Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  Hell, that entire get-together was weird.

  He just wanted to get to know me.

  Me.

  Who would want to do that? I’m barely nice to Daisy, the sunshine of our little fucked-up circle.

  Tired, I head to my motorcycle where I’m going to drive back home, flop on my mattress on the floor of my shitty apartment, and sleep until I have to wake up for my shift tomorrow.

  I’m fixing to retrieve my gloves from my jacket when my phone rings. Who the hell would be calling me?

  Daisy.

  This actually doesn’t surprise me.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning against my motorcycle.

  “Hi, Carter. How are you?”

  “All right, what’s up?”

  “Uh, are you busy?”

  “Not really. About to drive home.”

  “Oh, nice.” She’s silent and even through the phone, I can tell she’s nervous.

  “Why’d you call, Daisy?”

  “Well, um, I was hoping maybe you wanted to hang out. I’m kind of hungry. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought I would ask since I’m hungry and was looking for company. Really up to you. You know what, I think I might actually just grab something from King Soopers, you know, make a little diddy for myself at home. I can make a wicked meatloaf, oh, you already know that. Meatloaf might be too long—”

  “Where do you want to meet?” I ask, wanting to stop the incessant rambling.

  “Where do . . . oh, you want to meet?

  “Sure, I could eat.”

  “Wonderful.” Gleeful is not even a close enough description for the way she sounds right now. “I don’t really know of any places to eat besides Country Buffet and Cracker Barrel. They were our favorite places to eat.”

  Why does this not surprise me? They probably wore matching kitten sweaters while taking part of the early-bird special.

  “Meet me at Prohibition. It’s on East Colfax.”

  “Prohibition, sounds like a fun place. Do they take coupons?”

  “Not so much.” I shake my head at her. Coupons. Christ. “Meet you in twenty.”

  “Oh, sure, yeah. See you soon.”

  I hang up quickly before I can change my mind. Partner in crime, I keep telling myself over and over again on my way to the restaurant. It’s one of my favorite places to grab a beer, especially during the summer where you can sit out on the patio and watch Denverites mill about.

  I’ve made it my mission to become familiar with the restaurants in the city, studying their menus, the drinks they carry ranging from liquor to local micro-brews that complement the food. I’ve studied tirelessly, keeping track of who serves what, during what season, and for how much. I have an entire notebook dedicated to my future competition along with multiple menus I’ll use one day when I finally own a place.

  Fuck, it stings knowing I was so close.

  I planned to pay off my uncle, get a job somewhere else, and continue to save until I could perfect my idea and talk to some local venture capitalists. That was going to be me proving my existence, even if I didn’t know that term at the time.

  The drive to Prohibition put me in an even worse mood than I was in, which has me considering to cancel on Daisy, but I can’t seem to let myself disappoint her. So I find a parking spot close to the restaurant and head on in.

  Luckily, the booth in the very back is open. I take a seat so I’m facing the door, giving me the perfect view of Daisy when she walks in.

  Scanning the beer list, my eyes fixate on one of my favorite lagers, Upslope. Should I drink? The scruff on my jaw grates against my fingers as I try to make a decision, just as the door to the restaurant opens. I look up to find a woman walk in wearing skinny jeans, knee-high brown boots, a white T-shirt, and a form-fitting brown leather jacket. It’s not until the same woman smiles at me and waves erratically as if she knows me that I realize it’s Daisy.

  Daisy?

  Holy Shit.

  I want to wipe my eyes, shake my head, do a double take. That’s not Daisy.

  Is it?

  Where’re the overalls, the turtleneck, the quilted vest?

  “Hi, Carter,” she says, a giant smile on her face, her thumbs looped in her low-riding jeans.

  I swallow hard. Shit just got so much more complicated.

  HOLLYN

  “You don’t have to make me dinner.”

  “Yes, I do.” Amanda stirs the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stovetop. “You were great today, Hollyn.” Turning around, Amanda places her hands over her heart. She’s the perfect picture of gratitude. “You were so helpful with Daisy. Did you see the smile on her face? I mean, she smiles a lot, but I’ve never seen her smile like that.”

