The Light Before Us

by Stephanie Vercier

  “You know who that guy is?” She extends her thumb toward the man Melissa is talking to.

  “Um, I’ve never seen him before,” I say, which is absolutely true.

  “Yeah, well, it’s Dwight Eller,” Camille says in a hushed tone, answering her own question. “He was my high school English teacher. Total fucking nerd. They’re looking kind of chummy over there, don’t you think? I guess my mom can’t really afford to be choosy at her age.”

  I have a real desire to slap the stupid smirk off of Camille’s face, a grin that makes her look immature, childish and far less attractive then if she’d be happy that her mother might have a reciprocated interest in someone. But instead I say, “I don’t know, I think he’s pretty decent looking. And if he’s a good guy, then that’s all that should matter.”

  It takes her less than a second to bust out in giggles. “Seriously? Come on, let’s be real. You’re a hot girl, and you know damn well you don’t have to settle, just like I don’t. You can’t tell me you’d date a guy who looks like Dwight.”

  The compliment she slides in is a semi-pleasant surprise, but it’s not enough to win me over. In fact, I’m itching to tell her that I could very well date a man who might be a tad short on looks but flush with kindness and fidelity. I’d add that I’d been engaged to a guy who I’m sure Camille would have found attractive, a guy who had made me pretty much miserable. But I don’t dare because revealing anything at all about myself to a girl like Camille could be dangerous.

  And she really doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t answer—she just moves right along. “That guy I mentioned the other day, the one who came in here for breakfast?”

  Jack. She’s talking about Jack.

  “Umm… yeah?” My stomach sinks at even the thought of her being close to him.

  “He was in here again this morning, and O. M. G.” She eases against the back of the booth and puts both of her hands across her chest, her nails painted a fire engine red. “He’s seriously the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in this town, and his name is Jack. So traditional, right?”

  I swallow down my desire to tell her to stop talking about him even though me telling her to back off is at the very tip of my tongue. Just alluding to knowing Jack would give her ammunition against me, and I’m sure that knowledge would make her even more excited at challenging herself to hook up with him.

  “Seriously hot,” she goes on. “Like he’s older, but that just means he’s more experienced, and…”

  Blocking what she’s saying is the only way I’m able to sit here and not lose it. As my stomach hardens and my chest burns, I can’t deny that I’m jealous. I might have tried to convince myself the only thing I wanted from Jack was friendship, but the fact that I want tell Camille she’s not allowed to flirt or covet or even talk to Jack says differently.

  “Natalieeeee…” Camille practically sings like she’s pulling me out of a hypnotic trance.

  “Yes?” Can’t she just get up and go and leave me be?

  “Are you like, not interested in guys? I mean, not like I’m not cool with that, but here I present to you a tale of a man who should make your panties melt and you just look totally disinterested.” This isn’t some female bonding session. In fact, her eyes are narrowed at me like she’s waiting for me to reveal something she could use against me.

  “You should probably stay away from him… this Jack guy,” I warn, feeling no need to respond to her interest in my sexual orientation.

  “And why’s that?” She uncrosses her arms and pushes forward in her seat, eating up a good chunk of the distance between us.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like girls coming on to him. You might end up losing a customer.” It’s a good a reason as any, and I’m grateful my voice doesn’t betray my nerves.

  She offers a smile I take as devious. “Yeah, I’ve thought about that. He obviously wasn’t into me coming on strong, so I guess I’ll just have to ease back, bat my eyelashes once in a while and make him think I’m not interested. That stuff brings them on like flies on shit.”

  I nearly gag at the reference considering there’s a plate of food in front of me. And I’m not sure Camille gets that she just compared herself to fecal material.

  Luckily, I don’t have to say another thing because the bell above the door jingles, and her attention is taken by whomever has come through the door.

  “Later!” she says, scooting out of the booth and running over to two rough around the edges guys who probably won’t mind getting hit on by Camille.

