an old but remodeled Connecticut estate-slash-farmhouse (yeah right) on twenty acres of land in the Connecticut countryside. The whole thing was fenced by this immaculate white picket fence that looked impressive when driving by, but would hold nothing back should it try to escape. That’s why we never had pets. The reason I’m mentioning this, is because I always wanted something that felt like a home and not a decorator’s dream. I wanted something that reflected me.
I may own an apartment in the city, but I picked out every stick of furniture, every piece of art, every rug. If you spent any time at all in my apartment, you’d know enough about me to claim me as a family member. I’m that transparent most of the time. It’s probably a character flaw, but I prefer to think of it as an asset. There’s no guesswork where I’m involved. I say what I think and tell you how I feel. Unless I decide that you’re not worth the effort. Then you’re looking at a black hole folks. I’m as good as gone.
The reason I’m bringing this up now, is that I never really noticed if other people were as comfortable in my space as I am. I mean I know that Melody is, she makes herself at home every time she’s here and I like that. It proves that I’ve created a comfortable place for others as well. But I don’t have any friends to speak of and although that may be embarrassing as a whole, I blame my blistering schedule. I have downtime, but not much and t
hat doesn’t lead to sustainable friendships. Living on the fourteenth floor with only one neighbor that I’ve seen twice since I moved in, doesn’t help either.
My sofa is the color of mahogany and the fabric is a tight weave that projects warmth. It’s large, deep and overstuffed. It’s perfect for napping or lounging. It’s a couch potato’s dream sofa. There’s a matching armchair that would seat two people comfortable and a matching ottoman that you could do a jigsaw puzzle on. It’s placed at a jaunty angle next to the sofa, with a beveled wooden end-table in between. The matching end-table is on the other side of the sofa and both tables have one shallow drawer. I’m a huge fan of drawers and theories (the theory part you probably guess by now). I store remote controls and writing tablets with pens in the drawers, as well as extra batteries for the remotes. You can never be too prepared. On the other side of the sofa and end-table is something that most modern New York Manhattan apartment owners would cringe at. I have a mahogany leather recliner. Top of the line with heat and massage. I cannot tell you how many cold New York days I have spent cuddled up in that recliner with a comforter and the remote, sipping coffee while watching the weather play out on the Weather channel. I am all about comfort, as I’ve said before.
I don’t have a fireplace and frankly, I wouldn’t have one in an apartment. I imagine Deacon has one, he seems like the type. One more tool in his arsenal of seduction. I really need to invite myself over to check out that theory sometime. Anyway, my TV is a huge plasma monstrosity and it’s mounted on a section of wall across from the sofa. It’s the only section that doesn’t contain windows and I suspect the architect put that small wallspace there on purpose in case someone wanted a fireplace or a giant monstrosity of a plasma TV. I opted for the TV. Beneath it, is a credenza full of framed family photos. Mostly candid shots that I’ve cherished over the years. My mother didn’t want them, but held onto them for sentimental reasons. I grabbed them and framed those suckers, displaying them proudly for anyone to see.