Save Me

by Cecy Robson

  “In that case, I will very much continue to hold my pinky up during our most dire moments.”

  “And I’ll continue to swear, because I owe it to the Eagles.” He thinks about it. “And because I’m fucking good at it.”

  We laugh. Seamus tosses a rum ball covered with powdered sugar into the air and catches it in his mouth, a rather impressive if not sloppy feat. I point to the eruption of white powder across his jaw. “You have a little something there.”

  He points to his chin. “Here?”

  I make a fanning motion with my fingertips. “Everywhere, if I’m being honest.”

  He removes a few napkins from the dispenser on the counter and swats at his face as if trying to put out a fire or possibly kill a mosquito. “Better?’ he asks.

  “Not by much,” I admit. I point to a few spots that are more smeared than clean. “If you could just get, no, not there. No, that spot was clean. Yes. No. Ah, perhaps you should ask to use the restroom?”

  “Nah, I don’t need to go.” He tosses what remains of the crumpled napkins in the garbage can and reaches for a clean bundle, handing them to me. “Help a fellow Eagles fan out, will ya?”

  I take a step back. “I really shouldn’t,” I say, clutching the wad against my chest.

  He cocks his head, likely wondering why I’m skipping away rather than closing in. I can’t fault him. Women likely throw themselves at Seamus, hoping for a squeeze of his pat-able ass.

  “Why not? You still mad at me for not calling you after our hot night of sex and sin?” he asks, winking.

  I laugh, and against my better instincts, step timidly forward. As I dab his chin, it occurs to me how much I’ve laughed in the moments since first approaching him. It feels good, natural, and surprisingly peaceful.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You nervous or something?”

  I lower my chin, pausing my movements slightly. “Maybe I am,” I admit. “I’m not one to randomly touch men.”

  “You randomly touched Kevin,” he reminds me. “Even the nuns who worked with the homeless wouldn’t go near him.”

  “That was different,” I say, focusing on how the small whiskers of his chin scrape against the napkin. “Kevin was in distress.”

  “No. Kevin was covered in puke and marinara.” He groans. “And there you were with a roll of paper towels. Had you been working the salad line you would have been spared and some shit-out-of-luck altar boy would’ve been stuck hosing Kevin down in the garden with the Virgin Mary looking on.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I tell him. My fingertips move across his jaw. The napkins provide just a small barrier between my skin and his. Although I shouldn’t take advantage of this moment, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to actually touch a man like Seamus.

  Small lines crinkle the edges of his eyes and a bit of gray streaks along his temples, smoothing his tough exterior with a sense of refinement. If I recall correctly, Seamus is a highly in-demand carpenter who specializes in creating complex and intricate woodwork for the most prestigious homes in the area and restoring old mansions to their former glory. His fingers are deeply calloused, the skin along his palms rough. The physical demands of his job leave his hands like well-worn leather, but his face hasn’t suffered a fraction. Each bit I fuss with appears as soft as his full lips.

  “I think more people than you imagine would’ve helped Kevin out,” I say, realizing neither of us has spoken.”

  “Can’t say I agree with you on that one,” Seamus says, angling his chin so he can better see me. “His own parents left his ass to get the car.”

  I try to pretend I don’t notice him staring. “That’s right. I remember. Poor Kevin.”

  I move to the other side of his face, laughing when I see the powder has somehow reached his earlobe. “How can a grown man make this much mess with one little rum ball?”

  “It’s a gift. Kind of like Kevin with the spaghetti.”

  I pull away when I find him frowning. “My apologies. Am I being too intrusive?”

  “Intrusive?”

  “Crossing a boundary,” I explain. “Was I getting too close to you?”

  He laughs. “I know what intrusive means, cutie. Believe it or not there’s a brain to go with all this awesome manly brawn.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, backing away. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate you’re dimwitted.”

  He laughs again, this time harder. “Good, because I’m not.” He watches me as I hurriedly toss the napkins into the small trashcan. “Oh, that’s right, you’re married. No wonder you’re so skittish about touching me.”

