The book reminds him it’s there, in his hand. He glances down at it without slowing his stride.
I will love you until the day I die.
This time, when the words echo in his mind, it is no longer Lisa speaking. It’s Bree Harper’s voice instead.
And then suddenly, there she is.
As he crosses the street toward the sign advertising Jerry’s, he sees a woman standing in front of the coffee shop waiting for someone.
Him, she’s waiting for him.
It’s her.
SIX
He is nearly upon her before she notices him.
In a pleasantly hopeful tone she asks, “Dignon?”
“Ms. Harper?” Dignon holds the book up in evidence.
“Bree, please, call me Bree—hi!” Her dark coat is long and buttoned tight against the cold, a woolen scarf is bundled about her neck, and a black leather purse is slung over her shoulder. She offers a gloved hand, the mist from her breath partially obscuring her face. “Thanks so much for doing this, I really appreciate it. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
He takes her hand. The leather glove is soft but cold. “Not at all.” Dignon clears his throat in an attempt to shake off his nerves, and with his free hand, passes her the book.
“Awesome, thanks.” Bree glances at the book then resumes eye contact. She is only an inch or two shorter than Dignon, but has boots on, black leather, knee-high ones with fairly substantial heels. There is a disarming air of confidence about her, but not a shred of arrogance. Her salon hairdo, a short, just to the base of her neck razor cut combed straight down in front to the tops of her eyebrows and flared out along the sides of her face, along with her clothes and general sense of fashion suggest she may not be wealthy, but she’s certainly not poor like he is either. “You know, I’m still trying to figure out how it ended up at the park. I must’ve lost it and—”
“Yeah, maybe someone else found it and left it there. It was just sitting on a bench when I found it.” A spasmodic smile jerks across his face. Even in the cold, he can smell her perfume. It’s very feminine but not overpowering like many fragrances are. Instead, it captivates him like a narcotic. Dignon breathes it—her—in. “Like I said on the phone, I thought you might want it back since you had your name in there and all.”
She smiles, revealing beautiful teeth behind equally tantalizing lips covered in a glossy pink lipstick that gives them the look of being perpetually moist. It is difficult to gauge her age, she could easily be anywhere from late twenties to middle thirties. “I probably shouldn’t do that, you never know today, right? Luckily you found it and not some deranged serial killer!” She belts out the same contagious laughter he heard on the phone. “Look, can I—I mean I feel like I should—can I buy you a cup of coffee or cocoa or something?” She angles a thumb at the coffee shop behind them. “We’re here, we might as well.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I’d like to.” Magnificent violet eyes, encircled in black, widen innocently. “OK?”
Dignon stands there smiling like an imbecile. Say something, you ass!
“Come on, it’s the least I can do,” she insists. “Besides, it’s freezing out here.”
“OK,” he finally hears himself say. “Thanks.”
Once inside, they are met by a welcoming blanket of heat. Bree Harper crosses the room with a confident and deliberate stride, a bounce in her step. Dignon follows, self-consciously looking around enough to notice several glances from other patrons. Few fail to notice her, and some even stare without attempting subtlety. He lowers his eyes and continues on until they find a small table near the front window. A college-age woman appears instantly and takes their order. Bree orders for them, asking for two medium hot chocolates with whipped cream. The shop is packed, and the buzz of conversation nearly drowns out the soft acoustic guitar arrangements playing from flat circular speakers installed in the ceiling. The entire place basks in the aroma of numerous coffees and teas.
As Bree removes her coat and lets it lay over the back of her chair, Dignon realizes he has never sat down in Jerry’s. He’s been here many times over the years, but has always gone straight to the counter, ordered and left.
“It’s really hopping tonight, huh?” she says, peeling off her gloves.
“Yeah, it’s usually busy in here.” A maelstrom of emotions fire through him all at once. She’s amazing, as enchanting as he knew she’d be, beautiful, funny, smart, and completely out of his league. A woman like this would never see him as a romantic interest, it wouldn’t even occur to her in any serious context, and now he wishes he’d never allowed himself to think she might.
“Have you lived in town long?” she asks.
“Long time, yes.”
“Are you from here originally?”
“I was born in Monroe, a little town about half an hour from here. I moved to New York City for a while back in my early twenties, but that didn’t last long and I moved back. I settled here and I’ve lived here ever since.” Easy, take it easy. Don’t ramble on and on, it was a simple question. “What about you?”
“Actually, I just moved here a year ago,” she tells him. “I was an Army brat growing up. We lived all over the place. I’ve had wanderlust ever since.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“Sometimes it was. Just when I’d get used to one place and make friends and know my way around school and whatnot, my father would get stationed somewhere else and off we’d go. In a sense it was a good experience because I’d seen most of the world by the time I was sixteen or so, but in other ways it made for a difficult life, you know? I was never able to put roots down anywhere. And with what I do now I still can’t.”
Answer her. Say something witty, you stupid bastard. “Roots are overrated.”
Bree raises her eyebrows, as if she isn’t sure she heard him correctly. Then another spectacular smile spreads across her face. “You may be right on that one, Dignon.”
