Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

I stare at it, then at him, my brow quirked. I’m not sure if I should laugh or be pissed. “Is this how you deal with an emotional woman? Give her a shot so she’ll calm down?”

  Adair leans his elbows on the counter, putting his face dangerously close to mine. “Not normally, no.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then his lips slide into a crooked smile, taking the sternness from his expression. “But I doubt you’d be, uh, open to my usual method.”

  I fumble for a response, my mouth working uselessly. “Wha—? You’re ridic— That’s just… I mean… Well… Total insult… I can’t…”

  Adair shakes his head, his beard twitching. “You’re darling when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”

  I shoot him a dirty look.

  He raps his knuckles against the counter and pulls away. “I’m going to shower, get dressed, and then head to the store. Where,” he says, reaching his arms over his head, grabbing his wrists and stretching, “I plan to buy out their entire bakery section. And then later I’ll help you take it all down to the kitchen, okay?” His pants slip down his hips a bit with the movement, and he absently wraps his fingers around the waistband and hitches them back up.

  I drag my eyes to his. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “No, I don’t.” He winks at me, a gesture which finally brings a small smile to my face, and turns to leave the room. “And by the way,” he says, not bothering to look back, “that apple pie is mine.”

  I roll my eyes and look down at the glass he left behind. Drawing it close, I stare at its contents, getting lost in the whiskey’s velvety texture, its smooth, rich smell, and think about my friend.

  Yep. I’m pretty sure I could love this man.

  I’m pretty sure I already do.

  Don’t you dare.

  The voice is tinny but clear, coming from somewhere just behind my right ear. A warning that slithers down my spine like a coldblooded serpent. The slippery unease coils briefly through my gut before retracing its path and settling somewhere along the back of my neck, an oppressive weight I feel in my bones.

  Remember the last time?

  The voice has become a hiss, and my shoulders stiffen, rising to ward off the rustle of memories it seems determined to invoke.

  Memories I have no desire to revisit.

  But instead of ignoring it, I find myself answering.

  “Yeah,” I say, and I’m embarrassed to hear the wobble, the defeat in my words. “I do.”

  I grab the shot, sink it back, and reach to fill another.

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  Before the fireworks had started and we made our way down the sloping hill toward the bandstand to get the best view, we ran into a few of Josh’s friends from the baseball team near the entrance to the park. It was a humorous exchange, with hand bumps and dirty jokes and a lot of trash talk about last weekend’s game and yesterday’s practice where, apparently, one of the players ripped a hole in the butt of his pants when he slid into third base. They were older guys, a mix of juniors and seniors, and when the fire in the sky sizzled down to nothing and all that was left to illuminate the night were the few stars poking holes in the inky darkness, Josh sought them out, with me at his heels.

  Sometime during the show we’d also lost Brian and Taffy, and after finding Josh’s teammates, the two re-appeared. Taffy smelled funny and her eyes were all glassy, and when I asked her where she’d been, she just shot me a silly little smirk while Brian laughed and patted me on the head. Josh rolled his eyes before turning back to a guy named Jonathan, who happened to look more like a man than a boy and kept dropping his eyes to my bare midriff.

  My heart sunk, mostly because I was almost certain that eye-roll had been meant for me. Listening to Josh and his friends talk, and even to Brian and Taffy bantering back and forth, it seemed I was somehow completely in the dark about stuff everyone else around me was already up-to-speed on. I felt so out of my element among this crew, a pathetic little baby like Taffy had called me so many times before. And all at once, I was certain she was right.

  I didn’t have a lot of friends. Sure, I had acquaintances, classmates I shared a lunch table with and nothing more. There was Addy, who was even more awkward around people than I was and who still wore saddle shoes and polyester pants like the seventies had never ended. Carrie Beck moved down from Canada in the fifth grade and, three years later, was still mocked for her accent. Our lunch table had taken her in because, despite all the eh’s and the weird way she said about (it sounded like she was saying aboot), she was hilarious. And her mom—who must have been desperate for her daughter to make friends—always packed extra cupcakes in her lunch especially for us. This was something Norma Delvin appreciated, who was as overweight as she was shy. As low on the totem pole as I was, even I’d heard the rumor that she was too big to be weighed on the nurse’s scale during last year’s Presidential Fitness test. According to Tim DeMornay, who followed poor Norma in line, they’d had to bring in a special scale, the kind they used in veterinarian clinics to weigh large dogs the size of miniature horses. I usually refused to put much stock in rumors—our class alone made mountains out of molehills and fabricated stories that were so ridiculous I was surprised they stayed afloat at all—but the evidence related to this one was hard to refute. Norma was nice but large.

  Still, I didn’t use it as a reason not to talk to her or as an excuse to treat her any different. Everyone deserved to have friends, right? Someone that had your back, helped pick you up when the rest of the world was hell bent on tearing you down…

  The few other members of our sad little lunch crew were like me, introverted bookworms who would rather spend our weekends hanging with our fictional friends than real ones made of flesh and blood. But during the week, when the battlefield that was junior high was filled with lashing tongues and manicured claws and dirty looks, we were there for each other.

  Being a part of any group was better than not being a part of one at all. Right?

