by Britney King
It’s the first intelligent thing he’s said. But he’s wrong. Sometimes you do have to help it along. Alternatively, sometimes, and as luck would have it, in his case, you decide to just let it be.
“Turn around.”
He does as I ask. But first, I see the confusion on his face. It’s mixed with a bit of terror. He isn’t completely convinced I won’t put a bullet in the back of his head. It’s better this way.
I wait for a second just to make sure he continues to face the opposite direction. When I’m reasonably confident he’s going to comply, I remind him one last time. “Stay.” I start backward, carefully, meticulously, toward the safety of my car.
He scoffs. He’s not used to being told what to do. This is how it all starts. If only parents could press a fast-forward button, if they could see into the future, then this kid might’ve had a chance. Now, karma is going to work itself out, and in his case, it’s just a matter of time.
“Eyes straight ahead,” I remind him once I’ve reached my car. I don’t want him getting a look at my license plate. I’ve scared him. But probably not enough. Retribution can be a bitch. I should know.
That’s why I was here in the first place.
Chapter Two
Izzy
Two months before that...
I notice them straight away. Ironically, it’s her that catches my eye first. Not because she is the same as the rest of them, but because she is different. I’m serving up my ten-thousandth non-fat, no whip, ridiculous flavored, over-priced latte of the day when I look up and the clouds part. Sunlight comes pouring in, and I swear if I believed in angels, I could hear them singing. As perfect as the two of them might be. She seems to sense that I am looking, and she smiles, almost shyly, although I’d be willing to bet she isn’t that shy at all. She meets my eye and then quickly looks away, toward the man standing to her left. I hadn’t quite taken him in, but I do then. Maybe this is what makes her different. She makes others see what she wants them to see. She meets my eye, and again she smiles. I’m pretty sure I do hear angels this time. Or maybe it’s just the Alanis Morissette song screaming at us over the sound system. I straighten my apron. She sees me. The others around here— they never do. For them, I’m just a means to an end, someone to dish out their fix. She meets my eye again, briefly, and I can see it’s not like that with her.
When she finally gets up to the counter to place her order, I can tell I’m right by the way her hand flies to her throat as she scans the offering. She isn’t sure what she wants; she’s not a regular like the majority of women on this side of town.
“Can I help you?” I ask, and this time she doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the menu, tracing her collarbone lightly with the tips of her perfect fingers, and it’s striking how someone so beautiful could be so unsure of herself.
The man looks over at her, waiting for her to speak, much the same way I am. She’s someone it seems like the whole world might be waiting on. He studies her too. The expression he wears is so intimate it almost causes me to look away. Almost. She’s wearing a sleeveless, summer dress and sandals, her striking fire-red hair pulled neatly into a ponytail. And not the lazy kind, like a lot of women sport these days. No, not her. She doesn’t have a single hair out of place. Although, I’m sure she could pull off the lazy kind if she wanted to.
I grip the towel hanging from my apron and take a deep breath in. Get it together, Izzy. I realize then how ridiculous I must look in comparison. Her eyes shift toward the door before settling back on me. His never do. He’s still staring at her. I can’t remember the last time a man looked at me that way, or rather maybe I do, and it’s safe to say it’s been a long time. Maybe this is why when he offers to tip extra well, if only I’ll make his wife an Americano, which isn’t on our menu, I say yes. Or maybe it’s the fact that I desperately need the money. Maybe it’s because it feeds the rage inside me, the way rich people think they can dole out dollars like breadcrumbs to those of us who are less fortunate in order to get what they want. I need to feed that rage, particularly now; it’s the only thing that gets me out of bed most days.