He loves the sound of his name coming from her lips. “So, you still move around a lot then?”
The waitress returns, delivers the hot chocolates and moves away. Bree holds the Styrofoam cup with both hands. “Yeah, it’s in my blood, I suppose. I must be part gypsy or something.” She laughs.
Dutifully, Dignon laughs too. “What do you do?”
“I’m an administrative coordinator. Adult Ed, GED and English-as-A-Second-Language are my areas of expertise. It’s a government gig, I go to various programs throughout the country, help them set up local offices in conjunction with state and federal programs, oversee them until everything is in place and running properly and then it’s off to the next town.” She raises the cup to her mouth and takes a cautious sip. “Wow, that’s hot.”
Dignon glances at his. “How long do you think you’ll be here?”
“It’s hard to say for sure. Depends on how the program comes together.” Returning the cup to the table, she sits back, and with her index finger, casually slides a renegade strand of hair from the side of her face. In the bright light of the shop, her brown hair sports considerable ginger highlights. “What do you do?”
He draws a deep breath. “I’m between jobs right now, but I worked for Tech Metropolis for years.”
“Oh, I love that place. They have so many neat toys.”
“Yeah,” he smiles gratefully. “I was in the shipping and delivery department over there and—anyway—there was a problem and I’m on a leave right now.”
“Leave?”
He fidgets a bit. Stay calm, just breathe and talk to her. “There was an incident with my partner and…he was killed.”
“He wasn’t the guy who was shot, was he?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God,” she says, a hand to her mouth. Her fingers are slender; the nails professionally manicured and painted a shade of pink that matches her lipstick. “You’re the guy who worked with him and was there when it happened? That was you?�
�
“Afraid so.”
“I remember when that happened. I read about it in the paper, saw the reports on TV.”
Distant memories of the shotgun clicking empty remind him he will never have the luxury of forgetting that sound. He shrugs, unsure of what to do.
“I’m so sorry.” Bree reaches across the small table and touches his hand. “He was killed right in front you, wasn’t he?”
Her touch sends chills through him. The tension is gone. “Yeah, he was.”
“You poor thing, that must’ve been awful.” Her fingers gently pat the back of his hand. “Is that guy still locked up, I hope?”
“He’s in a psychiatric hospital.”
She sighs, sits back and takes her hand with her. “That wasn’t very tactful on my part, was it? Obviously it’s a very traumatic thing for you, I should’ve—God—sometimes I should just learn to shut up.”
“It’s OK, you didn’t know.” He somehow finds the courage to look her dead in the eye. “It’s behind me now anyway. I just haven’t figured out yet what I want to do from here.”
“Well it’s probably best that you take your time and put some distance between yourself and all that. Such a tragedy, I’m so sorry I got us into this, I—”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing, it’s OK, really.” Dignon picks up his hot chocolate and drinks some. It burns his mouth but he swallows it anyway. He notices Mythical Beings in a Mortal World on the table to Bree’s right. “That’s a really interesting book.”
“Did you read it?”
“Not exactly, but I scanned through it and—”
“Oh God,” she says suddenly, her eyes turned to the front window next to them and the street beyond. “I do not need this tonight.”
Dignon sees a man standing in the front window glaring at them, his jacket hanging open despite the cold. He is unshaven and looks wildly agitated, his dark hair mussed, like he just rolled out of bed. He appears to be about Dignon’s age, perhaps a few years younger.
“Sorry, but I better go.” Bree pushes her cup of cocoa away and slinks back into her coat. “It was really nice meeting you and thanks again for returning the book.”
“OK,” he says meekly. “Are you—is everything all right?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” she says, standing. “We broke up and he isn’t taking it well.”
The man points through the glass at Dignon and says something, but his voice is muffled through the window. “He looks really mad.” Brilliant analysis, you idiot, do something. “Is he, I mean, is there going to be a problem or—”
“It’ll be fine.” Bree smiles again, though nervously this time as she collects her gloves and pulls them on. She gives the man in the window a dirty look then slings her purse over her shoulder and refocuses on Dignon. “I really need to go. I don’t want him coming in here and causing a scene. Take care, OK?”
“You too.”
She turns and leaves, moving quickly through the throng of tables. Dignon watches as Bree and the man move past the front window. They begin to argue.
Dignon pulls his coat on, tosses a dollar tip on the table and realizes Bree left the book behind. He scoops it up and hurries out after them, but the frigid temperature sobers him immediately. What the hell are you doing? This is none of your business, stay out of it.
The man’s voice echoes up the street. Dignon follows them, sticking close to the building until he sees them stopped at the next block. The man flails his arms around dramatically as he screams at her, but Dignon can only make out every third or fourth word. A few people slow their pace and glance at the couple but the man continually flashes them angry smirks and everyone moves on. When Bree turns away from him and waves a hand at him dismissively, the man grabs her by the arm none-too-gently and jerks her around so that she’s facing him again.
Dignon walks quickly across the street to the next block. “Excuse me, Ms. Harper?” he calls, holding the book up so she and the man can both clearly see it. “Ms. Harper?”
They turn in unison and look at him.
“Ms. Harper, you forgot your book.”
