***
I spend the next two hours perfecting my waitressing game. Okay, so not quite perfecting. Just surviving, in all reality.
I manage to only spill one more drink—a Love-in-Idleness—and mess up one more order. I win Georgette over by complimenting her pies in the front display case. I actually make a few tips, and I don’t piss any more customers off by making them wait too long for their checks.
But I’m so busy, I don’t have time to stop and think about how crazy it all is. I don’t have time to think about how this isn’t how I ever expected my life to go. I don’t have time to think about how this might not work out.
Most of all, I don’t have time to think about him. I don’t think about his favorite food or think about how he would kiss me on a summer night like tonight. I don’t think about all our memories like a sappy montage from a romantic movie. For the first time in months, I don’t spend the evening hours moping around, thinking about Chris and what could’ve been.
Or what should’ve been.
Which is a beautiful thing.
When Lysander turns the sign on the Shakespearean statue out front to “closed” and the final rowdy group of twentysomethings leaves, I lean on the counter by the register. I’ve never been this tired in my life. Computers and spreadsheets don’t even come close to exhausting me the way this job has.
“So, you survived your first night,” Lysander says, bringing me over another drink. I oblige, taking a sip. “What do you think of the place?”
I take a moment to look around, really looking at Midsummer Nights like I haven’t had a chance to do. It’s an odd mix of Victorian-England-style décor and a beachy vibe. There are abstract prints of the Bard himself all around. In some, he’s surfing or wearing floral print shirts. Behind the bar, a quote is scrawled on the rustic paneling: “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” I’m assuming it’s from the play. Maybe sometime I’ll actually give it a read.
Despite the name and décor, there’s not much Shakespearean about the food other than Lysander’s specialty. It’s your typical beachy pub food, which is fine by me. I’ll just have to be careful too many cheese fries don’t sneak up on my waistline.
Looking at Lysander, who is still awaiting my answer, I smile. “I think it’s just what I need.”
He beams with pride, a pride I know he takes in this place. “In some odd way, I think this place needs you too,” he replies.
“Why? Do you need to get rid of a few customers or something?”
“It does get pretty packed in here on the weekends,” Jodie chimes in, tossing me a rag to start cleaning the counter. “Enough sentimental crap. Get cleaning. I want to get home.”
I grin at Jodie’s bluntness and start wiping the table. As we’re cleaning up, a tall blond saunters right past the “closed” sign, tossing the door open and strolling in. He heads straight for Lysander, whose face lights up.
“Hey, baby,” Lysander says, and the two embrace. I look away, not wanting to creep on them.
“You better get used to it. Those two are crazy about each other,” Jodie says. “Get a room already, will you?” she shouts as the two kiss.
They pull away, obliging Jodie.
“Honestly. If I’d have known I had to see you two so sickeningly in love every day, I would’ve never matched you up. You know, not all of us are having such a great time with love. It would be nice if you didn’t rub it in our faces every single day.” She grimaces, but I can tell she’s not actually mad.
The blond walks toward me. “Who’s this?”
“Reed, meet Avery Johannas. She’s our new waitress. Avery, this is Reed, my boyfriend,” Lysander says. I put down the cleaning rag to reach for Reed’s hand. He grasps it firmly, giving me a huge grin.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“You won’t be saying that in a few. This one never goes away,” Jodie teases. Reed shakes his head.
“You’re the one who kept me around.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“So you introduced them?” I ask, wanting to be filled in.
“Yeah. This one,” she says, pointing to Reed, “kept coming in here almost every night. He moved here from Philadelphia, and said we had the best cheesesteaks in town. I knew he had his eye on more than cheesesteaks, though. But Lysander thought I was crazy, convinced Reed had his eye on me. I finally broke the ice, asked Reed if he was gay, and the rest is history. You’d think a gay man would have better gaydar than a straight woman, but I guess not.” She turns to Lysander, who is putting away some liquor and rolling his eyes. “Men. Straight or gay, they’re all idiots,” she adds, heading back to the kitchen to tidy up.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s just mad because she had her eye on me,” Reed says, winking.