  “Skittish?”

  “It means jumpy, nervous,” he adds with a wink

  I cover my mouth, feeling I should set him straight, except Seamus’s thoughts take him full speed ahead. “You married to that special needs guy, right? I must tell you that was real nice of you to look past his disabilities like you did. Most women wouldn’t have given him a first date. Let alone promised him forever.” He leans back on his heels. “You’re a hell of a broad.”

  I barely keep my jaw from slacking open, stunned. “Are you referring to Andres Costas?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, as if he couldn’t possibly mean anyone else.

  I didn’t think my day could get worse after my conversation with my mother, then along came Seamus O’Brien. “Andres doesn’t have special needs.”

  “Sure, he does,” Seamus replies. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. The little guy did try.”

  “He doesn’t have special needs,” I insist.

  Seamus frowns, evidently confused. “Are you sure? If memory serves, he couldn’t tie his own shoes.”

  Is it hot in here? No, it’s just my flaming face. “He could tie his own shoes.”

  “No, he couldn’t. He wore those Velcro pieces of shit forever.”

  “His mother special ordered them for him,” I say.

  “I’ll bet,” Seamus adds thoughtfully.

  “But it’s not because he couldn’t tie his shoes,” I stammer. “He would just forget, constantly frazzled and worried about making it to class on time so he could sit in the front row.”

  Seamus shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, Allie, but there was more going on than that. He wore these giant shorts in gym class. They were practically pants. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he tucked his shirt into said shorts. Whenever anybody would try to talk to him, he’d quote Star Wars, Star Trek, Star something. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I felt bad about it and always offered him a piece of gum. He seemed to like that.”

  I should probably be grateful Seamus didn’t shove Andres into a locker. Many a tough Philly boy had . . . along with a few tough Philly girls. “Andres is very intelligent and is a member of Mensa.”

  “Mensa?” Seamus repeats. “Oh, that’s that smart people club, right? The one packed with virgins?”

  I gasp, appalled. “I don’t know about all of them being virgins,” I add, feeling this awful need to defend Andres and perhaps myself. “But I assure you Andres didn’t have any issues. He was just shy and socially awkward.”

  “If you say so. Either way, it was nice of you to marry the guy. God knows no one else was going to.”

  This is one of those moments in time that I should run, run far away, screaming with my arms flailing.

  “You okay? You don’t look good. No offense,” he adds quickly.

  “I didn’t marry Andres,” I admit.

  “Good for you,” Seamus says, pointing at me. “I always thought he was kind of an asshole. ‘Cept calling a special needs guy an asshole just makes you sound like the asshole. Know what I mean?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Bastard owes me at least six packs of gum.”

  Seamus takes another long look at me. “What’s wrong? Did I make if you feel bad? I wasn’t trying to. If anything, it’s a good thing you didn’t end up with him. No. A great thing. You could’
ve popped out a bunch of nerds quoting Star Trek shit. ‘A long, long, time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.’ Who the hell needs to hear that every day, all day? Not you, that’s for damn sure.”

  “That’s Star Wars,” I clarify. “Not Star Trek.”

  “Whatever.” He bites into a mini éclair, speaking through chews. “I’m telling you, God did you a favor. You’re too cute to carry a kid for nine months only for that freak to slap elf ears or some other nerdy shit on him the second the cord’s cut. As far as I’m concerned, you got lucky. Think of the loser who ended up with him.”

  “He didn’t end up with the loser, Seamus,” I tell him. I look up from staring hard at the peel and stick linoleum tile at my feet. “He’s marrying Valentina.”

  He finishes off the éclair, swallowing hard, shock gathering along his features. “Valentina who?” he asks.

  He knows who I’m talking about. “Shit,” he says, when I don’t bother to reply. “When did that happen? Last thing I heard, Valentina was judging that modeling show in Paris.”

  “Just recently. The wedding is in a couple of months,” I mumble.