  “It was no problem at all. I really like Daisy. She’s super sweet, and all she wants is to experience life; how could I not help her accomplish that dream of hers?”

  “Pretty hard not to.” Amanda leans her back against the counter and sips from her wineglass. “Can I get mushy on you?”

  “When has asking ever stopped you?”

  “True.” Sighing, she tilts her head and studies me. “I’m grateful for you coming out today and taking part in my wedding stuff. I know it must not be easy for you.”

  Understatement of the day.

  Must not be easy on me. Ha, more like it was a gut-wrenching, sweat-inducing, fear-clenching kind of day. If I wasn’t on the verge of having a panic attack, then I was ready to vomit from anxiety and the many memories assaulting me.

  With every white, lacy dress I came across, or talk of venues, flowers, and bridesmaid dresses, I had flashback after flashback of my wedding night, or my marriage . . . of the dark night I was told Eric passed.

  But I held it together. I don’t know how, but I did, and now I just want to leave and be alone for the night. Leaving wasn’t really an option though. Amanda insisted upon making me dinner for everything I did today.

  Honestly, I didn’t do anything but participate and defer all attention to Daisy when we started shopping for her because the more I helped Daisy, the less sick I felt.

  But now I’m back at Amanda’s house, alone with her and dreading all conversation. There is no buffer now, no way for me to change the topic without being massively obvious.

  Swallowing hard, not wanting to touch the topic of how hard today really was, I ask, “Is Matt going to be home for dinner?”

  “No, he sent me a text a little earlier, he had some kind of emergency meeting with one of his players.”

  Immediately my mind jumps to Jace and if he’s okay.

  “Did he say what player?” I ask, being totally obvious.

  “He didn’t.” Amanda gives me a knowing smile. “He usually doesn’t tell me details about things happening in the clubhouse because I have a big mouth.”

  “Smart man.” I laugh. “Wonder if Gonzalez got himself in trouble again.”

  Slightly shocked, Amanda asks, “Have you been paying attention to sports again?”

  “No. I just see things trending on the side of my Facebook.”

  Once the water is finally boiling, Amanda dumps dry noodles into the hot pot and then turns on me. I know that look.

  Walking toward me, she leans on the counter, and asks, “Would you ever let yourself fall in love again?”

  Yup, I was right. She asked a question I didn’t want to answer.

  “Uh, I don’t know.” Don’t commit to anything, be vague, it’s the best way to get through this question.

  Would I ever let myself fall in love again? Is that even possible? To fall in love with two people? To give your heart to two people? A piece of me died with him. The fun, goal-driven, dream-living girl left and in her place is a shell of the woman I once was.

  Nursing school is no longer on my radar, having a family, having children, a mere memory. Wanting to be the wife who cooks dinner for her husband—naked, only wearing an apron—no longer exists. That person is gone. Vanished. Those dreams
faded the day I lost the man who meant everything to me. He was my radar.

  The thought of actually revisiting all those dreams makes me laugh. I would never be able to accomplish them without Eric and my heart wouldn’t be able to handle any more of them untouched.

  That’s why I don’t strive for anything, why I continue to waitress at a low-end restaurant, why I’ve dropped all studies, and why I haven’t even attempted to date again.

  “You know you can love again, right?” Amanda asks, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s okay to love again, Hollyn.”

  It’s not, but she doesn’t need to know that. She wouldn’t understand.

  Needing to get out of here, I pretend to receive a text message. Checking my phone, I scrunch my nose and sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” Amanda asks.

  “Cindy from the restaurant needs me to cover her shift. Her son is sick again. I have to go.”

  “Oh no, I hope he’s okay,” Amanda says, falling for the lie.

  Yup, I just lied to my best friend. I’m an amazing person. Instead of telling her the truth, that I can’t handle all this talk, that today was a hard day for me, I plaster on a fake smile, and tell her a lie to free myself of the hell I’m currently experiencing.

