by Carla Ryan
"Shark-Tastic? You must have named him."
His smile falls flat and you think you've upset him, but he doesn't look distraught as much as curious. "Where are you from?"
"Boston," you say, stretching your sleep out. "Where are you from?"
"Two houses down. Say it again."
"What? Boston?"
"Shark-Tastic."
"Shark-Tastic."
"No," he says, focusing intently on your mouth, "like you did before."
Oh. You know what this is. Sometimes when you're really tired you slip into your native language: Bostonian. You didn't grow up in the city, but your mother did. She may be all highfalutin now, but she -- and therefore you -- used to drop her r's like a champ.
"Shahk-Tastic?"
He doesn't return your smile, instead imitating your accent in a whisper over and over. You wait for him to say something else, but he seems fully preoccupied by his efforts.
"Gustave, is it?"
He doesn't respond, still whispering.
"Hey," you say, snapping your fingers, "Gus. Can I call you Gus?"
His eyes slowly slide up to meet yours.
"Are you allowed to be out here alone?"
Finally he stops whispering and looks at his photograph. "I need to ask the neighbors about Shahk-Tastic." He glances sideways at you as he tries on the accent.
Slapping it on thick, you say, "Hey, ah you from Bwaston? 'Cuz you wicked sound like yoa from Bwaston."
"No!" He throws his hands up in protest, but he's smiling -- for real this time -- as he does it. "I told you I'm from two houses down!"
"How 'bout I walk ya back home, 'kay?"
"I need to ask the neighbors about Shahk-Tastic," he repeats. Conversation apparently over, he turns around and starts back toward the road.
You're tempted to let him be. His parents must know where he is, right? Maybe he's not as crazy as he seems. But he's only halfway up the long stone path before you're walking beside him. Barefoot. In your pajamas.
"How about we check in with --"
You're cut off by a woman running down the street yelling frantically, "Gustave! Gustave!"
"Over here!" you call, waving to catch her attention.
She's only past the next house, and you can see the relief flood over her when she sees the kid. "Gustave!" she shouts, racing over. Dropping to her knees she starts to hug him, but stops herself when she notices him flinching. Her hands fall to her sides.
"I didn't know where you were," she says to him. "You can't just run off like that."
"I need to ask the neighbors about Shahk-Tastic," he says again, his eyes on the photo.
She starts at his odd pronunciation, automatically looking up at you for an explanation.
"That's my fault," you say. "I'm from Boston. Our alphabet only has 25 letters."
"An easterner, huh?" she says with a smile as she stands up. She gives you a quick -- but thorough -- once-over, which makes you instantly do the same to her. She's too skinny, all bones and no tits, but she's pretty, with smooth skin and pale blue eyes. Her hair is the same orange as Gus (and Shark-Tastic), but with strands of white by her ears. "I'm Ophelia, Gustave's aunt."
You shake her hand and introduce yourself, adding, "You look so similar, I thought you were his sister."
She laughs, blushing. "Talk about miracle baby."
Movement behind her catches your eye: a shock of orange against a leafy green shrub.
"Is that your cat over there?" you ask, pointing across the street.
"Shark-Tastic!" Ophelia cries joyfully.
Gus says nothing and has no visible reaction other than immediately running across the street; luckily it's a quiet road and there are no cars in sight.
"At least say thank you, Gustave," Ophelia calls after him, but he doesn't pay her any attention.
"It's okay," you say. "I have to get my day started anyway. Can't sleep away my entire vacation."
With her eyes on Gus, who is now approaching the cat on all fours, she asks, "Are you here by yourself?"
"I am."
"Well we're only two doors down that way," she says, her cheeks darkening even more. "Feel free to stop by. It's just Gustave and me."
No parents? Hmm. That situation sounds too heavy for you. "I'll try," you say, heading back to the house. "Bye."
"Bye! It was nice meeting you!" She waves, taking a step towards you before glancing over her shoulder at Gus.
"You too!"
As nice as she was, you're not even through the door before all of your thoughts are concentrated on an entirely different woman: the elusive MAR.
Mary? Margaret? Marcia? There are way too many names that start with those three letters -- 137 names, to be precise, according to a list that you definitely did not make based on research you definitely did not do on various baby naming websites.
And what if they're initials? That would be even worse.
There's only one way to find out.
Back in the house, you scan the open living space for a clock. The whole place is designed to remind you that the sparkling Pacific Ocean is only a small strip of beach away, but you ignore the wall of windows and hone in on the small digital stove display across the room.
"Four o'clock!"
You can't remember the last time you slept that long -- or when you were this hungry.
Tying yourself over with a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter, you run out to the nearest grocery store to stock up for the week. You drive with the window down, soaking up the warm spring sunshine and breathing in the salty air. At the store, you take your time strolling through the aisles, delighted to find a bunch of peanut butter brands you've never heard of and buying a jar of each, along with a different frozen single-serve meal for every night you're here. A couple hours later, as you sit at the kitchen island, enjoying your pot pie and the ocean view, it dawns on you that your phone hasn't rung since you got here. Even more surprising, is the fact that you're actually glad it hasn't rung. Maybe you really did need a vacation.