  I don’t know why I’m telling Seamus any of this. I’ve already been embarrassed enough. But who else do I have to tell?

  “He’s marrying your sister?” He scoffs when I nod. “I can’t figure out who’s the biggest asshole. Him or her.”

  I sigh. “Considering I’m one of the bridesmaids, my guess is that it’s me.”

  “You’re kidding? Why would you do that to yourself? If one of my brothers—never mind. They would never pull something that dirty on me.” He looks at me quickly. “No offense.”

  I nod slowly, unable to find the words or the energy to keep our conversation going. I fiddle with my purse strap. “It was nice speaking with you, Seamus. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Where you going?” he asks when I turn away. “You didn’t buy anything to eat.”

  I purse my lips, realizing he’s right. I stop in front of the clear glass display at the center. I don’t realize I’m making my way back to Seamus until he nudges me gently with his elbow.

  “Look, I don’t know what to say to make you feel better except that you’re still better off. He was a shithead then and he’s a bigger shithead now. And your sister—” He cuts himself off. “She shouldn’t have done that to you.”

  I smile at how he censored his remarks about Valentina. Seamus doesn’t know me and he’s been nicer to me than anyone in a long while.

  “You didn’t remember me from the real estate venture I helped you through.”

  It’s not a question. Simply a fact.

  “Nope. Curran and Declan took care of it. They’re more business-oriented. Me and Angus are more the physical labor behind the scenes kind of guys.”

  True. What he may not realize is there was a great deal of negotiation and back and forth with the other parties. It was one of the toughest sales I’d ever undertaken and among the lengthiest to complete. But that’s not what Seamus remembers. Nor was it all those times we’ve crossed paths throughout our lives.

  “But you remembered me with Kevin,” I point out.

  “No,” he says. His smile isn’t wide or playful, yet it lights his eyes in a way that stirs a smile of my own. “I remembered you being nice. People aren’t nice anymore. Not as nice as they should be, anyway. You always were. That thing with Kevin, it’s just the one I remembered first.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my heart warming. He’s right. The world could use more kindness.

  He smirks. “So, you taught Finnie, Wren, Killian, and Curran Sunday school?”

  I thought we were done speaking. I’ll admit I’m happy to continue our conversation. “Yes. I did.”

  “That must’ve been a train wreck.” He resumes his cake-testing duties, lifting a pretty vanilla cake with colorful sprinkles. “Be honest with me, how many times did you want to send them to hell? You can tell me. I won’t say anything.” His voice falls below a whisper as if sharing a delicious secret. “Between you and me, how many times did you ask the Archangel Michael to strike them down?”

  I laugh, recalling all the times I had to separate his siblings from fighting with other children and each other. “Your family had a habit of getting into brawls. For a long time, they had a rivalry with the McElhanneys. It all came to a head when Georgie McElhanney destroyed Curran’s papier-mâché version of Baby Jesus, right before the Christmas pageant.”

  “No shit,” Seamus asks. “I can’t fault Curran for that one. That has to be some kind of sin. It may have even been the eighth deadly sin if God had kept going.”

  “Maybe,” I agree.

  “Seamus,” Cara Maria yells from the back. “The boss says we can do your donut cake.”

  “Cool,” Seamus answers. He scrolls through his phone, jerking his chin in the direction of the almost empty tray. “I’m ordering all these. A hundred and fifty for the engagement party and about five hundred for the reception. The heart-shape works. I have a few bills for the deposit. Just let me know how much I owe you.”

  Cara Maria returns to the counter, feverishly writing out the order and clarifying the dates and times. She’s not quite finished writing when Seamus drops a pile of twenties within her reach. It’s been a pleasure speaking with him. But now that Cara Maria and all her loveliness is back, it’s as if I no longer exist.

  “It was nice seeing you again—”

  “Oh, shit,” Seamus says, cutting me off and looking intently at his phone. “I forgot about the bridal luncheon. Hey, Cara. Can you add fresh flowers to a display?”