  “I’m sure it’s just a cold. Sorry I have to bounce. Hopefully we can do dinner again soon.”

  She tags along behind me to the entryway where I quickly throw on my coat and retrieve my keys from my purse.

  “Yes, we have to.” Pausing, she wraps her arms around me from behind and rests her head between my shoulder blades. “I’ve missed you, Hollyn.”

  I’ve missed me too. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Returning the embrace, I grip her arms and hold them tight for a second. Suffocating. I have to get out of here. Hold it together. Hold it in.

  The walk to my car feels like a mile while I attempt to hold back the agony ripping me apart. Why did he have to die? Why did the love of my life have to die? The faint feeling of darkness is starting to encroach. I can’t.

  I’ve been here before. Last time I’ve felt this all-consuming feeling of despondency, I didn’t leave my apartment for three days. Not wanting to fall into that dark hole again, I reach for my phone and dial the one person I know will understand me.

  “Hello?” Two syllables. That’s all it takes. His deep voice instantly starts to calm me.

  “Hey, want to get a drink?” I anxiously ask.

  “I’m already ahead of you. Come to my place, I have a bottle of Jack open and currently being consumed.”

  He doesn’t need to ask twice.

  DAISY

  “Daisy?” Carter asks, standing from the booth.

  I fidget in place, not quite feeling right in my skin just yet. My neck feels exposed, as if I’m not even wearing a shirt, my legs, although comfortable, can’t comprehend the lack of fabric not flowing around them, and my feet, well, they are confused as to why they’re wrapped up in leather.

  Thanks to my dad’s little “I’m sorry I was a bad dad fund” I was able to completely update my wardrobe, besides pajamas. Amanda and Hollyn tried to convince me to get some sleek and silky PJs but I wasn’t having it. No one sees me when I go to bed, so I told them I was sticking with my I love Lucy flannels. But everything, all the way down to my undergarments, has been replaced.

  Thongs, oye! They just sit right up in there, don’t they? And what’s the point of wearing them with jeans? I told Amanda and Hollyn you can’t see panty lines through jeans but they didn’t care. All granny panties will be removed from my drawer. I don’t see anything wrong with them. They are sensible undergarments. According to the girls, they are not sensible for a twenty-one-year-old.

  Also, interesting fact, vests are in but not the kind of vests I was wearing. I got a couple of cute, modern vests I’m allowed to wear with boyfriend Ts, but only if I tuck the front part of my shirt into my jeans that’s paired with a belt and a long necklace. Honestly, my head is swimming with fashion advice. I told the girls they’re going to have to take pictures of outfits for me until I get the hang of it all.

  Once we were done spending a pretty penny, getting alterations for our dresses, and indulging in an Orange Julius—what a treat—we headed home, but for me, I wasn’t done. I was riding a high of becoming a new woman on the outside and there was one person I really wanted to share it with. You would think it would be Gram but when I went into my phone to dial her, I ended up calling Carter.

  At first I was confident in my decision to call him, but once I started asking him to hang out, nerves took over and I tried to backtrack so I didn’t have to face rejection. Lucky for me, he said yes.

  The entire taxi ride over to Prohibition was full of bouncy knees and sightseeing. It wasn’t until I was paying the cabbie and getting out of the car that I realize just how nervous I was.

  This entire outfit is new to me. I might think I look nice, but then again, I thought I looked nice in my watering-can crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered polo shirt peeking out of the neckline. Who’s the judge of what looks good?

  Will Carter like it? Do I even care if he likes it?

  I hate to admit it, but I do care.

  He’s a handsome man, with his dark, almost sinister eyes and mysterious vibe. For once in my life, it would be nice for a man like him to look at me differently. Not like a friend or an acquaintance, but like a beautiful woman he can’t resist.

  The funny thing is, I don’t need him to validate if I’m pretty or not. I can look in the mirror and know I’m pretty, inside and out. I just want to be appreciated on every level. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a man to not be able to take his eyes off me.