You could call your mother and let her gloat, but Jabir's right, you don't like to think about her love life -- or marriage life, to be more accurate -- and she'll undoubtedly bring it up. However, you also don't like thinking about why you don't like to think about it, so you quickly push your mother out of your mind and focus on the task at hand.
Despite the years between, the memory of the woman with gray eyes is polished and clear in your mind: freckles, puckered pink lips, an air of intelligence and grace.
Does she remember you too?
A shiver runs through you at the thought. Maybe she's regretted saying no all this time. You can picture her now, her eyes locking onto yours, recognizing you instantly. She'll throw her arms around you and plant those gorgeous lips on yours, and you'll run your fingers through her hair, then squeeze that oh so squeezable booty with both hands. Without letting an inch of air come between you, you'll both stagger to your car and fall into the back seat, unwilling to let another second pass without tasting each other's bodies. Behind steamed windows you'll tear off her clothes, take her in your mouth and --
You catch your hand creeping between your thighs and cut the fantasy short, forcing yourself to return to your half-eaten meal. As much as you'd like to see the dream through, you're willing to save yourself for the real thing. Who knows? It might be even better than you imagine.
Chapter Seven
The bar is exactly as you remember it: same fruity scent, same shapely bar top. All the times you've been out here since that night, you were always so deep in work mode that it never occurred to you to visit this place again. Plus Raj let you stay at her guest house, which is way nicer than this place.
As the bartender pours you a glass of wine, you say, "I'm looking for someone who worked here six years ago. Do you know anyone who could help me?"
"Why?" he asks.
Because I'm in a funk and nailing her might snap me out of it.
"It's a long story,"
you say, acting bashful, "but... not to get too sappy about it... I think she's my soulmate."
"If you're looking for love, I'm your guy," says a man coming to stand by her elbow.
"I'll be damned," you say in shock.
You wouldn't recognize him in any other context, but it's undoubtedly Green Suit Man, bad toupee and all. He's even wearing the same outfit, although it's far less flattering than it was back then. He backs away and studies your face warily, thrown by your response.
"She said 'she,' Greer," the bartender says, frowning at him. "Keep moving."
Green Suit Man -- or Greer, apparently -- seems happy to comply, but you hold up a hand.
"No, it's okay. You might be able to help me."
"I don't know who you think I am," he says defensively, "but I'm stretched thin as it is. You're not getting a dime without a paternity test."
"No, no, no. We've never --" You cringe, unable to even say it out loud. "Just, no."
Turning to the bartender, you say, "Get him his usual."
"How do you know I have a usual?" Greer asks, still suspicious. "Are you sure we never screwed? Because looking at you now..." His gaze starts sliding down, taking in your carefully selected sexy-yet-casual outfit. "...you're starting to jog some memories."
You take a long drink, visions dancing in your head of splashing your drink in his face and kicking him in the balls.
"Is there anyone else here who might know who I'm looking for?" you ask the bartender.
"I've only been here a year," he says. "You could come back tomorrow morning and talk to the manager."
Another customer at the other end of the bar orders a drink, but before heading down, the bartender asks you, "Want me to throw him out?"
Yes.
"Hey!" Greer objects.
"Not yet," you answer. The bartender nods and walks away.
Surrendering to the inevitable, you turn to Greer. "I'm looking for a woman with pale gray --"
"Hold on, hold on," he says, settling into the seat beside you. "Let's get to know each other a little better here." At least he's not wearing any strong cologne. The only scents that cling to him are alcohol and ruin.
"You're a follower of Sappho, huh?" His bushy mustache, dark brown except for a thin, even fringe of gray along the top, lifts to reveal surprisingly white teeth. "Ever been with a man before?"
Wow you want to punch this guy so bad. Instead, you take a different tack, asking, "Have you?"
"Hell no," he says in disgust.
"Why not?"
"I'm not letting some guy..." He shudders, grimacing, and takes a drink. "Hell no."
"Same here. Besides, women have so many more places to fill and stuff to grab."
"That's for sure," he says, casting a not so subtle glance at your tits. He flashes those pearly whites at you again. "You know, you're alright. I like you."
The feeling is so not mutual.
"I don't buy this whole 'soulmate' thing though," he adds.
"It's true."
He leans in, bumping your shoulder with his as he searches your face with eyes that are permanently bloodshot. Even though he's way too close for comfort -- comfort would be him at the bottom of the Mariana Trench -- there's nothing lustful in his narrowed gaze, so you stay where you are.
"I know love," he says, shaking his head, "and you're not in it."
Taking a swig of his drink, he adds, "I'm not helping until you give me the real reason you're looking for her. She stiff you out of some money? It's always money."
You could stick to your story, spending the next ten minutes trying to convince him that you're here for love, but you don't like lying, even to hangnails like this guy, and you'd rather not waste an extra second with him if you can help it.
"Fine," you say. "The truth is I asked her for a one night stand six years ago, and even though it was obvious she wanted to say yes, she said no. I want to know why."
"And you want to make her say yes," he says with greedy eyes.
Does it bother you that this pathetic lowlife thinks the same way you do?
Yes.
Are you going to let it stop you from getting what you want -- no, what you need?