“I heard that, you liar,” Jodie shouts from the back of the kitchen.
I can’t help but laugh.
“So, Avery, what brings you to Ocean City?”
I shrug, wondering how much to confess. I don’t really want to turn this into a serious counseling session like it could if I tell him the truth. I don’t really want to admit how desperate I am to forget, how I’m a scorned woman needing a change. I don’t want to see the pity in their eyes I’ve seen so many times before. So, instead of telling them the whole sordid story of Chris, I say, “Just needed a change, a new start. I was an accountant at my dad’s CPA firm back home. I woke up and realized it wasn’t what I wanted anymore.”
It’s partially true. Even without the whole situation with Chris, I was getting sort of bored with my job. As kind as Lysander has been, as much as I like him and Reed already, I’m not quite ready to lay out the whole “I got cheated on” story. Not yet.
“I get that,” Reed says. “I was an actuary back in Philadelphia. I came here for a new start, too. Plus, I guess you could say there were some things going on with family.”
“Where do you work now?” I ask.
“Well, I actually have a gift shop on the boardwalk. It’s called Sand Dollars. Stop by sometime.”
I smile. “I will.”
“Okay, let’s get out of here for the night, huh?” Lysander says. “We’ll clean the rest tomorrow. I’m beat.”
“Not too beat, I hope,” Reed says, winking.
“And there’s our cue,” Jodie says, flying back out to the main area. “Let’s get out of here, Avery. Leave these two lovebirds to their own devices before I gag.”
“Don’t worry, Jo. I’m still keeping my eye open for your next hunk,” Reed says.
“Too bad all the good ones are taken. Or gay.”
“I know I set the bar high. But we’ll find you a hetero hunk. I promise.”
“I won’t get my hopes up,” she says, and I follow her out the door. Once we’re outside, she tells me, “Last guy those two found for me turned out to be an ex-convict. Not sure I’m trusting their judgement.”
I smile. “They seem nice,” I say as we head to Jodie’s car.
“They are. Honestly. Even if my writing made enough money to support me, I’d still probably keep working there. It’s not really a job, you know? Lysander makes it more like family.”
“I see that. I like it. Thank you.”
Jodie gives me the death glare. “No need to thank me, remember?”
“I remember. But still, I appreciate it.”
“I know. And once you settle in, you’ll like it even more. Those two are great, the tips are good, and there is never a shortage of hot guys coming in.”
“Well, they’re all yours, Jodie. I’m done with men right now.”
“Well, there are hot women, too.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. I’m straight. I just…. It’s been a rough year. I’m just not ready for love. I don’t think I’ll ever be.”
“How about a one-night stand? Are those off the table, too?”
“For now.”
“No fun,” Jodie says, scowling. “He must’ve done a number on you.”
&
nbsp; “He did,” I say, looking out the window at the streetlights and crowds of partying vacationers meandering on the side streets. For a moment, the melancholy comes creeping back, the sense of loss, the sense of fear.
“Well, screw him,” Jodie says. “You’re going to be better off.”
I turn to look at my new, crazy redheaded friend and roommate. “I hope you’re right,” I say into the darkness, offering up a wish and a prayer to the stars that she’s right.
Chapter Five
“Hey, Mom, sorry. I was sleeping. I worked the late shift last night. How are you?”
It’s been a week since my move, and I’ve already settled into a routine, despite my best efforts to stay spontaneous. Between my shifts at Midsummer Nights and my attempt to get settled, I really don’t have the free time I thought I would. It’s all good though.
Midsummer has turned out to be a blessing, my job so different from my stuffy office back in Pennsylvania. Most of all, it’s a new start. There are no memories of us here. I don’t have to walk past our old haunts, see our old friends, or be transported to our old moments. Chris isn’t anywhere here. It’s completely devoid of him, even if my heart isn’t quite yet. I’m definitely making progress.
