Get to You

by Albany Walker

  I look around the room. My decor is miss matched and decidedly shabby chic. My large TV and kitchen appliances are the only "modern" elements. I didn’t replace many of the old fixtures but was forced to replace much of the kitchen.

  I rush to my bedroom area as I see something I don’t want in sight.

  I call back, "Make yourself at home." I snatch up the bras that I've hung on the white scrolled footboard to my bed. With my arms full, I kick the panties I took off last night under the bed. I pull open the massive wardrobe I use as a closet and toss everything in, shutting the door. I tug on my silver sheet that is pooled at the end of the bed, along with the light lavender down comforter. When they both come up, a black nighty plops out onto the floor.

  Beau's footsteps sound close. I could try to shove it under the blanket, but it's no use because he can see every movement I make. I leave it and hope he doesn't notice. I don't even know why I'm hiding this stuff. It's obvious I wear a bra, and so what if I like pretty underwear?

  I look around and try imaging that it's my first time seeing this place. The impression it gives is comfortable, a little rustic, and really feminine.

  I walk away from my bed and make my way to the kitchen. My cabinets are made from reclaimed wood from a barn upstate. Some pieces still have red or blue flecks from the original paint, but the years of outdoor wear has given them a grayish patina.

  I pull a couple bottled waters from the fridge.

  "You want something to drink? I don't have any soda." I extend one of the bottles hoping he'll move away from his current station at my bookshelf. It’s a bit extensive, as it goes all the way up to my ceiling and wraps around the side of the wall, ending near my bed.

  He walks over, taking in his surroundings. "You own this place too?"

  "Mm-mm. Not the building, just the studio."

  When he gets close, he takes the water from my hand, his fingers brushing mine before he pulls away.

  "I think people use studio to describe three hundred square foot boxes, not a fifteen hundred square foot loft." One of his eyebrows lifts, while his green eyes twinkle.

  "Loft never felt right to me. When I think loft, I think warehouse or industrial, so I call it my studio."

  The pan of brownies I made last night are sitting on the counter. I wash my hands and grab some bowls.

  "You want ice cream?"

  "You know it."

  I put two big brownies in a bowl and pile it high with ice cream then hand it over to him. Mine is a little smaller. I'm not sure if I can eat anything right now. I’m nervous and uncertain of what I should say or not say. I don’t know how to explain myself to him, without spilling everything.

  I stay silent, moving to sit in the corner of my overstuffed couch.

  He drops down on the other end.

  Beau takes a few bites and then asks the question I knew was coming.

  "So, who is he, and why are you so afraid of him looking for you?”

  6

  "I guess you'll need a little back story first," I clear my throat. "My dad died before I was two, my mom had pictures, but I don't remember him.” I sigh, but keep going, “My mom loved my dad. She referred to him as her split-apart, a soulmate you know?” I don’t remember ever telling anyone this before, “She was still a great mom. Sometimes she'd get sad, but she had faith. She knew they'd be together again one day, so while she grieved, it didn’t stop her from living.” I smile a little thinking of her, “I had a great childhood, did all the cool stuff. My mom never had to work, but she volunteered all over once I was in school.”

  I don’t really know how to talk about the happiness we had before Darryl, so I finish with, “Years passed, and we were happy.” My tone changes, “Then one day when I was about twelve, I guess he started stopping by, just to check on us of course.” I lean with my hip against the wall, reflecting on how it all started, “We had some kids vandalize our barn, and he was a deputy. After my mom first called into report the incident, he started dropping by to check on us. He said, ‘It isn’t safe for you gals living on your own so far from the city.’” I shiver, remember his voice, “The visits became more frequent and would last a little longer. They liked talking to each other. He was nice to me and nice to my mom.” I don’t like to admit that, because of all he had done, “I was getting older and hanging out with friends, so I didn't mind much. I was a bit shocked when they got married and he moved into our house, I was thirteen." I nod my head, “It happened so quick, him living with us.”

