by Sorbe, Lisa
He snickers, and I giggle, and we’re having just the best time, the best damn time.
We go back to our meals, and after a few minutes, he looks up, little brow furrowed. “I wish Daddy was here. Will he be back for the party tomorrow?”
“Sorry, munchkin. Daddy’s gone for another week.” He squints in concentration, and I give him time to count.
“That’s seven days, right?”
“Yep.” I point my fork at him. “You are so smart, you know that?”
He blushes, of course he blushes, because even though he’s a genius, my little guy is humble.
Just like his dad.
The bell above the entrance jingle-jangles again, and my attention swings toward the sound, as if there’s a rope hitching my head to the door.
This time, I see what I’ve been waiting almost five years to see.
In person, at least.
I’ve seen him in pictures a million and a half times over the last one thousand seven hundred and seventy-one days. Social media is good like that.
But it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
I only want to watch.
He makes his way over to a corner booth, where a woman with black hair in a pageboy cut is waiting with a big fucking smile on her face. His sandy hair is wet with rain, plastered to his forehead and darker due to the afternoon’s deluge. He’s still lean, though. Lean and firm, and his trademark black t-shirt sticks to his form, hugs his broad shoulders.
It’s been raining for days, the last two that Grayson and I have been in Lost Bay, and I take comfort that Universe is mourning right along with me.
I’m only here to watch.
My eyes are greedy little spy cameras, tracking his every move. He runs his fingers through his hair before sliding into the booth next to the bit—I mean woman, next to the woman. Of course they can’t sit across from each other, like normal people. They’ve got to flaunt their goddamn relationship, act as if they’re the only fucking people on the planet. As if everyone wants to see him cradle her cheeks in his artist’s hands and press his perfect lips to her so-not-perfect ones. (I mean, her upper lip is practically non-existent.)
I tear my gaze away from the happy couple (the fucking happy couple) when the waitress approaches, a pitcher of water in her hand and a rubbery smile plumping her lips. She’s thick and short, with a pointy nose and frizzy hair and an unfortunate lack of jawline. But when she smiles at Grayson, he beams back at her, because he doesn’t get caught up in superficial shit like appearances. Nope, not my boy.
He’s a fucking angel.
And he’s teaching me to be such a better person. Did I mention that?
Instinct tells me the waitress is around my age, though lifestyle has packed on the appearance of added years. The tag pinned to the shoulder of her apron reads Gwendolyn A, as if there’s a chance she might be confused for Gwendolyn C, D, M, or Z. The plastic plating is cracked with age, a sign that she’s a lifer here, at this greasy spoon built on the shores of the lake. I can only imagine it’s torture working here, being subjected to sprawling views of Lake Superior yet being stuck inside, a servant to the masses. Gwendolyn A hides her misery well, though. She fills our water glasses, animated as she chats about how busy it is, how much busier than normal it is because there’s a wedding tomorrow and so many people are up from The Cities to attend. She promises Grayson a free piece of apple pie (how apropos!) for being so cute, and when she returns with it, I smile, smile, smile at her and ask about the wedding. “Do you know the couple?”
She nods. “You betcha. Everyone up here knows Ford and Soleil. Their art gallery brings a lot of business to Lost Bay. In fact, the whole town’s pretty much shutting down to attend the nuptials. We’re even closing early tonight so we can start prepping the dinner.” Her cheeks pinch up. “We’re serving fried chicken and waffles. How off-the-wall adorable is that?”
My lips skin back from my teeth, turning my smile into grimace. “Positively precious.”
“Yeah, we’re all really looking forward to it.” She gives me an odd look, though I’m hardly bothered. I doubt she sees much sophistication in this blip of a Podunk town and therefore isn’t quite sure what to make of me. Pretty much everyone in here is dressed in flannel shirts and trapper hats and stiff bargain-bin jeans. There’s constant nodding and smiling and a lot of phrases like “Hey, there!” and “Good to see ya!” thrown around. In fact, we’ve only been here for a couple days and already the PTSD from my youth has resurfaced, reminding me again why I live in a bigger city.
Blissful anonymity.
“Anyway,” she says eventually, her eyes lingering on my wig, “can I get you two anything else?”
I shrug and shake my head. The wig, which is far shorter than my real hair, swings pleasantly against my chin, and I’m reminded of how much fun it is to be someone else. The last time I wore this was two years ago, when I lured a drunk Randall Beaumont out of a holiday party and into a sleazy hotel where I got him hard and naked. The man was so distracted by my tits that he didn’t even notice the amateur photographer I’d hired lurking in the corner, documenting our nasty deed. Long story short (though it’s really not that long), he’s now divorced and no longer lives next door to our lake home.
Unlike Nicholas, Randall didn’t have a prenup. I take comfort in this on the days when missing Grayson’s dad becomes too much.
Remembering how I played a role in Randall’s demise makes me smile wider, so wide that the laugh dancing in my chest rises to the surface, sneaks right out of my mouth. “No. We’re good, good, good here.” I throw Grayson a wink. “Right, munchkin?”
He nods, his mouth too full of pie (apple pie!) to speak.
Gwendolyn A (not to be confused with Gwendolyn B, O, or Y) throws me one last look before leaving, her rubbery lips turned down at the edges. Her thick-soled sneakers squeak on the linoleum floor as she flees, no doubt flummoxed at the sight of such a happy woman. After all, unhappy people, those who are truly miserable right down to the marrow in their bones, can’t tolerate being in the presence of peace, of bliss, of fucking elation.
And I’m elated right now. Elation is my state of being right now. Because I’m in the presence of my trigger, my fucking trigger, and I’m still fucking elated.
God, how much I’ve grown!
Grayson is teaching me to be such a better person.
The laugh is still rolling from my mouth, ringing in my head like bells.
But not an ocean. I don’t have an ocean in my head anymore.
See? I deal with my shit.
I pull the worn-tattered notebook closer to me, and flip back to the beginning, all the way to the beginning, through shoddy poems and various notes and random musings…each and every word detailing my own after.
After Ford walked away.
After I carried my box inside and opened the gift that sat on top. The one that was covered in shiny silver wrapping.
After I opened it and saw this, this leather-bound journal, with a note inscribed inside the cover.
To my beautiful savage,
Don’t write for the world. Don’t even write for me. Write for you.
Yours always and forever, Ford.
Turns out Ford was a liar. A dirty stinking liar.
Because he’s not mine forever. He left at the first sign of trouble, unwilling to appreciate the things I did – the things I do – for love.
But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that forever is malleable. Flexible. Easy to manipulate.
Just like people.
I’m only here to watch.
THE PRAIRIE TALES
One Fluttering Heartbeat
Found in Silence
Beneath the Shine
The Memory of Us
For Those We Love
Lisa lives in Minnesota with her husband and their crazy dog. When she’s not writing, she’s either crocheting or whittling sticks into crochet hooks, which she sells in her Etsy
shop: Wild Hook Designs. She does not like to write about herself in the third person and admits that this measly description of her life is pretty lame.