  Clearing his throat, Carter looks me up and down and runs his hand through his hair. “I, uh, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Pulling on the hem of my jacket, I shyly say, “Yeah, I did a little shopping today.”

  His jaw ticks as he takes me in one more time. Instead of complimenting me, like I thought he would, he clears his throat again and tells me to take a seat. His dismissal of my appearance breaks my heart.

  “I’m getting a beer.” His head is buried in his menu, so I can barely hear him.

  “A beer?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. He could have said he’s getting the deer, or he’s becoming queer, or he likes their schmear. What else rhymes with beer? Year, tear, veer, adhere. Maybe he’s switching gears or he wants to do a Bronx cheer. Or his friend is Buzz Lightyear.

  Being friend’s with Buzz Lightyear, now that is something I would be interested in talking about.

  “Why are you giggling?” he asks, annoyed, from over his menu.

  “Do you know Buzz Lightyear?” I ask, a little too giddy.

  His eyebrow questions me. Lowering his menu, he assesses my features, his face growing harder with each once-over. Uh oh, why do I feel like I’m about to get in trouble? Leaning forward, with a menacing look, he asks, “Are you high?”

  High? Is he insane? “I beg your pardon.”

  “Marijuana, did you smoke some?”

  “No! And I’m insulted you would even ask. I don’t do drugs.”

  Sitting back in his seat, he says, “Marijuana is hardly a drug, Snowflake.”

  “Well, it’s a drug to me, and no, I haven’t smoked any. Why would you ask that?”

  “Why would you ask if I know Buzz Lightyear?”

  “Because you said beer.”

  The look on his face is priceless. “I’m not following.”

  “It was a rabbit trail in my head. I don’t think you want to know.”

  Casually, he drapes his arms across the back of his booth, finally starting to relax. Maybe the whole Buzz Lightyear thing was a smart move on my end even though I can feel my cheeks blushing from the whole interaction.

  “Fair enough.” He gestures at the menu. “Are you going to get a drink?”

  “Like an alcoholic one?”

  Slowly he nods his head while biting his lower lip and studying m
e. “Yeah, an alcoholic beverage. You’re of age, and I think it’s time to take another step toward your goal, don’t you think?”

  I’ve already taken a big step by flipping my wardrobe and style upside down, isn’t that enough for today?

  By the look on his face and the way his teeth nibble on his lower lip, I think maybe I can take one more big girl step.

  “Okay, hand me the drink menu?”

  “Really?” Carter asks in surprise, as if he really didn’t think I was going to have a drink.

  “Yeah, really. Hand it over.”

  Resigned, he opens up the drink menu and pushes it in my direction. “You might want to stick to this section.” He points to the cocktails right above the beers.

  There are so many options, and oh boy, they are pricey, at least I think they are for a drink. I don’t really have anything to compare it to. Whispering, I glance up at Carter and say, “Ten dollars for a drink? Is that normal?”

  Smiling wickedly, he nods his head. “Yeah, Snowflake, that’s normal.”

  “Goodness, it better be a good drink.” Looking over the menu, I can’t decide. “Moscow Mule, that seems interesting. I’ve never seen a copper cup before.”

  “You won’t like it,” he states bluntly.

  “How do you know? It might be my favorite drink.”

  “It’s not.” He folds his arms over his chest, so sure of himself.

  “How can you say that? You don’t know my taste buds.”

  “Snowflake, I’ve watched you gag meeting after meeting at Dear Life from the coffee they serve. If you can’t handle coffee, you’re not going to be able to handle a Moscow Mule.”

  “Fine,” I concede. “But for the record, that coffee tastes like sludge.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you about that.”

  “What about Breaking Bad. That seems delightful.”

  Smiling, he takes the menu from me and puts it back behind the salt and pepper shakers. “Now that’s more like it.”

  Eeep, why does that smile make me feel tingly all over?

  After we both decide on getting the house-made chicken pot pie, something they are famous for, we wait for the waiter to bring our drinks.