She places her hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” she says, and her voice is heavenly. I wonder if they have training for that sort of perfection. She smiles at me. She’s not dumb. She knows the whole world rests on her next move. “Give me a sec—” she adds with a squeeze of his forearm, and I’d give her forever if I were him. I can’t take my eyes off her. Neither can he. I watch as she presses her lips together, and it could be one of the most stunning things I’ve ever seen. “I’ll figure something else out,” she says scanning the menu. She doesn’t say it condescendingly, the way most women in her position would. When she speaks it’s genuine, like she doesn’t want to cause any trouble. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by me— and not by him either. The truth is, big tip or not, rage or no rage, I knew I’d make her that Americano for the simple fact there was no other choice. I wanted to see her happy. She seems like the kind of person who only knows happiness in her core. But there’s more, too, more than meets the eye, this I can see. She seems like the kind of woman who demands more of a person. Like your standards raise just by being in her presence. Like she’ll make you better by osmosis.
Her husband clears his throat, and it gets my attention. “You heard the girl, Jos—she said she’d do it.”
“It’s no problem,” I admit, and her eyes meet mine.
She offers a faint smile, closes the menu before opening it once again. Patrons behind them are hemming and hawing and that’s the thing about this side of town. No one waits for anything.
Then she looks up. “Don’t worry,” she quips. There’s a gleam in her eye when she speaks. “I won’t ask for a sandwich, too.”
It seems like an odd thing to say, but I understand what she means; we aren’t yet serving lunch, and she doesn’t care what people think. I take it for what it is: a sign. She gets me. She has a dark sense of humor packaged beneath that sunny act; it’s clear as day.
I watch the two of them from my periphery as I wait for the espresso to brew. He whispers something in her ear, and she throws her head back and laughs. Her neck stretches all the way, as far as I think it will go, and I can’t help myself, I’d like to find out. It’s pale and beautiful, elongated and slim. Half of me wants to reach out and choke her; it isn’t fair to be that perfect and happy, and the other half wants something else entirely. He leans in closer then, and I can see she’s a siren, silently claiming her prey. When he nuzzles her, it’s too much—I have to look away. Only I can’t. I can’t stop watching.
His phone rings, and she gives him a look. He checks the screen and silences the ringer, like any good husband would. Like mine should have done, but didn’t.
The machine finishes. I prepare her drink slowly, slower than I normally would, because I can see that a woman like her demands a slow, careful, delicate kind of love. Also, I’m not ready for this encounter to be over. I’m not ready for them to leave. I imagine inserting myself into their lives for all of eternity. I picture Christmases and birthdays together, and then feel outrage that there really are couples like them that exist in the world. I hadn’t wanted it to be true, and yet here they are— living, breathing proof that not only am I a failure, but also wrong.
Eventually, the line backs up, and when it reaches the door, I have no choice but to hand the coffee over. When I do, my elbow accidentally bumps the plastic tip jar, knocking it over onto the floor. I watch in slow-motion as the change hits the concrete floor, bouncing around, taking forever to settle. Everyone's eyes are on the money. Mine too, only I rush around the counter to clean up the mess. By the time I get around to the other side, she’s already crouched down collecting coins. It’s odd seeing her there, picking up nickels and dimes in such a fancy dress. That dress alone probably cost what I make in an entire month. Including gratuity.
I realize as I collect the spare change no one wants that I could never compete with the likes of that.
After all, I have a safety pin holding my bra together where the clasp is supposed to be. She has manicured nails and flawless skin. Someone like her would never like someone like me. It brings to mind everything that’s wrong in the world, the unfairness of it all. “I’ve got this,” she says glancing up. Instantly, my thoughts turn to Joshua. I’ve got this. My eyes grow wide. “It’s okay,” she assures me, shuffling coins back into the jar. “Accidents happen.”
I barely hear her. I’m slipping, I’m drowning, and she’s somewhere far off, her voice too distant to reach me. I know what comes next. The tunnel. I’m sinking, I’m going under, and I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way out. It’s like I’m Alice, and I’m choosing the rabbit hole when all I really want to do is stay here with her. My palms grow sweaty, my head buzzes, and if there was anything in my stomach, we’d have a bigger issue on our hands.
