by Lydia Rowan
“Fine,” she said, huffing out a breath. “I’m thirty.”
The words were spoken with the same misery with which one would deliver a piece of particularly devastating news.
“I gathered,” he said, shaking his head.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” she asked, her eyes slightly bugged out with incredulity.
“That you were born thirty years ago today,” he said slowly, not quite catching her drift.
“No.” She paused. “Well, yes, it means that, too. But more importantly, it means that as of today, I am officially, unequivocally, a failure.”
“I’m not following.”
She quirked a smile then, one that said she wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t keeping up.
“Stop smirking and connect the dots, Verna,” he said sharply.
She smiled a bit brighter, but the look fell away with her heaved sigh.
“I suck at life, Joe,” she said with a finality that made him want to comfort her.
“You don’t—”
“It’s okay,” she said, cutting him off. “I don’t need anyone to try to smooth it over, give me a pep talk to make me feel better. I suck at life, at everything. I’ve known it for a long, long time, but I always thought I’d get better, turn the corner, that I had more time to improve. But I’m thirty now. And as my father so definitively established, time is up.”
“What? Verna, you’re not making any sense.”
“It’s just,” she started to shrug and then stopped halfway through the motion, gave a sad little shake of her head instead, and continued, “I have nothing to show for myself. There’s nothing to justify my existence. I never finished college, or even went seriously. That car you hate so much, it was my grandmother’s before she passed. You know about the house, but I bet you didn’t know I only pay about a third of what Quinn could get on the open market, and I had to fight to even get her to take that.”
“She’s your best friend; it’s understandable that she doesn’t want to take your money.”
“Or maybe she just pities me.”
She looked so miserable his heart went out to her as he groped for words to refute her thoughts.
“Quinn loves you like a sister; she wouldn’t insult you with pity. And besides, people aren’t what they own, Verna, what degrees they have, and you shouldn’t reduce yourself to those arbitrary measures,” he said, finally settling on an approach.
She rolled her eyes and leaned back in her deck chair.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. It’s worse than I thought. You’re actually trying to make me feel better. I should just end it now.”
She put a finger to her head and pretended to shoot herself.
“Verna,” he said, his low voice making her jump and turn to look at him. “Don’t ever say that again, you hear me? Don’t even think it.”
“It was just a joke,” she said quietly.
“Not a funny one and it’s no laughing matter,” he said, voice still firm.
She nodded quickly, but he held her gaze, hopefully conveying how seriously he took the issue. After a moment, she looked away and in increments, the sudden tension faded.
“It’s just,” she said, “I’d imagined so many great things. I was going to do this and do that, follow my dreams, fall in love…” she said wistfully. “And as I drove home today, it hit me: I’m nothing. I have nothing and I am nothing.”
The words and the fierce conviction with which she said them tore at his heart. He had to wonder why he’d never noticed her deep self-loathing before, had to wonder if anyone noticed or if they, like he’d sometimes been, were thrown off the trail by her wit and abrasiveness.
“Verna, you’re not nothing. You have people who care about you, people whose lives you make a little bit brighter every day. That’s so much more than a lot of other people can say.”
She laughed, but the sound was bitter. “That’s right, I’m a little ember of goodness and light, aren’t I?”
“To the regulars at the restaurant you are. Do you think many other people take time to listen to them and make an effort to make them feel special each and every time they show up? And what about the people at the food bank who get what might be their only decent meal of the week because of what Love’s does on Wednesday nights? And if I had to bet, that was all your idea. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Pfft. That stuff’s just human, a grasping attempt not to be a complete waste of space.”
Talking to Verna had often felt like he was banging his head against a particularly thick wall, but never more so than tonight, and he was getting frustrated.
“Okay. So, explain to me, in detail, why you, who, by all accounts, is a well-liked and well-respected person, is nothing, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong. Four sentences or less. Go.”
“I lived with my parents until I was twenty-nine years old. Outside of a few business classes at the local community college, all I’ve ever done is work at a restaurant, my parents’ restaurant, a place from which I was fired, today, on my birthday, by my father, and even though I know what I want to do with my life, I’m too chickenshit to really go for it. I’m so scared of failing, I more or less had to be forced to attempt to try. Oh, and I’m a virgin.”
She said the last as if she’d delivered the deathblow, and he had to admit that he stumbled over that one. But Joe didn’t quit on a mission, and his mission now was to prove to Verna how wrong she was.
“I’m sorry, but your father is a grade-A asshole.”
She snickered. “I won’t argue with that.”
He continued. “Lots of people live with their parents for even longer than you did. There’s no shame there. In fact, the whole moving-out thing is a recent historical development. Staying with parents well into adulthood has been a norm for the majority of human history.”
“Yeah, until you get married, which is awfully hard to do when you’re a loser.”
“Don’t interrupt,” he said, mostly looking for a ploy to buy time. Verna wasn’t a loser, but he sensed he needed to be careful. Even drunk, that sharp mind of hers was intact, and he knew she’d flip his arguments right back at him if he let her get the upper hand.