Bree nervously looks back and forth between Dignon and the man.
The man squares his shoulders and positions himself between Bree and Dignon. “You need to get out of here, pal. Just turn around and go the other way, you got it?”
Ignoring him, Dignon leans to the side a bit so he can make eye contact with Bree. “You forgot your book.”
“Thank you,” she says, but as she tries to push past the man and take it, he blocks her path.
“Stay away from her,” the man snaps.
“Kyle, stop it.” She looks to Dignon. “Thank you, it’s OK, I’m—I’m OK.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine, just—”
“Hey!” The man steps closer. “You hear me, dipshit?”
“My name’s Dignon,” he says, hopeful his fear hasn’t manifested in his voice.
“What the hell kind of faggot name is that?”
“Leave him alone, Kyle.”
“You shut the fuck up,” he snaps, pointing a finger at Bree. “What do you think, she’s gonna be your girlfriend? Is that what you think, you poor pathetic lard-ass?”
Bree shakes her head helplessly. “For God’s sake, stop it.”
“Look, we just met,” Dignon says, showing him the book. “I have a book of hers and—”
“Get out of here.” The man moves so close their faces nearly touch. “Go.”
“It’s OK, Dignon,” Bree tells him, her face flushed. “Just do what he says, it’s OK, really. I’m so sorry about all this.”
Everything in his being tells him to run, to get the hell out of there and to mind his own business. But he stands his ground.
“Are you deaf?” Kyle snorts at him like a bull. “Get out of here.”
“You don’t have to threaten me, it’s—it’s not necessary, OK?”
“If I was threatening you, you’d know it.”
Dignon drops his hands to his sides so the man won’t see them shaking. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks Bree. “I can call somebody if—”
“You got no idea who you’re fucking with. Get moving while you still can.” Kyle stabs a finger against Dignon’s collarbone with such force it knocks him off balance. “One day you’ll thank me.”
Through the pain firing across his shoulder, Dignon sees in this man everyone who has ever made fun of him or bullied and pushed him around. But he hasn’t been in a fistfight since elementary school, and he lost that one decisively. This man is physically fit and looks as if he knows how to handle himself in a brawl. Dignon’s heart pounds and he feels a bit lightheaded. “I don’t want any trouble, but I—”
“Go home, Kyle.” Bree steps between them, her back to Dignon. “Please. Please, just go home.”
He stares at her for a long while then glares over her shoulder at Dignon. His face contorts in frustration and rage unlike any Dignon has ever before seen. “I fucking warned you,” he says, spitting the words at him. “You’re gonna be sorry you didn’t listen, fat boy.”
Kyle turns and storms off. He does not look back, but when he reaches the next block he breaks into a full run, his coat flapping behind him in the winter wind.
“Are you all right?” Dignon asks. He feels ridiculous, she had to save him.
“I’m absolutely mortified, but I’ll live.” Bree frowns. “He must’ve followed me here. Kyle has some rather serious anger issues.”
“You think?”
She laughs, and Dignon feels useful again. “I can’t believe he did that.”
He looks down the street. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
“I doubt it.”
“Maybe I should—do you want me to walk you home?”
“Oh, that’s sweet, thanks, but it’s not necessary.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“I’ll be OK.”
Before he can say anything
else, Bree leans in and kisses him on the cheek. It is such a quick gesture he nearly misses it. The lingering feeling of her lips on his face is all he has to hang on to.
“Take care,” she says, “hope we see each other again some time.”
Dignon nods, speechless.
It isn’t until she’s crossed the street and is out of sight that he realizes Mythical Beings in a Mortal World is still clutched in his hand.
SEVEN
Before Dignon reaches his apartment, he notices Nikki sitting on her steps next door, absently smoking a cigarette while watching his approach. Her duster is draped over her shoulders like it’s been tossed there from above, and her spiked hair juts out from various angles, thorny colors even more vivid at night. She offers a less than enthusiastic wave. “Hey.”
“Hi.” As he slowly climbs the steps to his building he realizes she’s still wearing the boots. “How’s it going?”
She crosses her legs at the knee, pushes her bottom lip out and expels a stream of cigarette smoke into the air. “It’s going.”
“Are you OK?”
“Peachy.”
“Good, you didn’t hurt yourself earlier then?”
Nikki rolls her black veiled eyes. “OK, so like, did every fucking living being on the eastern seaboard see me fall on my face today, or what?”
“Sorry, I just—I’m glad you’re OK, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” she says begrudgingly. “Here’s hoping I pull through.”
He looks at his hands. Lights from Mrs. Rogo’s tree bleed through the front window and stain his flesh with multihued swaths. There is something troubling about this. “OK, well, goodnight then.”
“Hey…” Nikki points at him with what’s left of the cigarette. “Sorry, what is it again? Dabney?”
“Dignon.”
“Right, Dignon. I scraped my hand and wrist pretty bad, but I’m OK. It was nice of you to give a shit. I didn’t mean to be a bitch, it’s just my nature. Don’t take it personally.” She takes a final pull on the cigarette then flicks it out onto the sidewalk. “Looks like you’ve got a little boo-boo there yourself.”
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