“Hey, honey. How are you doing? Ready to come home yet?” Mom never toys around, always jumping right to the punchline.
“Mom, we’ve been over this.”
“I know. But I think you’re making a mistake.”
I sigh audibly, flopping backward on my bed, staring at the ceiling as I twirl a piece of hair. We’ve had this conversation at least thirty times.
“You’ve said that already. But I’m here now. I’m happy. This is what I need.”
There’s an awkward pause before she speaks again. I don’t even really have to listen to what she says. I know what’s coming. “You know, Dad is having a really hard time finding someone to fill your shoes. I’ve barely seen him all week because he’s having to help pick up some of the responsibilities.”
Bingo. If appealing to my rational sense doesn’t work, Mom dives right into the guilt trip.
“He had plenty of notice to get someone. He’s just being picky.”
“I just don’t understand why you’d want to give up your career. I know Chris hurt you, but that’s no reason to throw your life away.”
Anger builds now. “It’s not throwing my life away, Mom. That life wasn’t making me happy.”
“And working a menial job, living with some girl you don’t even know in an unfamiliar town is going to make you happy?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But it’s worth a try.”
Sensing there’s nothing else to say, Mom shifts the conversation to other topics. She mentions my brother Blane and how he’s doing so well in med school.
Of course he is. He’s a damn genius.
She talks about her new nail technician, about the sale at Macy’s, and about how Fluffers the cat needs to go to the groomers again. She goes on and on about things that used to matter to me.
But something has shifted. I’ve shifted. Suddenly, the talk about manicure appointments and designer shoes doesn’t really seem so meaningful. It seems like a reminder I’ve done the right thing. I’ve escaped a life certainly teeming with more luxuries… but certainly emptier, too.
I hang up with Mom, promising to come and visit in the next month or so.
I love my parents and am grateful for all the opportunities they gave me, don’t get me wrong.
Nonetheless, being here away from the pressures of family and work, I’m starting to see how good it feels to be out from under their watchful eye. I’m starting to see what it’s like to be just Avery, not Avery the accountant, Avery the wife, Avery the daughter of the CPA firm’s owner. I’m seeing what it’s like to take charge, to make choices, to live.
I don’t know if this is the answer to my life, or if Midsummer Nights is actually a wise career move. The thing is, though, staring at this ceiling in this tiny room, I don’t care if it’s wise. For once in my life, I don’t care about doing the smart thing, the rational thing, or the acceptable thing.
I care about doing the thing that makes me happy.
As Henry leaps onto the bed with me, I realize that for the first time in a long time, I inexplicably am.
***
Jodie tosses a skimpy tank top at me.
“What’s this?” I say, holding up a shirt I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a few weeks ago. The flashy yellow color only adds to my initial dislike.
“Your outfit. Let’s go. We’re going out.”
It’s Friday night, and we’re both off from Midsummer Nights. Lysander’s actually shut the place down, vowing the loss of profits will be worth it for a night out, a night away from the stress of the business. I have big plans—sleeping, Netflix, and maybe a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to celebrate.
“Come on. You’re already falling into a rut. You came here for a change. Mix it up, already,” she orders before stomping out of the room to go finish her makeup. She’s already wearing a denim mini and a black halter.
I sigh, not really wanting to change out of my leggings, let alone put this shirt—and I use the word “shirt” loosely—on. Still, Jodie’s right. I’m already falling into a rut. I need to step out of my comfort zone, explore a little. I came here for a new way of living, not to fall into a slumpy divorcee routine.
I slink into the top, finagling the straps so all my cleavage doesn’t completely topple out—not like there’s much there to topple out, anyway. I squeeze into some jeans and my favorite ballet flats. Glancing in the mirror at my hair, I decide it isn’t too bad. I turn to look at my back, and my fingers graze the heart on my left shoulder. Ugh. I hate the prospect of it sticking out, the date in the center a slap in the face. There’s nothing I can do about it, though, other than try to forget it.
