Glass Half Full

by Rose, Katia

  “When...when did this happen?” I ask.

  “Just after I turned nineteen.”

  I do a double take. “Dylan, that was nine years ago.”

  He nods.

  “Almost a decade,” I clarify, since the information doesn’t seem to be hitting him the way it should. “You think you’re not good enough for me because of a mistake you made when you were barely more than a teenager?”

  So much for being gentle and understanding. I can’t mask my incredulity; it’s just too hard to fathom how he could actually believe that.

  “It was more than a mistake,” he replies, “and it’s not something that just goes away. My record has made so many things impossible for me. There are jobs I can’t do, places I can’t go. I’ve learned to handle it as best I can, but that was before...before you. What if one day you want something and you can’t have it because of me? It’s a mark, Renee. It’s a mark that doesn’t fade. You deserve somebody spotless.”

  I really do jump off the bench this time. “I don’t want somebody spotless!” I thrust a finger at my own chest. “I’m not spotless. No one is spotless. I don’t want somebody who’s perfect. I want somebody who’s perfect for me. And Dylan? This changes nothing about the way I’ve always seen you. You are so perfect for me.”

  This is the tipping point. This is the precipice. This is the moment he either jumps off the cliff with me or backs away from the edge. I can feel it with every bone in my body.

  “Renee...”

  I close my eyes. I wait. I don’t care how this looks or who’s staring. I just stand there, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I’m not perfect. I want to be that for you, but I’m not.”

  I can’t make him see it. It’s something he has to see for himself, and it hits me then, how futile this is. I’d keep battling if I knew it would make a difference, but this isn’t my fight. It’s his.

  “I meant every single thing I’ve said today, Dylan.” I move close enough that our knees brush as I stare down at him on the bench. “Don’t you forget a single word. You are one of the best people I know, and I do want you. Not anyone else. You. You’ve lifted me higher than I thought I could go, but I have to keep climbing. Come find me when you’re ready to start climbing too.”

  I thought the hardest thing I’d ever have to do was get on that plane in England, to finally admit defeat, to give up all those dreams and expectations and just go home.

  That’s nothing compared to how it feels to walk away from Dylan, but I do it. I put one foot in front of the other. I strain against the magnets that do their best to pull me back to him. I question every inch of distance. I wonder whether it’s the right thing for me or the right thing for him. The campus blurs around me, and I realize it’s because of the tears welling in my eyes. I let them fall, but I don’t sob. I keep walking.

  I keep climbing.

  Nineteen

  Renee

  DISSONANCE: The disruption of rhythm or harmony within a phrase, characterized by a harsh collection of sounds

  “I’m really sorry to see you go, Renee.” Monroe sets my letter of resignation aside and looks at me with genuine regret from across her desk. “You’ve been an amazing employee, and you’ve really become part of the family around here. DeeDee is going to be crushed. She’s always talking my ear off about how great you are.”

  “I’ll miss her a lot. I’ll miss everyone. I really wish things had worked out.” I pause and swallow down the lump in my throat. “Like I said, the hours just aren’t going to work with my schedule anymore. I’m really sorry to be leaving so soon after I’ve finished training.”

  Monroe shrugs. “Sometimes things are beyond our control. I appreciate you being so professional about it.”

  “Of course.”

  I’d say I lucked out avoiding Dylan today and being able to give my resignation to Monroe instead, but I haven’t seen him once during the two shifts I’ve worked since that day at McGill. Part of me hoped he’d chase after me. Part of me kept hoping he’d be there waiting the next time I turned up at the bar. That hope faded as the week went on, and the heavy weight of regret set in when I realized I couldn’t keep working at Taverne Toulouse.

  I can’t keep waiting to see him around every corner. I can’t keep bracing myself for when we eventually come face to face. I can’t spend every shift here pretending I’m fine when part of me falls apart each time I walk through the door.

  He isn’t ready for me. He isn’t ready for us. It’s as simple as that. The man I always thought was so bold and brave and charismatic has been hiding from me all week, and as much as I want to stick around and coax him out, I know that’s not my place. That’s not my job.

  Having him in my life helped me find a strength I didn’t know I had, but that strength still came from me. I found it. I would have found it whether he came along or not. I can’t find his strength for him, and I can’t stick around and force myself to watch him give up the search.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Monroe begins, pulling me back to the present, “but if there’s more of a reason behind you leaving than just your schedule, I want you to know that anything you say to me is completely confidential. Making this bar a place where employees feel safe and comfortable is one of my top priorities, and if there’s anything we can do around here to be better at achieving that, I’d like to know.”

  She watches me from across her desk, and I’m reminded, not for the first time, that nothing gets past Monroe. She’s seen more than I thought.

  The first twinges of anxiety tighten around my chest. Feeling out of control is always a trigger. I clench my hands on the edges of my chair, registering the coolness of the metal, the spongy texture of the seat.

  Something you can touch.

  It works well enough that the tightness in my chest loosens and retracts, leaving me free to breathe, to focus on the moment at hand.