  I did, however, have a few friends on my swim team, and during the summers I made up for the lack of social interaction during the school year. But they went to different schools, and some even lived in the next town over, so once the season was done, so was the closeness. Until the next year, when we’d meet sometime in May for pre-season practice and, after a few clumsy attempts at conversation, the relationships would pick up right where they had left off. It was sort of like having camp friends; my summers were lived in an entirely different reality than the rest of the year. And weirdly enough, I was like a different person around these girls. The hot and humid months between June and August were when I came out of my shell, lived my normally sequestered life among the living. I didn’t hold anything back; I laughed, I was funny. Heck, forget funny. I was downright friggin’ hilarious. More than once I wondered what my swim mates would think of me if they saw me in school, sitting at my table filled with outcasts, quiet as a mouse and nose buried in a book as the occasional straw or spork or dollop of mashed potatoes sailed over our heads.

  I ignored Josh’s friend, wrapping my arms around my waist and feigning interest in the crowds, which were rapidly dwindling now that the fireworks were over. I recognized people from my school and noticed most of them heading our way like they had propellers on their tail ends. A couple were girls—supremely popular girls—and their added presence in our growing circle made me more nervous than the boys who had impossibly wide shoulders and five o’clock shadows.

  One girl in particular tweaked Josh’s sleeve as she strolled past, tossing a flirtatious grin over her shoulder before getting sidetracked by a guy who was built like a truck and wearing his baseball jersey over a pair of Hawaiian swim trunks. It was Suzanne McKenzie, the most beautiful, popular, smartest, (insert admirable quality here) girl in our entire grade, if not the entire school. And I didn’t doubt her charismatic charm would carry over into high school; she already seemed to know practically everyone in the group. Despite being an entire (if not a cou
ple) grades below the oldest guy here, her relaxed demeanor made it obvious that she’d been hanging with them for a while now.

  The group grew in size and, as it did, we started to move. Someone yelled, “Party over at Thompson’s!” and a cheer went up between the kids. Because despite how old some of us looked, that’s still what we were. Kids. A moniker no teen would admit to after hitting the tender age of thirteen, of course, when hormones started firing overtime, flinging still growing bodies into states of complete and utter turmoil. It was a title that was vehemently denied, and a battle that girls, at least, waged with makeup and shaved legs and bared skin. Most teenagers were so eager to cross the divide and jump straight into adulthood that they didn’t even look before leaping in to a life they were nowhere near prepared for.

  As for me, the rebellious desire to shake the youth that had confined me for so many years was almost reckless, sort of like teetering on the edge of a cliff, bouncing around on the tips of my toes, daring gravity to pull me over the edge.

  I wanted to fall.

  My mom thought I was too young to spend the weekend alone?

  Well, I’d show her.

  I suppose I really was too childish, not to mention enthralled with the direction the night was taking, to see how my way of thinking proved her very point.

  Suzanne huddled under the arm of Hawaiian Swim Trunks and, much to my surprise, Josh mirrored the gesture and wrapped his arm around my waist. It felt weird to be touched like this, in such an intimate way, with his warm fingers gently squeezing the exposed flesh around my middle. But it was also glorious. Completely glorious. The tingle that ran from his touch fluttered up my side and burst into goosebumps along my arms, the back of my neck.

  I didn’t feel very much like a kid when Josh pulled me close—and stayed close—while we walked the three blocks to the party. Nor did I feel like a kid when Taffy pushed a glass of pop laced with “just a touch—like a teaspoon, I promise” of rum into my hand. And when Josh sat next to me on the couch, his hand creeping higher and higher up on my thigh as the night wore on, I didn’t feel like a kid at all.

  The party grew more and more rowdy as one hour slipped hazily into another, and I was so caught up in the newness of it all that I didn’t even notice Suzanne and her friends shooting dirty looks our way until Taffy pointed it out. But then Josh’s hand slid higher, and Brian filled my glass with something he said was just “grape soda on steroids, nothing to worry about” and I forgot to think anything of it.

  I’m buzzed when I set out to meet The Clint—

  Clint, Clint, Clint, your boyfriend’s name is just Clint

  —for lunch. Thankfully, he agreed to change our meeting spot from The Bookstore downtown (one of my favorite pubs because of all the books that line the walls) and hook up at Rusty Bucket, Adair’s brewery, instead. This, thankfully, saves me from heading into town in my, uh, condition.

  I’m surprised he agreed to it, to be honest. The man doesn’t typically go out of his way for anyone. Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway.

  Eleven thirty comes and goes, and since Adair still hasn’t arrived back from the store yet so I can bum a ride, I dig through his closet and pull out a mishmash of winter garb, whatever I can find that will be warm enough for a half mile trek in single digit temps. The warmest thing I brought with me yesterday is the pleather jacket I found on sale at Target earlier this fall. Stylish but hardly warm, wearing it outside for more than five minutes would almost guarantee frostbite. I come across an old red ski jacket in the back of the closet that looks like it will do the trick and proceed to wrap myself up in layers, tucking my fists deep in the coat’s long sleeves since Adair’s gloves are way too big.