  I let out a giant sigh, look down at my plate and hate that I’ve totally lost my appetite.

  My day with Barbara goes well, and we end up getting through a dozen or so pages of the photo album. It’s fun to see Melissa as a young girl along with her two siblings that no longer live nearby. But, for me, the best photos are the ones of Barbara and Harold just out enjoying their life, whether it be fishing, at a clambake on the coast or most surprisingly, them huddled together with the Eifel Tower in the background.

  “You went to France! That’s so cool.” I wonder if I’d have gotten that out of her without the photo album as proof.

  “We spent a week there,” she says, tapping at her chin as if trying to remember things correctly. “I have to say, the weather was pretty damn gloomy, and that city was a lot dirtier than I would have expected. Really, I was glad to get home and back to our life here in Meadow Brook.”

  My heart should sink at the way she remembers her trip to The City of Light, one of the most romantic places on earth, but it instead lifts it up even higher. She didn’t need Paris to be happy. She just needed her husband, her kids and the life they’d carved out in a small town. If anything, it makes me glad.

  There aren’t any major hiccups throughout the rest of the day, save for Barbara getting frustrated when she has a difficult time finding any words at all in one of her word searches. We work it through though, finding half a dozen words together, and by the time I leave, that minor setback is forgotten.

  Driving back through town, I’m riding high on what Barbara told me about loving her life here more than Paris. I get that feeling that true love is possible and that people find it every day. Not everyone gets stuck marrying out of convenience or family honor. Not everyone has to settle or fill their lives with expensive trips or high profile careers to plug up the voids. So, when I hear an unfamiliar chiming sound, I don’t think anything of it at first, lost as I am in the notion of true love. But when I continue hearing it, my eyes are eventually drawn to my dashboard, the chiming accompanied by an illuminated red check engine light.

  “Shit.”

  I don’t know anything about cars except how to drive them. So anything at all possibly wrong with the engine makes me imagine my car about to shut down and coming to a complete standstill in the middle of Meadow Brook’s light, but certainly not non-existent, traffic. Before all power can be cut off, I ease to the side of the road and pull the phone Melissa got me out of my purse. I’ve got roadside assistance through my insurance, and I’m about to take out the card and dial the number when the realization dawns on me that I can’t call them.

  Again, shit.

  My parents pay my insurance, and if they haven’t already cancelled it, my calling roadside assistance might in some way lead them to my whereabouts, and I simply can’t allow that to happen. With my car still running and not having shut down the way I thought it might, I consider risking a drive to the cabin where Jack can help. But if it doesn’t make it all the way, I could get stuck on one of those lonely country roads without cell service and not be found for hours. And besides, should I really expect Jack to help me out more than he already has? I should be learning how to depend on myself and not others. My parents might not have prepared me well for independence, but that’s exactly what I want to strive for.

  Taking a chance, I pull back out into traffic and turn into the first mechanic’s shop I find, thankful the engine hasn’t blown in the process of
getting here. Collecting my purse, I’m barely out of the driver’s seat when a younger guy comes up to my door and holds it open for me.

  “How can I help?” he asks pleasantly, stepping aside once I’m out of the car.

  “Umm, my engine light came on,” I say, having no clue what the actual problem might be. “It’s never come on before, so I figured I should get it checked out.”

  “You mind if I pop your gas cover?”

  “My… oh, sure. It’s just…”

  He’s already in my seat and hitting the button I was about to tell him to push, then hops out and walks around my car to the gas cover.

  He’s wearing pants and a white shirt embroidered with the name Will on it instead of one of those blue jumpsuits I always imagine mechanics wearing. He’s probably a few years older than me and good looking enough that I’m sure Camille would be all over him. I, on the other hand, take in the most generic of his features, his short reddish-brown hair, his height that must close in on six feet and a face I’m sure wins him a fair number of dates. I feel like maybe I’m supposed to be attracted to him, but when my mind tries to go there, all I see is Jack.