“Now, as I was saying. You have that client, right?” She nodded slowly. “Great, so that’s a first step. If that’s what you want to, do it. There’s no rule that says you have to have everything figured out by a certain time. You’re still breathing, so you still have time to get what you want out of life.”
He paused and glanced away, trying to choose his words carefully before he looked back at her.
“And as for the other, you’re just a late bloomer.”
“Joe, I’m thirty. That’s not late blooming, it’s failure to bloom.”
He chuckled but quickly got himself under control.
“And besides,” he said, smoothly, or so he hoped, gliding past the derail, “it’s nice that you waited. When it finally does happen, it’ll be that much more special because you’re with the right person.”
She rolled her eyes so hard he half expected they would fall right out of her head.
“I can see it now, fifty years in the future, after my nephews have decided it’s time to put their spinster aunt someplace, I’ll find true love in the retirement home. I’ll have on my best compression stockings and everything. And if my octogenarian lover manages to live through the encounter or, imagine this, stay awake the whole time, I’ll be the happiest lady in the rec room.”
“I don’t even know how you come up with this stuff.”
“It’s not like I have better things to do,” she said with another eye roll.
“Seriously, Verna. There’s something admirable about not settling. I respect the hell out of it, actually.”
She pursed her lips and gave him a speculative stare.
“It’s nice that you admire my discernment, but we’ve gotten our wires crossed. I haven’t been pining away for the one, saving myself until I know it’s true love
. I’ve never had an offer, Joe.” She leveled a heavy stare at him. “Ever. Not at a bar, not at all the college parties I didn’t attend, the prom I didn’t go to. Never. Nada. Not once. Fuck, I’ve never even been on a date, not even a double date. And I’ve never been kissed. I mean, one time, I think this guy was beating off on the phone when I answered, but he most likely thought I was my sister. Every human alive can’t be wrong, Joe. I’m just a mess, a lame, underachieving, undesirable mess.”
“That’s progress, Verna. A minute ago, you said you were nothing, but now you’re a mess and a mess is not nothing.”
“Technically correct, I suppose,” she said around her laughter, “but only in the letter and not in the spirit.”
She chuckled quietly and then went solemn before again turning her gaze to him.
“It sucks, but it would be easier if I could just accept that I am who I am and that this is the way things will be. But I’m stubborn, and I can’t give in, even though I know doing so would make my life better.”
“You’re wrong, Verna. It would make your life so much worse. You can never stop fighting until you get what you want. And if things don’t change, it’s only because you didn’t want them to, or didn’t want it enough to fight. And I know you have fight.”
They both smiled at that.
“Now let’s get you inside,” he said, standing and then hoisting her up. “It’s getting cold out here.”
Chapter Six
Verna woke with a start and glanced over at her bedside clock.
4:32.
Shit. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late, and if she was late, the restaurant wouldn’t have biscuits for the first customers of the day. She threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. And then immediately stopped when she realized that she no longer worked at the restaurant. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she let out a deep sigh and rubbed at the throbbing ache at her temple. Memories of the previous day, her birthday, came flooding back.
Her father firing her. Getting more than a little tipsy on the deck.
Oh God, the shit she’d confessed to Joe.
She groaned and fell back on the mattress, closing her eyes tight, wishing she could convince herself that yesterday had been a dream. But it hadn’t been, and she felt the hot flush of embarrassment creeping over her body. It was bad enough that her father had basically humiliated her in front of half of Thornehill Springs, but when she thought of sitting on the deck and spilling her deepest, darkest secrets, stuff that maybe one other person on the entire planet knew, to Joe of all people, the flush of embarrassment turned to a stab that pierced her guts.
Suddenly nauseous, she rushed to the bathroom prepared to retch, but nothing came out, and after a few minutes, she stumbled back to her bedroom and buried herself under the covers, determined to stay there until she could think of a positive to yesterday’s debacle. She must have dozed off, for when she stirred, the sun shone bright behind her curtains, but she certainly didn’t feel any better, and the elusive bright side still escaped her.
Well, not entirely. Maybe her father firing her was the push she needed. He was never going to listen to her ideas or respect her as an equal, so perhaps it was time to branch out. Into what, she wasn’t entirely sure. She turned over, sighing as the ache in her head intensified, the pain probably a reflection of her sadness as much as the alcohol.
She loved making clothes for people, but there was no viable career path there. Sure, sewing for Blakely Bishop was nice and the few pieces she had at La Femme were nice, but nice wouldn’t feed her or keep a roof over her head. She closed her eyes, trying to fight against the wave of despair that threatened to overtake her.