I can see her mouth moving, she is speaking, and she’s speaking to me. But I don’t know what she is saying. Joshua. No. Please. I blink rapidly. This is what my life has become; this is what my life will always be. That’s what my doctor says—he says it may never get better, and suddenly I’m paralyzed, unable to move. My vision blurs. I’m fading…I’m going…I’m giving in.
She stands and brushes her hands on her thighs. She calls my name. Her voice is like butter, no— better than butter—what’s better than butter, I hear Josh ask— and no, it’s not like butter. It’s pure silk. Izzy, she calls again, and my name on her lips— it’s too much. My name. How does she know my name?
“Izzy,” she says again. Her voice is calm and firm, and this time she comes into focus. Her head is cocked, but her neck is all I see. Her collarbone catches my eye. Smooth and pink, rounded and perfect. She’s staring at my name tag, and when I look up, I notice nothing but the concerned look on her face.
It takes a few moments, maybe eternity. But she brings me back. No one could ever do that. Not even Josh. “Sorry,” I offer, glancing away. I clear my throat and smooth my shirt, cursing myself for not making more of an effort. “I have low blood sugar.”
As I collect myself, her husband hands me the jar. I stare at him for a second. He seems to want to say something, but he doesn’t, and I retreat to my rightful position on the other side of the counter. People in line are complaining like I can’t hear them, acting impatient and rude at being denied their overpriced coffee bought in bulk and dressed up in fancy, chemical-laced syrup. They’re ridiculous, the lot of them; they’re everything that’s wrong with society today.
But not her. And not him either. They’re patient and kind. Everything love should be.
“Here,” she tells me, thrusting the Americano in my direction. “Maybe you need this more than I do.”
I stare at the coffee in her hand. I don’t drink coffee. And I don’t have low blood sugar.
“Maybe you should sit down,” the man says. “Is there anyone here that could cover for you?”
I shake my head.
“I see,” he says, pushing the tip jar further on to the counter. He’s making a point. I move it back slightly too. Better safe than sorry. His hand brushes mine, and I look up then. His eyes are green, and in them I don't see anything. Not a worry— not a concern—not a care in the world. And all I know is those are the kind of eyes I'd like to have.
I look up at her. She presses her lips together, thanks me for the coffee and starts for the door, before turning back. “It can only get better from here,” she smiles, tilting her coffee in my direction. He doesn’t say anything; he simply offers a curt nod before placing his hand on the small of her back. I look on as he leads her out the same door they came in. I’m not the only one. I hear the hushed whispers. I don’t, however, hear what’s being said. It’s no matter, anyhow. She doesn’t walk back out into the great big world, she glides, taking all of the air in the room with her when she goes.
I count to four and then I go to the window. I watch as they make their way down the sidewalk, away from me. Away from hard work and sacrifice. Just like that, they’re gone. Gone as quickly as they came, and I wasn’t ready for it to be over yet.
When they disappear from my line of sight, it takes everything in me not to open that door and run down the street, just to catch another glimpse of what true love looks like. Instead, I lay my forehead against the cool glass, exhaling long and slow, before I turn back to the patrons standing in line. I get back to it. I make coffees. I ring people up. I play catch up. But my heart’s not in it. Neither is my mind, really. Questions run through my mind; it’s a marathon in there. I want to know what you have to do to get a love like that. I want to know how she managed to get him under her spell, and me too, for that matter. I want to know how she does it, how she makes it look so effortless in the process.
I plan to find out. In the meantime, I adjust my apron, which allows me the briefest of moments to reminisce, and then I do the thing I knew I’d do from the moment her eyes met mine. I write the name on his credit card on my palm—Grant Dunn—just in case it slips my mind, even though I know it won’t.
Chapter Three
Josie
“You know the rules, Jos—.”
