by P. Dangelico
Everything changed my freshman year at Arizona State. My roommate took one look at my face and said, “I can help you fix that.”
That’s all it took for my entire world to change. Turns out, she’d had a bout of acne too, and her mother had spent thousands on some fancy holistic doctor.
I stopped eating all processed food, dairy, tomatoes, and whole bunch of other foods that cause inflammation. It was really hard, and it didn’t happen quickly, but by the end of the year my skin was completely clear with only an occasional light breakout. By then, however, the damage had already been done.
Point is, I, better than anyone, know what dunking on someone does to their psyche, their self-worth. Whether he heard me or not, I shouldn’t have been talking badly about him to anyone. Was he equally mean to me? Yes. And that still doesn’t excuse my behavior.
It’s a testament to how many times I’ve been told I was unattractive, or made to feel that way, that his insult failed to leave a mark. Besides, it’s not like I would ever expect someone like Turner to be attracted to someone like me. I’m cute now. At least, I think so. But despite his terrible personality, straight Turner is way, way out of my league. And I’m perfectly okay with that.
So after two sleepless nights and a lot of soul searching, I’m determined to grow some hair on my chest and apologize. To that end, I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. That’s generally the time Turner returns from his morning run around the lake, and I plan to ambush him with kindness.
On cue, a tall dark figure approaches on the path. He’s wearing a black wool cap and some sort of technical running pants and jacket. A sporty Grim Reaper, if you will. Against the backdrop of a pink stained dawn, he seems even more hostile. And sexy if I’m being completely honest. My heart skips a beat.
“Showtime.”
He slows to a walk and starts measuring his heart rate. That’s my cue to jump out of the back of the Austen holding a bag of fresh muffins Nan made the night before.
“Hi Turner!”
Startled by my sudden appearance, his face whips around. Seeing me, he frowns. Not an encouraging start, but I persevere.
“Hi. Hi, so…I got these for you.” I hold up the paper bag, which he stares at with indifference. Sadly, he looks disinclined to take it. This is not at all awkward.
“Can we talk?” He responds to this with another blank stare. “Please, it’ll only take a minute.”
Exhaling tiredly, he pulls the pods out of his ears…and waits.
“Yeah, so…uh, I just wanted to apologize for the other day. I shouldn’t have said that. I really…I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I really did think you were gay. But that was obviously a mistake on my part. Not that you gave off any gay vibes or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. I love gay people––” Yikes, this is not going well. “That’s all on me. I have no excuse. And I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Here”––I thrust the muffins at him and he unwillingly takes them––“Nan made them. Anyway, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”
Still no change in expression. Man, this guy is tough.
I wait. I wait some more. For him to accept. For him to say anything at this point. For him to show some freaking mercy. I’m freezing my butt off out here.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I jog in place, and his critical gaze rakes up and down my thermal onesey PJs, the one with smily faces on it.
“That it?” he finally bestows upon me.
This is not how I saw this going in my head. “Umm, yeah, I guess.”
Then he hands me back the bag of muffins and walks inside.
“The heck is he doing…” I murmur to myself. Because that’s what I usually do when I’m spying, surveilling, whatever. Turner’s out back, going back and forth from the woodshed, for the last twenty minutes.
Leaning closer to the window over the kitchen country sink, I crane my neck to watch him come out swinging an ax. For a man who despises me, he looks way too comfortable swinging an ax.
We haven’t so much as shared a passing glance since the day of my botched apology a week ago. He does his best to ignore me and I return the favor.
I hear him, though. I hear him loud and clear. I hear him get up at 4 a.m. I hear the door bang shut when he goes for his daily run. I hear the shower running, and I hear the Expedition peal out of the driveway when he leaves for the farmhouse. But he’s a paying guest, so I keep my mouth shut and pull the pillow over my head.
I thought about apologizing again, but that’s out of the question. Every time he’s anywhere near me, his electric fencing goes on and I don’t want to get zapped again. I’m done with his attitude. I apologized repeatedly. If he doesn’t want to accept it, too bad so sad.
Absently, I turn on the sink and the water sputters. Great. Something else to fix. After weeks of dealing with clogged toilets, thermostat issues, and a young couple staying in the Miller cottage keeping the neighbors up with their sexscapades, I’ve decided that this cannot go on much longer. My intellect will not allow it.
Which is why I’ve made a plan to check if the town newspaper, The Gazette, is hiring––as soon as possible.
A chill runs through me and I’m reminded to add wood to the fireplaces. This house was originally built in the 1800s and even with all the renovations Nan and Dad made over the years, it’s still drafty.
Grabbing my sister’s down coat and the leather carrier, I throw it on and walk out back to fetch some wood. Turner is still there––except now he’s shirtless. Give me a break. Even with the sun out, it’s in the 30s, which for April is completely normal. In contrast, I have so many layers on I look like the Michelin tire man.
He places a piece of wood on the stump, raises his arms above his head, muscles tensing and rippling, and comes down hard on it. Tossing the two pieces aside, he sets up another one.