  “Just what I suspected,” Will tells me after closing my gas cap and returning to my side of the car.

  “And what’s that?” I ask, wondering what kind of fix I’m in for and how much it’s going to cost.

  “Loose gas cap. I always check that first. That’s pretty much the number one cause of the engine light coming on when everything else seems to be running fine. If I were you, I’d go fill your tank, then make sure you tighten the cap. If the light doesn’t go off in the next day or two, then you come back and see me. My name’s Will.” He points to the embroidery on his shirt.

  “I’m Natalie.” I extend my hand. “And you’re sure that’s it? I mean, that’s great if it is. I was really worried the engine was just going to fall out or something, but is it really that easy?”

  He holds onto my hand just a little too long, but he looks harmless when he says, “Like I said, it’s probably the culprit, but if not, come back and see me. And it is nice to meet you, Natalie.”

  After extracting my hand from him, I ask, “How much do I owe you?”

  He laughs, then stuffs his hands into his pockets. “For two minutes of work? You don’t owe me a thing… unless, well, how about dinner?”

  “Dinner? Umm—”

  “To be clear, it would be me taking you to dinner,” he says, and there’s a hopeful look in his eyes.

  “But how would that be fair?” I totally get that he’s just found a way to ask me out on a date, but it still seems like an uneven trade.

  “Not too often a girl as pretty as you rolls into a shop like this.” He’s trying to sound harmless, but the words come out like a line he’s used before. “It would be my pleasure to take you out. No pressure of course.”

  No, of course not. Just around the edges, he reminds me of Michael, and I wonder if that’s the kind of thing Michael says to women to get them to trust his intentions. Mention something about no pressure to relax their defenses.

  “I don’t think—”

  “All I’m asking for is dinner,” he breaks in before I can decline. “You pick the place if you’d like. Like I said, no pressure.”

  His persistence should annoy me, and it kind of does, but maybe I’m not giving him a fair chance. Maybe I’m projecting everything I don’t like about Michael onto a guy who’s done nothing but be helpful. And really, how bad could it be to go to one dinner with this guy?

  But then there’s Jack.

  Yes, Jack.

  The man that makes me jealous in even thinking another woman is interested in him. I’d practically wanted to explode as Camille had gone on and on about how beautiful he is.

  But how is that healthy? I’d just extricated myself from an engagement to a man I’d never really loved. And now that I’m finally free, I’m having thoughts about Jack that will never come to fruition. He’d made it clear what we’d done was a mistake. And now that we can work on being friends, a harmless dinner with a decently nice guy couldn’t hurt. If anything, it might even help me.

  “Okay. I’ll go,” I say before I can think better of it.

  “You will?” He looks just as surprised as I feel.

  “Sure. Tomorrow evening work for you?”

  “Uh, yeah… absolutely.” He straightens his posture and drags his fingers behind his ear. “Should I pick you up around six?”

  “I can meet you here.” I might be willing to go out to dinner with him, but I’m not going to be giving out my address.

  “Yeah, sure. If you come by at six, I’ll be waiting.”

  “Sounds good. And thanks again.”

  Then I get into my car and drive away.

  I’m at first elated that I’m going to be going out on a date with a guy I don’t really know. Lord knows I could use the practice considering Michael has been pretty much it for me. And dinner can just be dinner, a date just a date.

  But then the worry starts to seep in, a trickle at a time.

  What if he wants sex?

  God, I hope that’s not what he’s expecting.

  It never was with Michael. If we’d been a normal couple, a real couple, I’d have wanted to sleep with him at the very beginning of our relationship. But that desire never got a foothold on me once I realized he was sleeping with other girls, once I realized I didn’t—and never could—love him. But out in the real world, away from the protection of parents and a fiancé who seemed to want to keep me as innocent as possible, having sex on the first date might just be a real expectation.