  All the talking makes my mouth dry, so I decide to grab another water, "You want anything?" I move to the fridge. Surveying my options, I change my mind and grab a beer instead. I think I'll need it.

  I twist the cap and take a long pull.

  When I move the bottle away he says, "I'll take one of those." I grab two more and return to the sofa. I plop down and curl up. " I figured you for a wine drinker," he says taking one of the bottles.

  "Nope, I actually don't drink very often, but every once in a while I get a hankering." He's quiet for a little bit. I know I'm not off the hook. By no means was the first part of my story an explanation for my actions. Beyond the sudden need to drink, it hasn’t been too difficult to talk about it. I continue with a "Better get this over with." I take in a deep breath and speak, "I was thirteen and life was still pretty good. He never tried to replace my dad. He just tried to fit in around us, ya know?"

  "What changed Sammy?" I nod, but frown, knowing this was coming.

  "My mom, we lost my mom." I whisper looking out the large window. I feel my eyes begin to sting with tears. I hope he doesn't notice.

  His warm palm glide over the top of my hand, and he laces his fingers with mine.

  "It's fine Sammy, we don't need to do this." I want to, I haven't told anyone besides Rita what happened. I feel like I need to tell someone.

  I don't look at him but start talking again, my voice a little detached, "It was an accident. No warning, she was just gone. I was fifteen.” I take in a deep breath and let it out as I sit, “I never saw him drink before, but the night of the funeral he got wasted.” I continue to hold his hand, but my shoulders shrink in, “I didn't know what to do. My mom had just died, and now he was acting strange. I didn’t know how to care for him, so I just let him rant and rave about losing her. He passed out on the couch." I hate talking about this part, "I was taking his boots off when he woke up and started talking to me like I was her, like I was my mother." My laugh cuts off into a sob. I regain my composure a bit and look at him through tears to say, "I can't believe---I barely know you and I'm telling you all this toxic shit."

  His hand squeezes mine.

  I look away again, "He became a different person. Looking back, I don't think it was just the alcohol. It was like he snapped and used drinking as an excuse. Some nights he would scream at me, hateful things, until his voice went hoarse---” I look down at our hands and trace his fingers with my free hand, “Other nights, he would---get abusive,” I can’t go into details. “Every fucking night, no matter what happened he'd give me a red carnation.” I move my hand to quickly wipe at my eyes, “He turned something my mother loved into something I hate. I stayed for a year out of respect for my mother at first, then from fear. He was really good at the fear part." I blow out a few deep breaths, I feel dizzy from all the deep breathing, but I am also calm for the first time since I saw those flowers. "I ran to New York, to Rita, before it could get worse. I was more afraid of what would happen if I stayed. She was my mothers best friend from college, and she had the means to hide me away. She taught me how to survive and tried to help me feel powerful and safe. She put me through a few self defense classes, and we tried therapy." I pause.

  "That's it. That’s why I'm a paranoid freak. Why I can't have a normal life. And why I freaked out on you tonight and the other day, because seven years later---I'm still scared he'll come for me, like he promised."

  Beau's jaw is flexing, he's grinding his teeth, and his nostrils f
lare slightly with each long inhale he takes. He’s angry, but for once I'm not nervous or worried about the anger projected in his expression. I'm actually kind of comforted, oddly enough, because he's angry for me, not at me.

  I bump into him, "How's that for oversharing. You are the only person alive that knows that story." I frown, “I’m sorry to make you hold my secret. It’s probably not the explanation you were wanting.”

  He stays quiet for a little bit longer then looks at me, "Don’t be sorry. Thank you for trusting me with it."

  I feel relief. He's not looking at me like I'm crazy or like he feels sorry for me. I didn't realize I was so worried how he'd react until I got it.

  On the table, our bowls are a mess of melted ice cream, neither of use having ate much. I stand and take them to the kitchen sink and rinse them off. He follows, grabbing his empty bottle and mine that's still half full with one hand. With the other he takes the bottle that hasn't been opened. He places them next to the sink.