“Put it away, Turner. No one here is interested.” Walking past him, I reach a neat pile siting against the side of the woodshed.
“You’ve been staring at me from the kitchen window for the past half hour”––he brings the ax down hard, grunting as it impacts the wood––“so I beg to differ.”
Heat blankets my face while I clutch my jacket like an uptight heroine from an 18th century novel. “It’s more gross fascination. Like being at the zoo. Or a freak show.”
I don’t know what it is about this man that brings out the worst in me. Or is it the best? Whatever it is, my practically nonexistent ability to defend myself rises like a phoenix from the ashes whenever he speaks.
Turner stops and leans on the handle of the ax, chest heaving as he takes deep breaths. I look away, out yonder, but as a suspicious length of silence grows curiosity gets the best of me and I’m forced to look at him again.
A slow sinister smile transforms the brute force of his face into something not at all unappealing. And this is where things take a turn for the worse because a creeping sensation of dread fills my chest. God help me, I can’t be attracted to him.
“Difference is…you can’t touch those animals.”
He’s got me so on edge I start to walk away. Then, realizing I came out here for a reason, I make a quick U-turn. Aaand come up short when I find him standing right behind me, holding two pieces of wood.
My gaze moves up his chest, covered in a light dusting of dark hair, nipples pointing from the bite in the air. It slowly move over his Adam’s apple and his tense jaw. By the time I reach his face, his expression is back to being as serious and intense as always.
Watching me intently, he places the wood in the leather carrier.
“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter, because it always pays to be kind.
The quiet chuckle I hear come out of him as I walk back inside sets my teeth on edge though.
After lighting the fireplace in Dad’s office, I get busy looking through the bookings for this calendar year. If you like winter sports, this is the place to be. Skiing, skating, ice hockey
, hiking––we’ve got it all. And if sports aren’t for you, there’s always sightseeing and shopping. I can’t recall a single winter that we haven’t been packed, attracting guests from Boston, New York, even as far as Japan, and this year is no different. We’re sold out until the end of March.
Carrying two coffee cups, Dad walks in having returned from his trip to the hardware store. “Everything look good?” he asks, placing one on the desk.
He knows the answer to that; Maggie always ran a tight ship.
“We’re completely sold out for the winter.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. The Austen should’ve been rented out.
Nodding, he sits in his favorite wing chair by the fireplace. It brings back memories––most of them not very pleasant.
I can still see his face when he sat me and Jackie down to tell us Zelda was not coming back. I can still remember my disbelief. How I accused him of being a liar. That it was his fault she’d left. How I defended her. Shame makes me hot under the collar.
“We are.”
“I don’t want you to lose the income from the Austen. I can move in here.”
Between the cat and Nan smoking I can’t say I’m thrilled, but the alternative seems wasteful. There are three empty bedrooms upstairs.
Taking a sip, Dad watches me over the rim of his cup. “We’re not losing anything. Jake rents it because he doesn’t want anyone next door. He said you could have it.”
My insides melt. This is terrible news. The absolute worst news possible. “He did…” I say completely forlorn. “Why is he living here, anyway? I mean, other than that farmhouse needs to be condemned.”
“Don’t know…” Dad shrugs. “He had plans to demo the farmhouse and build last fall and never got around to it.”
It tells you the state of things between us that a random act of kindness from him evokes dread. I’m going to have to do some serious groveling. Lovely.
Chapter 8
I saw a documentary once on Nat Geo Wild about salmons. It explained how they hatch in fresh water rivers, but spend most of their lives out to sea. Once they reach maturity, around three or four years of age, they return to the very same river guided by the magnetic field of the earth, swim all the way back upstream, reproduce, and die.
Sad as all get out. That’s not my point, however.
What struck me as interesting is how pretty the salmon were when swimming downstream and living in the vastness of the great Pacific Ocean.
Their bodies evenly formed. Sleek, silver torpedos.
And in comparison, how ugly and deformed they became once they had battled innumerable elements––bears hunting for their favorite food, waterfalls, downed trees, beaver dams, shallow rivers beds––to meet their fate and keep the species alive. Their bravery and incredible feats of strength made them victors in the mating game. Their scars and misshapen heads meant that they had succeeded, and in turn, rewarded.
If only that were true of us humans.
Like a salmon swimming upstream, hardship has changed the shape of me. My insides and my outsides. At least, I claim it has.
For years, I’ve taken pride in the fact that I didn’t let my past dictate my future. That I didn’t stay mired in self-doubt and didn’t make excuses for my lack of confidence. Instead, I worked hard to change it. Because I am not my history. My history is only a small part of me.
Then again, my resolve has never really been tested before. Ben and everyone else I worked with didn’t know the Pizza Face kid whose mother left them for another woman. It was easy to convince them I was like everybody else when I didn’t have to change their mind of who I had been.
To that end, I can’t hide at the hotel forever.
The sidewalks of Main Street are crowded with locals and tourists. It’s a weekday so it’s not as bad as weekends and holidays, but busy nonetheless.