  “I’ve always felt comfortable and safe here.” It’s like we’re speaking in code, and I want to get the words right. No matter how things with Dylan and I are now, I don’t want anyone, least of all Monroe, getting the wrong idea about him. “Always. I’m really grateful for that. I was...not going through such a great time when I started here, and Taverne Toulouse has really made a difference in my life, much more than I thought any part time job could. I wish I could have had more time here.”

  Monroe nods like I’ve answered her questions, both spoken and unspoken. “Me too. You’re always welcome back. We might have to fire someone, but I’m sure we’ll find a spot if you ever decide you want to give bartending another go.”

  I thank her and get up from my chair. I’ve got myself back under control, but I know I need to get out of this room now if I want to maintain it.

  “Oh, and Renee,” Monroe adds, “I appreciate the two weeks’ notice, but I’m sure you’d rather not have to stick around that long. If you just want to work until the end of this week, I’m fine with that. I’ll let Dylan know, and we’ll fix up the schedule.”

  I try to keep my face impassive at the mention of his name, but it’s futile.

  She knows. She totally knows.

  I have a feeling she’s letting me off the hook early so I don’t have to deal with two weeks of potential Dylan sightings.

  What does she think of me? Is she mad? Disappointed?

  This isn’t the time to start playing my old game of twenty thousand questions with my own brain.

  “That would be great,” I manage to reply. “Thank you so much.”

  I step out into the hallway and draw in a deep breath as soon as I’ve got the office door closed.

  I’ve handled my most daunting task of the day, but instead of feeling relieved, I get more and more edgy as my shift continues. I keep tripping over my feet, and I have to brace a hand on the bar and force a few deep breaths after I almost drop an entire tray of shot glasses on the floor.

  It’s been a while since I’ve fallen into my habit of replaying conv
ersations, of searching for moments I screwed up or said something wrong, agonizing over my mistakes and how I must have looked to other people. I can’t get Monroe and I’s chat out of my head.

  Will Dylan get fired? Did I only get off easy because she’s putting the blame on him?

  I kept trying to convince myself that us being together wouldn’t have serious consequences, but now I’m not sure, and that just makes me wonder what else I’m not sure about.

  Was I right to just walk away?

  I wipe a wet rag over the already clean bar top, tracing frantic circles as the questions keep swirling in my mind.

  Should I have stayed? Should I have fought for this?

  I’m still at war with myself by the time the end of my shift rolls around. I was on for the afternoon shift today, so it’s only seven in the evening when I punch out. I take the bus back to Rosemont, tapping my fingers against my bag the whole way home.

  Both my parents are at some dinner tonight, and my sister is out god knows where doing god knows what, so I come home to an empty house. Usually I’d be grateful for the quiet, but tonight it’s the last thing I want. It makes it far too easy to think.

  I haven’t had a full-blown anxiety attack since the alleyway at Taverne Toulouse. I don’t know why I thought they’d stopped—I’ve accepted that my anxiety is part of me, and this is, after all, part of my anxiety—but I guess I was hoping I had more control.

  There’s no control in the way I grip the edge of the kitchen sink, letting my head drop forward as my breaths get more and more shallow. I hear the all too familiar rushing sound in my ears, and I know then that this is happening. My only choice is to ride it out.

  My stomach churns and my mouth goes dry as the hyperventilating starts. Everything is blurry. I stay hunched over the sink until my knees start to feel weak, and I let myself slide to the floor. I flop over on my side and pull my legs into my chest, curling myself into a tight ball as I continue to gasp for air.

  I hate this. I hate this. I fucking hate this.

  “Renee?” My name sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “Oh my god, Renee!”

  I lift my head and find my sister rushing across the kitchen to kneel beside me. She stares down at me with panic on her face, and then I watch her swallow and shift her features into an expression I’ve never seen on her before.

  “Renee, it’s me. It’s Michelle,” she says gently. My sister has never spoken gently to me in her life. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  I’m almost shocked enough to snap out of my panic right there and then. She looks compassionate. She looks loving. She looks like she’s not moving off this kitchen floor until she knows I’m all right.

  “I’m gonna put my hand on your arm now, okay?” she asks. “Is that all right?”

  I’m still hyperventilating way too hard to speak, but I nod. She puts her hand on my shoulder and starts to rub up and down my bicep.

  “Do you remember that park we used to go to when we were little?” she asks. “They had those horses you sit on that are attached to the big springs. I don’t what they’re called, but you know what I’m talking about. You sit on them and you kind of rock back and forth and stuff. You remember those?”

  I nod again. I can picture them so clearly. They were always the first thing we ran to when Mom or Dad took us to the park.

  “And I always wanted the pink one,” Michelle continues, “but one day you got on it first, and I tried to push you off. Do you remember what happened?”

  Even in the midst of an anxiety attack, the memory makes me let out a sound that’s as close to a laugh as I can get.

  “I went flying,” Michelle describes. “I don’t know how it happened, but I like, rebounded off the springing action and flew across the park. I landed on some cement. I don’t know why the hell they had cement right there, but I got so scraped up. Dad had to carry me home, and I was screaming and crying the whole time. It took forever to get me cleaned up. Then we had to put the bandages on, and...”