No.
With a coy shrug, you say, "Maybe," and take a drink.
He laughs. "I knew it. Love is the only four-letter word I don't use in the bedroom."
"Will you help me then?" you ask, eager to put this soul-crushing conversation behind you.
In a smooth, low voice that he's probably used to take advantage of countless lonely women, he says, "I'll do what I can."
You give him a quick summary of the woman with gray eyes, but now that he knows the salacious truth -- and that he has no chance with you -- his attention starts waning. As you talk, he sips his drink and watches a man and woman quietly arguing at a table in the corner.
"Does she sound familiar?" you ask.
"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. That's the girl that used to run the bar. Or maybe she was just a bartender. I don't know. No sense of humor, that one."
"What's her name? Do you remember her name?"
"Starts with an M, I think."
It's totally legal to strangle assholes in California, isn't it?
"I know it starts with an M," you say. "Is it Mary? Marcy? Marguerite?"
He shakes his head, eyes on the couple. The man is standing now, his angry words still inaudible but his meaning clear. The woman, still sitting, is equally as mad, motioning for him to leave.
"Greer!" you snap. "What do you know about her?"
"Keep your skirt on," he says, frowning sideways in your direction. Then his eyes light up, and he looks squarely at you. "Hey, this could be good. Keep acting mad at me. I'll do the same thing."
You instantly understand his train of thought. "No. There's no way I'm helping you land her."
"Yeah, like that, good," he whispers. Switching back to his frown, he says, "Your gal stopped working here a few years ago."
You want no part in his little charade, but it's hard not to look as frustrated as you feel. "And? Do you know where she works now? Or her name?"
Acting furious, he sticks his finger right in your face. "Do you know how many women's names I've forgotten?"
The woman he's trying to get is now officially alone. She starts gathering her things, and Greer slides off his stool. "Time to move in," he whispers.
This has been a total waste. Not only did you learn nothing -- other than confirmation that your mystery woman doesn't work here anymore -- you had to put up with the male equivalent of a loose eyelash stuck to your eyeball.
He starts walking towards his mark, but you're not about to let him cut another notch in his bedpost tonight. Tossing a twenty on the bar, you head for the door, taking a quick detour by Greer, who's already chatting the woman up.
"Hey," he objects, as you push your way between them.
"This asshole gave me herpes," you say to her, and march right out of the bar without looking back.
Now that lie you can live with.
* * *
As good as it felt to cock block that son of a bitch, you're pissed that you wasted any time on him. At least the bartender mentioned a manager. You'll call in the morning and see what they know.
Not ready to call it a night yet, you drive around the city, enjoying the scenery and reminiscing. The windows are up this time; the temperature dropped quickly after the sun went down, and unfortunately the chilly weather means very few pedestrians. You may not have been counting on a miraculous sighting of your mystery woman crossing the street in front of you, but you weren't counting it out either.
You're about to head back home when you realize you're only a block away from one of your favorite pubs in the city. Owned by a Boston-Irish transplant, you make it a point to go and listen to the live music whenever you're in town on a weekend. Today may be Tuesday, but it's not like the drinks can tell the difference.
An on-street parking spot opens up as soon as you decide to s
top. Maybe fate is taking pity on you after the catastrophe that was Greer. The pub's about half-full, with most of the patrons sitting near the stage to watch a trio play one of your least favorite kinds of music: jazz.
Ha ha. Very funny fate. No wonder you never came here on a Tuesday before.
You turn to leave as the song ends, but a woman's voice stops you in your tracks.
"That was 'Alone Together,' arranged by yours truly."
You wouldn't have believed that you could recognize her voice; she hardly said a dozen words to you six years ago. But your brain is buzzing and the universe collapsed to the size of this pub as soon as she started talking. You move closer to the stage, trying to get a better look without drawing attention to yourself.
"We're going to take a short break," the woman at the keyboard continues, "but before we do let's hear it for the band: Willa Vergeer on drums."
The audience makes up for its diminutive size with enthusiastic applause, cheering and nearly drowning out the woman as she introduces the other musician. "Annette Yoshida on upright bass."
She didn't say her name. What is her name??
"And our fearless leader," the drummer says, pointing a drumstick towards the piano player. The crowd claps and howls in appreciation, rendering the name agonizingly unintelligible other than something resembling, "Maghsjfd Jefisje!"
The stage lights dim and the band starts walking off. You check the impulse to run up to the woman and ask what color her eyes are, instead lingering by the bar and crafting your game plan while waiting for her to come over.
Despite your earlier fantasy, it's more likely that she won't remember you, so you'll play it like you've never met before -- which might actually be the case if it's not her. If it is her, you'll take it slow. You're not about to make the same mistake twice.
Right away your plan falls through. She takes a seat with some people at a table by the stage and doesn't even come to the bar.
Great. There's no way for you to naturally strike up a conversation now. You'll have to wait until the end of the next set, which could be an entire hour. What if it's not even her? You will have spent sixty minutes listening to music you can't stand for absolutely no reason. And even with your epic ten hours of sleep, it is one in the morning in Boston right now, and you're not used to staying up so late on a weeknight.