On the way to the offices of The Gazette, I decide to live dangerously and pop into a gourmet coffee shop and grab a latte. Running into someone, anyone, that knew me then and having to explain why I’m back is not something I want to do right now but I can’t live in fear either.
As I’m walking out, stepping onto the ice and snow slicked concrete, I almost crash, latte first, into someone entering.
“Whoops, sorry,” I automatically call out.
At first I don’t recognize her. The sexy razor sharp pink bob. The tiny diamond stud in her nose. The perfectly applied makeup. It’s all new. However, the smile and the laughter in her eyes is unmistakable.
“Gina?” I say, both surprised and happy to see her.
“Carrie? Oh my God, when did you get back?”
Throwing her arms around me, she hugs me tightly while I hold up the take-out cup to avoid spilling it all over her. The girl has not changed one bit.
“A few weeks ago.”
“It’s so good to see you. And I go by Regina these day. You know, since Imma business owner and a pillar of the community.”
I can’t stop grinning. It’s not just good to see her; it’s great. “Good for you. Which business?”
“Across the street,” she tells me, motioning to a stately, turn-of-the-century red brick building. “The bar.”
A brass sign hangs over the heavy wood and glass door. Queen, it reads.
“Wow. Nice place.”
“It’s a lot of work, but it’s mine.”
“You did good,” I say, taking it all in. I guess I wasn’t the only one with big aspirations.
Smiling, she tugs on my sleeve. “What about you?” Despite the smile, something in her expression tells me she knows.
“You know, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, cringing. “Enzo’s on Twitter a lot––probably too much. He told me.”
Gina’s older brother. “He’s a fan, I take it?”
He pert little nose scrunches and she nods. “Dallas all the way. You look great, by the way. All glowed up.”
“Speak for yourself.”
She’s lost some of the extra weight, but her curves are still there and her face is as pretty as ever. Especially her poreless skin; it’s the first thing I noticed about her when we met over a decade ago.
“I should get going. I have to open and let my crew in. Come by the bar sometime soon. I’ll make you a cocktail, and we can catch up.”
We part ways after I promise to come by and she hugs me again.
By the time I reach the offices of The Gazette my fingers are ice cold and my cheeks raw from the windchill. It’s April and still colder than Zelda’s heart.
I take my red knit hat off and make an attempt to fix my staticky hair. It’s down today. Jackie would approve. Then I push on the glass door and enter reception.
A young man, early twenties, slight in build and features, glances up from his computer screen. He has light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He checks me out and offers a genuine smile. “Can I help you?”
Time to dance.
At this point I can only hope they’re clueless about my scandalous behavior on Twitter. “Hi, I’m Carrie Anderson,” I say, stepping forward, I place the manila envelope on the counter. “I was hoping to speak to someone about possibly working here?”
His blank, deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare leads me to rush into my pitch. “I have a BA in Journalism from Arizona State. I––”
“We’re not hiring,” he interrupts with an apologetic smile. “But let me get Hal, our EIC. He might know of something.”
The little hope I churned up on my walk over here dwindles until I’m silently brooding. I can’t even get a job at the crappy local paper.
In the meantime, the young man picks up my resume and walks to the back of the two-room office, disappearing through an open doorway. A few minutes later he waves me in. He’s slim and tall, taller than Jake.
Sitting behind an ancient metal desk is a black man, thin, bald, in his late sixties is my guess, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and a short neat silver beard. He smiles war
mly and I immediately get a good feeling about him.
“Have a seat please, Miss or is it Mrs. Anderson?”
I take him up on his invitation to sit and push my coat off. “Miss. But please call me Carrie.”
“I’m Hal Rodgers. Gray says you’re looking for a job?”
I glance over my shoulder at Gray, and he smiles encouragingly. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
“Yes, sir.” I nod, brushing my sweaty hands down the leg of my wool pants. “I graduated top of my class from Arizona State. I was EIC of The State Press, our school paper…” My voice fades away when I realize Hal Rodgers is deep in thought, staring at my resume.
Finally glancing up, he takes a deep breath and drops the paper on the desk. “I won’t mince words. I’m not hiring. We’re not in a good financial position. I’m bleeding subscribers. Social media has killed my readership and no one wants to see what’s behind the paywall.”
Down go my hopes and dreams.
“But…” he starts again. “But I’m willing to give you a shot.” Resurrected, my hopes and dreams soar. “On a freelance basis. If I like what you bring me, I’ll pay you for it.”
Not exactly what I was looking for, but under the circumstances, I’ll take the chance to prove myself.
“Hard news?” I ask even though he knows by my resume that it’s clearly my lane and I should stay there.
“No,” he answers, sitting forward. Elbows on the desktop, he takes his eyeglasses off and rubs his eyes. “Hard news for us is dead. Twitter killed it. We can’t keep up that kind of pace.” A heavy pause follows in which he examines me closely. “I want you to do a lifestyle piece. My only request is that the focus be local.”
A lifestyle piece…huh. I did take that one creative writing class. “Deal,” I say, rising from the chair.
“Where are you going?” Hal says, amused by my abrupt departure. Hal should smile more. The one-sided grin he’s leveling at me make him look ten years younger.