Bursting from the swirling mass of her thoughts, Joe’s voice sprang into her head, and through the fog of her hangover and her shame, she could almost hear him speaking to her, pushing her not to be a wimp and to fight for what she thought she wanted. She’d have bet serious money that there would never be a situation where Joe MacDermid motivated her, especially not about something so profound and potentially life changing, but she’d take what inspiration she could, no matter the source. And he was right; she was no stranger to work, and if she wanted this as badly as she believed she did, she couldn’t wait for it to be handed to her. Last night, she’d lamented the state of her life, but now she had a real chance to try and change at least a part of it.
A tiny voice in her head, one that sounded far too much like her own, whispered of the risk and of the fact that she might fail, and for a moment, she retreated a bit, considering other possibilities, like finding work at another restaurant, or picking up the night shift at the Laundromat, a position she knew was notoriously difficult to keep filled. But she pushed those thoughts aside, excitement at the prospect of taking a real shot bubbling up to overtake them. She could finish the project for Blakely and then hit it hard, try to pick up another client or two, push the stuff she’d already designed and work on new stuff. A smile formed and spread across her face. She could do this, and it could work. She had some savings and a lot of time and if nothing else, she’d have fun playing designer while she got her shit together.
As for the rest…
She might have to move. Motivation notwithstanding, there was no conceivable way she could ever look Joe in the face again. Not after she’d spilled so completely, probably confirming what he’d always suspected was true. She’d give him credit though. Last night, he’d been compassionate, and not in the poor-Verna or it’s-just-Verna-being-wacky way that was as familiar as it was tiresome, but in an authentic way, like one human being relating to another. It was endearing, something she didn’t want to acknowledge, the reservoir of positive feelings she had for Joe far too full to accommodate any more, at least not without putting her emotions at risk, which wasn’t smart on the best days but which would be pure insanity with the upheaval in her life.
So she’d lay low today and hope that aliens abducted Joe and excised his memory of last night. Seemed unlikely, but she’d grasp at any straw she could, at least until she came up with some reasonable explanation that he would accept for what had come over her last night.
Two hours later, after she’d finally showered and dressed, though she had nowhere to go, there was a knock at her door. She knew who it was, and sad that she wouldn’t be able to put off seeing him any longer, she trudged over and opened it without looking in the peephole. He walked in, casting slightly worried glances at her.
“Gosh, Joe,” she said, going for the casual but direct vibe, which she amazingly managed to pull off. “You’ve never seen a drunk person before? I thought you Army guys were big drinkers.”
“Navy,” he responded. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, I had two glasses too many last night and it was nice of you to help me in, but other than that, I can’t think of any reason why I wouldn’t be completely fine.”
“So that’s the approach? You’re going to pretend you didn’t say all that stuff?”
“You’re not even going to let me indulge the fantasy that my alcohol-induced confessional wallowing either didn’t happen or fell completely out of your brain the moment you left?”
He immediately shook his head, his lips pressed in a firm line, his face set in that impassive expression that she knew meant he was not kidding, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re the worst, man.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, making her smile again. Oddly, the terrible embarrassment she’d felt when contemplating seeing him again hadn’t sprung up. Joe had always made her feel some degree of trust for him, even when she could tell he hadn’t liked her, but this was disconcerting. She should have been flustered and practically immobilized with self-loathing and shame, but this felt almost…normal.
“So…anyway,” he said, and she looked up, noticing that he’d moved closer to her. “Uh,” he said, but then he stopped, seeming to reconsider his words.
Before sh
e could ask what he’d planned to say, he leaned down and slotted his lips over hers. Then he stepped back and stared at her, but she couldn’t speak. Her heart boomed in her ears, drowning out everything but the confusion that now clouded her brain.
“You’ve officially been kissed, so mark that off your list.”
“It’s after my birthday, which means I wasn’t kissed before I turned thirty, so that doesn’t count,” she said finally, her voice sounding distant and her mind barely processing the words even as she spoke.
There was the faintest tic in his jaw, but Verna could see the laughter in his eyes. “Close enough for government work.”
She pressed her lips together and slightly closed her eyes, but her brain still wasn’t cooperating, and she couldn’t begin to fathom what had possessed him.
“Ah…Um…”
He laughed this time. “Is that all it takes to keep Verna Love quiet?” The smile that now covered his face was full and unrestrained, and it made Verna’s heart pound even harder. “It sucks that you spent your birthday alone, so let me try to make it up to you at least a little. Dinner at my place tonight?”
“Um…I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not,” he said.
“No. I’m not,” she admitted.
“So dinner at my place tonight.”
“O-okay.”
“Good. See you later.”
After he left, Verna went to the couch, still stunned by the turn of events. She had no paradigm for a world in which Joe MacDermid entered her home, kissed her on the lips, and invited her to dinner. It wasn’t a date, date or even a kiss, kiss, but still…there was no universe where that encounter should have occurred.
She spent the rest of the afternoon puzzling through what had happened, and specifically not thinking about the fact that even all these hours later she could still feel the pressure of his lips against hers. Or that she’d give anything to feel it again.
••••
“You’re being weird, Verna.”