  "So, you have to work tomorrow again?" I nod my head as I put the bowls in the near empty dishwasher. I empty the contents of the bottles down the sink and rinse them out. I put them under the sink in the recycle bin. I hate returning bottles, but New York has enough trash.

  "Yeah, Zoe, the woman who usually works the weekends, her daughter is sick.” I wash my hands and put the full bottle back in the fridge. “I'm covering. I'm thinking of hiring a few more people in case something like this comes up again." Now that we're talking about work, I can't ignore what happened yesterday.

  "I want to apologize for Anna. I don't know what came over her yesterday. I reprimanded her after you left. She knows if anything like that happens again; I'll let her go. So, you don't have to be afraid she'll attack you again if you come back to the store." I grin trying to make light of my overly serious apology.

  Beau chuckles, "She couldn't scare me away." Butterflies erupt in my stomach, I hope this means he's willing to deal with her to see me, but he may just he like my store that much.

  "Have you started the book?" I blurt out. Beau’s brow furrows, like he's confused, but then his eyes go wide. His lips tip into a half smile, the left side raises, and a dimple makes an appearance.

  "I did. Almost done in fact. I'm curious though sweet Sammy---are all the books you read so dirty?"

  I falter when he calls me sweet, "Ahh---." I stammer, "Sa---some are---others---it's just implied sex scenes. I mean that doesn't give so many details.” I try and correct my statement, but it gets worse, “Some have more---it just depends on---the authors and the genre really." I smile sweetly at him to hide the awkwardness I am currently feeling. I decide to turn the tables, and feel a bit confident with saying, "I could give you some recommendations.” I have had to have this conversation before with grandmas, men, women, and everyone in between. It comes like reading from a script, “Are looking for something with a little more detail, perhaps a little more vanilla, or is there a certain kink you have in mind? Male on male?"

  Beau's mouth drops open, he points at me.

  "You're kinda naughty. I've heard about you sexy librarian types. I better watch out for my virtue." He moves his hand up to his chest, his expression scandalized.

  I wish I had a pair of horned rimmed glasses to adjust.

  Very seriously I say, "Kind Sir, I was just trying to cater to your needs." This is fun. I feel sexy in a way that I don’t get to be often. I break out in a fit of giggles ruining the illusion.

  He shakes his head back and forth, eyes smoldering. "You think you're funny huh? I'll get you back for that, just wait." His phones rings, the lightness from our banter evaporates along with his smile. He pulls a black iPhone from his back pocket and looks at the screen. Beau rolls his head back. His Adam's apple bobs. I’m distracted by my sudden desire to trace the movement with my tongue. I pale at the thought. I have a serious problem.

  His expression turns a little sad and defeated. I right my eyes, feeling bad for ogling him when he's obviously upset.

  "I need to go," he sounds regretful.

  "Oh yeah, sure, it's getting pretty late." I look at the clock I hadn't cared about just thirty seconds ago. "Do you need a cab?"

  He won't look at me, and my chest constricts, "No, thank you." His voice sounds completely different, like he's dismissing me.

  I don't say anything further but move to the door and open it. I hadn't even realized I didn't lock it. That’s odd for me.

  “Bye," he says distractedly.

  "Good night Beau," I say, my voice deflating. I'm not sure he even heard me. He's halfway down the stairs.

  My house feels empty, in a way it never felt before. I spend the night avoiding that thought.

  Sunday passes without incident.

  Monday morning, I place an add for help wanted. I plan to leave right after Jude and I discuss the possibility of him becoming part owner in the coffee cart. He says he wants to talk to Mark but has a lot of great ideas.

  “A little cafe, but not one that overshadows the store.” He moves his hand quickly pointing to places where we could expand. He looks at me pointedly as he states, “We still primarily sell books.”

  After my talk with Jude, I tell Anna if there's nothing pressing, I'll be in Wednesday. She's still on her best behavior. She nods curtly in reply and busies herself with arranging the few things at the register.