A little fluffing and some spritzing of my hair, and I’m actually feeling okay, tattoo aside. Maybe I should let my hair grow a little to cover it. That’s a worry for another day, though.
I hear a catcall from the hallway and turn to see Jodie appraising me. “Hot mama, not bad,” she says. I roll my eyes. “You’re going to have to shove the men off you.”
“I’m not—”
“Looking for a man, I know,” she interrupts. “Too bad. Here, put on some lips and let’s go.” She tosses me a tube of bright red lipstick, a shade I haven’t worn in a long time. Chris hated red lips. I shove the thought aside as I slather on a coating.
“Wow, look at that. I didn’t know you were inked,” Jodie says, admiring my shoulder. I pull back self-consciously.
“Chris and I got them when we got married.”
“Yuck, we need to take care of that,” Jodie says, not even trying to cover her thoughts. I smile at her frankness, shaking my head.
“Be good, Henry,” I say a few minutes later as we head out the door. I head for my car, but Jodie just leads me toward the street.
“We can walk. We’re not going far. There’s an awesome club a few blocks down called the Marooned Pirate. It’s a good place for twentysomethings like us.”
“The Marooned Pirate? Sounds terrible.”
“Come on, grandma. Loosen up. Stick with me, and I’ll show you how to live like a real twentysomething. You’ve been living the boring married life too long.”
I can’t really argue. She’s right. Still, I feel anxiety rise in my chest. This is so not my scene. My scene for the past few years has been mismatched flannel pajamas on the sofa reading Glamour while Chris worked on his computer. My scene has been some CSI on a really “rowdy” night with a Coca-Cola if I was feeling risqué. My scene was folding laundry on a Friday night and tucking in early to get some extra sleep.
Now, though, I’m prancing down the dark street with a wild, free-spirited writer. I’m wearing a yellow top that looks more like a bra and potentially covers even less. I’ve got what Chris would call “hooker lipstick” on, and I’m about to head to
a club for the first time in I don’t even know how long.
It’s exactly what I should be doing, I remind myself. However, you can take the woman out of the marriage, but you can’t take the married mindset out of the woman. I feel dirty and awkward.
When we get to the Marooned Pirate, though, the exuberance of the atmosphere, the loud music, and the laughing twentysomethings free me. I take in the scene like a child at the mall near Christmastime, the flashy lights and sounds calling out to me. I revel in the energy, and before I know it, I, too, feel pretty energetic.
“Isn’t it great?” Jodie yells over the music before leading me to the bar for some shots.
I don’t try to rationalize why I shouldn’t do this, or try to be responsible. Instead, I take the glass from Jodie’s hand when she offers it to me. “To a fresh start,” I say in a mock toast.
“To loosening up,” Jodie says, winking as she holds her shot up, too. I toss back the fiery liquid, jump up and down a little, and smile at what I hope is the start of a new, freer life.
A few hours in, and I’m dancing like no one is watching—although quite a few people are probably staring at my questionable dance moves. Lysander and Reed eventually show up and buy me another round of drinks. We dance the night away, the four of us laughing and having a blast. A few guys ask me if I’m single. I just say “No,” even my inebriated state not breaking down the barrier in my heart. A few guys ask Jodie if she’s single, and she says, “Hell yes.” Her single heart isn’t bound by the chains of the past like a heart that’s been through divorce. I’m sure Jodie’s had her demons. Still, I envy her a little—her wily heart, her all-in emotions.
As Jodie dances with a hunky, tanned muscle-man, I sit at the bar with Reed and Lysander.
“So what did he do to you?” Reed asks, leaning in. I find it hard to focus on his face, too many shots mixing with the margarita for a toxic concoction in my bloodstream. “Who?”
“Your ex. Your face is painted with the despair of a broken heart, a broken marriage.”
Inked Hearts (Lines in the Sand Book 1) Page 3