  “The decorator can make nice candy ones,” Cara Maria answers. “Orchids, roses, whatever you want.” She shoots me a dirty look, informing me I need to get going.

  I back away slowly, recognizing my time with Seamus is over.

  I’m almost to the door when the owner calls out to me. “Allie, did you decide what you want?”

  Oh, yes. The reason I’m here. I return to the register, this time keeping some distance from Seamus, who evidently didn’t notice me leave.

  Somehow, I find my voice. “Two dozen mixed donuts, a few croissants, and one of each of the pastries in the circling display, please.”

  “You got it, sweetheart,” he says. He walks to the front and starts filling the order when the doorbell chimes announcing another customer.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s here!”

  Valentina’s voice rings in like a chorus of bells. Except the chorus resides in hell and I’m being burned alive. For a moment, I can’t breathe.

  I don’t have to guess my mother threw me under the bus. I turn around as I feel the color drain from my face. My mother and Valentina stand before me like twins. Creepy, evil twins, dressed in matching ponchos. Valentina’s is red and likely Dior. My mother’s is powder blue and likely not. Mom is smiling, seemingly pleased with herself. Valentina is smiling, too, feigning an innocence that left her long ago.

  There’s no escaping these women. I should know this by now.

  Like Valentina, my mother is tall and statuesque. I was cursed with the midget genes on my late father’s side. Where Mom has shoulder-length dyed black hair and light brown eyes, Valentina has long silky midnight hair almost to her elbows and eyes so green you’d swear saints hand cut them from emeralds.

  Of course, because that’s not unfair enough, it appears Valentina still weighs the same as she did in high school. She must not eat, or drink, or breathe. If it weren’t for her cosmetically enhanced breasts she might look too thin and not like a goddess strolling through Mount Olympus.

  She unwraps the poncho like a veil of red cashmere, revealing the plunging neckline of her blouse and giving a generous peek of her fantastic rack.

  “Damn,” Seamus mutters, looking up from his tray of goods to admire Valentina’s magnificence. He may not have noticed me leave, but he certainly notices Valentina arrive.

  Valentina smiles
in that way she does when men stop to admire her, all the while pretending she doesn’t notice or care.

  “Alegria, aren’t you going to say hello to your sister?” Mom asks, her expression as appalled as her tone.

  I whip around, unable to face them. This is too much, too soon. “Save me,” I whisper, praying to God and all the apostles.

  “What?” Seamus mumbles, mid-chew.

  Another creampuff explodes in his mouth, spilling the contents across his chin. I cover my face. “Save me,” I repeat, wondering what I ever did to deserve this.

  “Alegria,” Mom says, her anger reflecting in each syllable. “Why are you ignoring your sister?”

  I’m not ignoring her, I want to say. I’m just blinded by her spectacular presence.

  “Allie?”

  My gaze shifts to the doorway where Andres waits, appearing as blindsided as I feel.

  My skin is on fire, creating a waterfall of sweat along my spine. He takes a cautious step forward, then another, stopping beside Valentina and taking her hand in his.

  My gaze drops to their entwined fingers. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

  An expensive black Merino coat covers Andres’s small frame, giving him the broad shoulders he never managed on his own and the bulk he always longed for. His once out of control curly hair is now thinning and cut close to his scalp and his glasses are long gone.

  I’m in a dark brown suit, the long skirt making me appear shorter. The kitten heels don’t help. I dress conservatively in front of my clientele. They’re older and don’t like a lot of flash. But in front of Valentina, I resemble an 18th-century schoolteacher rather than a successful and respected professional.

  I don’t look like Valentina. I don’t act like Valentina. I don’t share her high I.Q. I never have. Which is why I wasn’t good enough for Andres or my family.

  “Hi,” Andres says. He glances at Valentina apologetically, as if my presence will somehow inconvenience her.

  Her red glossed lips widen into a satisfied smile. She knows she doesn’t have anything to worry about. He belongs to her.