  I’ve just passed the red house with the white trim and the faded horse sign outside when the worry starts to really gnaw at me. And by the time I’m driving up to the cabin, I wish I had Will’s number so I could cancel. I park next to Jack’s truck, turn off the ignition and grip the wheel hard, closing my eyes and ordering myself to calm down.

  Stop being such a baby.

  “I’ll go on the date,” I seem to have to say aloud, as if I’m my own mother.

  Doing so makes me feel better, makes me think yet again about doing things that frighten me. The world is a big, sometimes ugly place, and navigating it is going to take practice.

  Gathering my purse, I get out of my car, the engine light thankfully having gone off just as Will said it would, then follow the sound of the electric saw to the back. That’s where I find Jack with his shirt off again, wearing nothing but a pair of cargo shorts and heavy work boots.

  And god, he’s beautiful.

  I don’t make any moves to be seen. In fact, I take a few steps back, angling away from him. It might be kind of creepy, but I just want to watch him for a moment, to let my eyes fall on his broad shoulders, connecting to his muscled arms damp with sweat and then follow even further down to his waist where his shorts hang a little low around his narrow hips, the hair that dips below the material, his bulge outlined but unseen.

  Catching my breath, I swallow hard, lick my lips and then take a couple of steps forward, forcing my eyes back up to his face where he even makes safety goggles look sexy. Now, I want him to notice me, just long enough to let him know I’m back. When he lifts his head, I offer him a quick wave, then turn back around and make my way into the cabin.

  I head right up to my room and grab a tank and a pair of shorts, then march right back downstairs and take a long, hot shower. With steam rising all around me, I’m tempted to drive my fingers between my legs, the memory of seeing Jack out back all I’d need to gratify myself. With labored breaths, I deny myself the release, feeling guilt without fully understanding why.

  Turning the water off, the motorized hum of the electric saw out back has quieted. I towel dry my hair, then slip into my tank and shorts and head into the kitchen where I find Jack pulling down plates from the cupboards. He’s put a shirt on, but his sweat has already soaked halfway through. I should be grossed out, but I’m not, not even close.

&
nbsp; “Hey,” he says, offering me a reserved smile. “You’ll have to excuse all my sweat. You were kind of in the shower.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say, feeling like a jerk for showering when he was the one that actually needed it. “I don’t think I used all of the hot water,” I add on sheepishly.

  He laughs. “Hey, it’s really not a problem. I picked up dinner from town earlier. I didn’t hear from you, but I decided to anyway. I’ve just got it warming up in the oven.”

  “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.” It’s now I remember his note and him asking me to call the cabin phone and leave a message about dinner. “I got so caught up with Barbara that it slipped my mind, but that’s no excuse.”

  “Really, it’s okay.” He takes the plates and sets them on the dinette, then comes back for some glasses.

  “Here, let me help,” I say, nearly bumping into him when I reach for the glasses and not entirely ungrateful when the bare skin of my hand lightly brushes his.

  I step back, like I’d just touched a live electrical current, and I find myself looking into Jack’s eyes, unsure what to say or do about this feeling I have whenever I’m around him.

  He stares back at me, his body frozen, his hand now gripping a glass so hard that I’m afraid it will break.

  “Jack.” I pull my gaze from his eyes and shift it toward the glass.

  “Huh?” He follows my eyes, swallows hard, then pulls the glass down. “There’s lemonade in the fridge,” he says, clearing his throat. “From the place I got the food at in town. I didn’t make it myself or anything.”

  I don’t say a word, just head over to the fridge and pull out the large container of lemonade. When I haul it back to the counter, Jack has taken another glass down, and I pour us both lemonade.

  We go about our business quietly, me bringing the glasses to the table and putting out silverware while Jack opens the oven to take out the warming food.

  The smoke that billows out of it seems to catch us both by surprise.

  “Shit!” He grabs, then pretty much tosses the baking dishes on top of the oven in quick succession as the smoke dissipates through the kitchen. “I burned the hell out of it.”