“I know,” I tell him. Let no man or woman come between what God has created. I don’t tell him I accepted those rules when I was young, pliable, and hopelessly in love. What good would it do? I may no longer be the former but I can’t say with absolution that I’m not the latter. “It’s just…well, I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have talked her into it…”
He looks over at me and smiles. It's the reassuring kind, the kind he's best known for these days.
“But it was your job. You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”
I take a deep breath in, and I hold it. He’s right. I can’t fault him for all of it, even though I desperately want to.
He makes a left turn, hard and fast. I slide across the leather seat, shifting more than I mean to. “I think you’re overreacting,” he tells me calmly. “I checked the calendar this morning, in preparation, and you’re on cycle day 22. So—” he says, patting my knee. “A little emotional upheaval is to be expected.”
I clear my throat. Even after all this time, years spent with a person, sharing their bed, sharing a life, sometimes you see a thing coming and sometimes you don’t.
“What’s done is done, Josie. Premenstrual or not, do I really need to remind you of the agreement?”
Never second guess a decision once it’s been made.
“No,” I admit “It’s just nerves, you know. I hate to think there is more we could be doing.”
I watch his jaw tighten, flex, and release. I watch his knuckles go from pink to white as he grips the wheel, and I know that was the wrong thing to say. Lying is a punishable offense under the agreement he’s referring to. So I tiptoe around the truth instead. “I’m sure she’s in good hands.”
“She’ll be fine,” he says. I study his profile. He doesn’t look worried. Maybe I shouldn’t, either. “Anyway, it’s out of our control at this point. All we can do is pray,” he adds, repositioning his hands on the wheel. He stretches his fingers, and then glances toward me. He’s looking to see that I’m on board, and on his face I see it. The calm, in-control mask goes up. “And in any case, she probably won't be there long. Once they treat the infection, she’ll be good as new.”
“I know,” I assure him. I know when to give him what he wants.
He stares straight ahead. “Sometimes these things happen…”
“You're right,” I reply, not because I necessarily believe him but because I know there's nothing more to be said. My husband has that way about him. He’s an expert at letting you know when the conversation is over, without ever having to say so. I don’t tell him how guilty I feel over the whole thing. June was—June is— my friend. I mean, not the real kind. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those. She’s my Sister In God, my mentor, both New Hope terms, but still. She didn’t want that surgery. Her husband wanted it. She t
old me it wouldn’t go well. She knew. But given our friendship, given that she was my mentor, it was my job to talk her into doing what her husband said. Checks and balances.
“I’m going to drop you off,” Grant informs me, interrupting my thoughts. He says it so casual and cool. Always so cool. “I have to head to the office.”
“The office?” I say as though it’s some crazy, far-fetched idea.
“Should I pick up dinner on my way home?” he asks, and this is his way of not answering my question directly. He’s very skilled at a lot of things, evasion being high on the list.
I shift in my seat. “You're going into work today?” It's a stupid question, one that he’s already answered, in typical fashion, by presenting another question. So, I don't know why I asked, or why my voice raises, turns high-pitched and needy, which is exactly why he gives me the side-eye. I take it for what it is, a warning.
I swallow hard. Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. I should have known better. On all fronts. Grant is married to his work, so why I thought he’d take the entire day off is beyond me— I should've assumed. I guess every once in a while it's nice to be surprised.
“Josie—please.” He places his hand over mine. “We’ve had a good morning.”
If you consider visiting a friend who might be dying— all the while knowing it might very well be your fault— a good morning, then yes, I guess you’re right. I almost say this to him. I feel like the words could glide out into open air, into the space between us, so easily. But I bite them back. I know where that kind of mistake leads, and it’s nowhere good. Plus, it won’t help anyway. I know he has a full schedule. I know his patients are demanding. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know how much he hates it when I raise my voice. Also, I wouldn’t understand what it’s like having work that you love. This is what he’s thinking. He hasn’t said it yet. Sometimes I like to beat him to the punch.