  She trails off and chuckles to herself. My memory of that day stops at the part where she flew across the park. I didn’t know there was more to the story.

  “I guess you and I had both gotten to pick out the Band-Aids the last time we bought new ones. I got some princess ones and you got some with kittens on them, and me, being the brat I was, decided I really wanted the kitten ones that day. I remember dad saying, ‘You tried to take Renee’s horse. Now you want her Band-Aids. I know you’re hurt, baby, but maybe there’s something to learn here.’ Then you came in the bathroom. You didn’t say anything. You just took the kitten Band-Aids off the counter and started sticking them all over my arms and legs. I think you used the whole box. Dad just stood there. Then you gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked back out of the room to go watch TV.”

  Michelle goes silent, and I realize I’m not gasping anymore. She’s still stroking my arm, her eyes unfocused as they stare at the floor.

  “I did learn a lesson that day,” she says quietly. “Not the one dad was talking about, though. I was probably only five-years-old, but I remember looking at you putting those kitten Band-Aids on my knees and thinking, so clearly, ‘This is what it means to be a sister.’”

  Another moment of silence passes. I push myself up so I’m sitting next to her and grab her hand just as she drops it off my shoulder.

  “I miss you,” I whisper. My voice trembles, but I can speak now. “I miss you, Michelle.”

  “I miss you too, Renee.”

  Her voice breaks, and in the next second we have our arms around each other. She starts to sniffle, and then we’re both crying, trying and failing to hold back the tears as we clutch one another.

  “I don’t even know what happened,” Michelle admits in a wobbly voice. “It’s like one day there was this gap between us, and it just kept getting bigger. Then you went away, and I know you always planned on going. I know it wasn’t about me, but for some reason I felt so abandoned. It shouldn’t have made me happy that you had to come back, but part of me was, and I felt guilty about that, and then all your...your anxiety stuff happened, and I wanted to help you. I really did, Renee. I just didn’t know how. I didn’t even know if you wanted help, and we’d always end up fighting. Not that that’s your fault. It’s mine. I guess it just...It seemed easier to stay distant.”

  “Hey.” Now it’s me rubbing my hands along her arms. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, okay? It’s been both of us. I could have tried harder too. I had no idea you felt abandoned. I was pretty wrapped up in myself. I could have listened more. I could have been nicer.”

  Michelle scoffs. “I’m the bratty little sister. I could have been nicer.”

  “We both could have been nicer,” I amend. “Thank you for...for being here tonight. You really helped.”

  “Did something...happen?” she asks tentatively, like she’s afraid it’s the wrong question. “Or did you just...”

  “Curl up into a ball on the kitchen floor for no reason?”

  We both laugh. Our arms fall away from each other, and we lean our backs against the cupboard behind us, sitting cross-legged side by side.

  “Sometimes that does happen,” I admit. “Sometimes it feels like there’s no reason for it at all. Today, though...I’ve had a lot going on. I haven’t had an epi—I mean an attack in a while, but today I guess I met my match.”

  Michelle nudges my foot with hers. She’s still got her shoes on, which means she must have run into the kitchen as soon as she stepped through the front door.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. “We don’t have to. We can if you want.”

  I’d laugh at her hesitancy if I wasn’t so touched by it. Now that the immediate threat of me dying on the kitchen floor is over, she seems much less sure of herself.

  “Well,” I begin, “there’s this guy...”

  “Oh shit.” Michelle instantly perks up, a devious glint appearing in her eyes. “This just got way m
ore interesting.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I deadpan.

  “Whoops, sorry.” She at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Not that you’re not interesting, but like, a guy? I didn’t think we’d be talking about a guy. Does he work at your bar?”

  “He’s, uh...well he was kind of, sort of my boss.”

  “RENEE!”

  And that’s how I get the whole story out, sitting on the tiles of the kitchen floor with my little sister. She squeals and claps her hands a few times as I’m talking and even slaps my arm once as she calls me a ‘saucy hoe,’ but mostly she sits in silence and listens to me pour my heart out to her in a way I never have before. I skirt around the details surrounding Dylan going to prison—that’s his story to share, not mine—but other than that, I don’t hold back.

  “So now I’m unemployed and heartbroken, I guess,” I finish lamely.

  “Um, Renee.” Michelle narrows her eyes at me. “You are not heartbroken, girl. You are way too much of a badass bitch to be heartbroken over this. This guy literally hid from you. He could not even show his face at the place where he’s a manager and face you. Why would you be heartbroken over that? Onwards and upwards, sister.”

  “I know it’s not his finest moment,” I agree, “but I also know he can be so much better than this. I can tell he has it in him to be a much better version of himself, and even if that version doesn’t include me, I really want it for him.”

  “Yeah, but like you said,” Michelle counters, “he has to want it for himself.”

  “I know.” I groan dramatically. “I know that.”

  She pats my arms and lets me lean on her shoulder for a moment.

  “I really fucking miss him,” I whisper. “That’s the hardest part of this. I miss him so much.”

  “I know.” Michelle puts her arm around me. “I know.”

  The tears threaten to fall again. Just when I’m in danger of full-on sobbing, Michelle seems to get an idea.