  Molly started Friday, and I was excited to learn that she’s happy to accept the extra weekend hours. I leave the help wanted ad posted, still hoping to find another sales clerk.

  I spend a long weekend at home moping, if I am honest.

  The following Monday finds me sorting through the small stack of applications on my desk and trying not to think about Beau.

  Anna interrupts with a knock on the open door, "Sam can I talk to you for a minute? George just got here, he's watching the register."

  I look up at this young beautiful woman that has yet to tire of my little shop, "Sure Anna, what's up?" I fold my hands on the desk giving her my full attention.

  "Are you replacing me?" She sounds hurt by the thought. She runs her hands over her skirt, for the first time looking nervous.

  "No Anna, why would you think that?”

  “Just seems like you’ve been hiring a lot of new people. I’ve been here a year now, it’s become more than just a job, or just a distraction. I do love it here.”

  I give her a small smile, “Well for me, it’s kind of the opposite. I've decided I want to do more than just own a store. There's a lot stuff to see out there. So I want extra help so I can do just that."

  She looks thoughtful for a second and asks, "Is it that guy, Beau?" She looks at her nails trying not to look overly interested.

  "Well I can't say he's not part of it. Being around him helped me decide it's worth looking for more."

  She nods slowly, "So are you seeing him?" I see, this is what she really wanted to know.

  "Anna let me ask you something.” She nods, “If you thought I was, would you still have acted the way you did?" Her head drops, and her eyes point down to the desk. She breathes deeply then looks up at me, with a serious expression.

  "Sam, you have always been honest with me, sometimes brutally, so I'll return the favor." She holds my gaze, "Yes. He seems like the kind of guy that's worth fighting over."

  Wow, that's not what I was expecting.

  "You don't even know him. How could you know he'd be worth the fight?" I am curious, but I'm also hurt and a little pissed that my employee would do that to a man I would theoretically be dating.

  "Did you see him Sam?” she sounds like the answer is obvious. “The jeans he was wearing so well, cost over two-hundred dollars. His boots were closer to a thousand." She smiles, "I see something I want. I go after it."

  No apology, just honesty.

  I realize I'd never really have a chance with a man like Beau. What man would want a size fourteen pretty girl when he could have a stunning size two?

  "Thanks for your
honesty Anna."

  "So?" She prompts.

  "So nothing. You just told me my answer doesn't matter." She frowns, but nods.

  "Just so we're clear Anna. I've promised him that you won't make him uncomfortable if he returns. So please respect my store and leave him be---while you're working." Her face screws up into a scowl.

  "Uncomfortable?" She scoffs

  "Yes Anna, uncomfortable. Is that going to be a problem?"

  "No, no," she waves her hand around but looks distant.

  I have a feeling that the first chance she gets, she'll pounce. Looks like I might have two positions available after all.

  "Well I guess I'll see you tomorrow." She stands and leaves without me saying anything else.

  I reflect on our conversation.

  I haven't seen Beau in over a week, so I don't think I need to worry about replacing Anna just yet.

  I've wondered a couple times if I shouldn't have told him all that stuff, but there's nothing I can do now. I don't regret it. It felt good to tell someone.

  Feeling a little let down, I call applicants and set up interviews for Wednesday.

  I leave shortly after.

  Instead of going straight home, I decide to walk. I submerge myself in the anonymity of the mobs of people going in a similar direction. I window shop and watch street performers enthrall tourists and locals alike. None of it helps to energize me like I'd hoped it would.

  I head home sometime after eight with little desire to return and sit alone behind the cushy walls I've built around myself.

  Another week has passes. I have a new employee and one new partner in the works. My business is doing well. My personal life is just as dreary.

  I don't know who's more disappointed by Beau’s disappearance, Anna or me. She comes in everyday looking like she just got back from a photo shoot.

  Yesterday she finally broke down and asked if I'd heard from him. I didn't answer. She doesn't need to know I'm pinning just as bad as her, but I'm pretty sure she does know I haven't seen him either. It's strange to miss someone I barely even knew.