  The air is frigid when I step outside, and I pull up the knit scarf so it covers the lower half of my face. The sky is clear, though, and the sun bouncing off the snow makes me squint enough that I pop back inside for my sunglasses. Then, using my spare set of keys, I lock the door behind me and head out to walk the half mile from the house to the brewery. The body pillow I bought for Clint and wrapped in shiny red paper keeps slipping through my arms as I pick my way over the frozen chunks of snow along the dirt road, so I fling it over my shoulder and laugh out loud when I realize how close to Santa Claus I probably look.

  Yep. Buzzzzzzed.

  By the time I reach the brewery, I’m sweating. The scarf is stuck to my face, and when I pull it down before walking in the door, my skin tingles when it meets the cold air. The near zero temps have cleared my head, though, restoring most of my composure. Still, I order a coffee from the bar, figuring the five shots I downed between nine and eleven this morning are enough to last me the entire Christmas holiday. And since I haven’t been able to handle a hangover since I turned thirty back in June, I also snag a bottled water from the employee lounge for good measure. Then I pick a table in the far corner, as far as possible from the other patrons, and settle in to wait for The Clint.

  I mean, Clint.

  Damn it, Adair. You’re rubbing off on me.

  I drape Clint’s gift over the chair next to me, take a sip of coffee, and let my gaze trail over the room. There are more people here than I would have thought given that it’s Christmas Eve Day. Then again, it is a holiday and most people have been given a reprieve from the weekly grind. They’re ready to celebrate; laughter fills the space, the buzz from both the brew and the holiday season lifting people’s spirits and letting them forget, if only for a brief moment, that they’re just another cog in the wheel of society, going through the motions with no real control over their fates.

  Every once in a while, the numbness that indifference brings with it lifts and I wonder if I might just be full out depressed. Because every day of my life is spent just going through the motions, like a cog in a wheel, one really no different than the other: work, volunteer, home, falling asleep to dreams that never materialize…

  Repeat.

  And lately, of course, there’s Clint.

  Adding another sugar packet to my coffee, I realize that now would be the perfect time to end things with him. It’s not like we’re going anywhere. And this whole living together thing has gone on way too long. Granted, it’s not truly his fault. He never came right out and asked if he could stay. But he did drop enough subtle hints that I felt increasingly uncomfortable ignoring them.

  Still, I was the one who made the final decision. I was the one who couldn’t say no.

  I’m swallowing the last of the coffee-flavored sugar from the bottom of my mug when Clint walks in. Even in a dark leather jacket and scarf he looks like he belongs more in southern California than in Iowa. His hair is damp, like he just jumped out of the shower a few minutes ago, his curls pressed against his tan forehead. It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, yet he looks like a stranger.

  And then I realize he might as well be. I don’t know a lot about him. We don’t indulge in deep, getting-to-know-you discussions the way most couples do. Aside from a few superficial things, I don’t really know much more about him today than the night we met.

  He’s hot, the sex is okay and, after a few drinks, we usually have fun together.

  But does that make a relationship?

  Deep down, I know it doesn’t. But I also realize it may just be the best I can get. I’ve never been able to attract the type of person that’s the total package—men who know what they want and go for it with the sort of confidence that conveys they already have it.

  Those men see right through me. Know right away that I don’t have what they want.

  The men like Clint, well… They just see opportunity.

  He jerks his chin my way before pointing to the bar, indicating he’ll be right over after he gets a drink. I hold up the brew I ordered for him a few minutes ago, an ale called Dark Wolf or something, and set it down in front of the seat across from me.

  I may not know a lot about the man, but I know what he drinks.

  As he makes his way over, I c
an’t help but notice that his hands are empty, and my heart constricts a little with the thought that he didn’t even care enough to get me anything. That he didn’t, at the very least, put on the façade of caring. But then again, it shouldn’t even matter, because I’m about to break up with him—

  I am, I am, I am

  —and this just gives me one more reason to do so.

  “What’s up?” He slips into the seat across from mine, flashing a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial. I find myself wondering how much feeling is behind it. Is he just going through the motions, like me? Or does he really want to be here?

  Sans gift would suggest probably not.

  I watch him take a big swig of his drink. Knowing he has a six-hour drive ahead of him, I ordered the small glass. “Not much,” I finally say. “You look nice.”

  He shrugs, his lips turning down at the corners in a smug expression, an attempt to display a modesty he doesn’t have. When we first met, I found his personality funny. Charming, even. Because I thought it was all a joke—this arrogance—and by the time I realized it wasn’t, that he actually thought the moon, stars, and all-that-is-below them revolved around him, I had already given him a key.

  Nope. The best judge of character, I am not.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that Clint is an awful person. I’ve seen glimpses of softness, of kindness in him. And those glimpses have been enough for me to hold out hope that I’ll see more.

  Still, I don’t expect him to return the compliment, and he doesn’t. Just looks around the room, fingers resting lightly around his glass. I don’t get the vibe he wants to be here. Meeting to exchange gifts is just something we’re supposed to do because we’re quote unquote attached. “Old Scotty’s place is hoppin’ today, huh?” He lifts the glass and grins a wicked grin before taking another drink.

  I grind my teeth.

  The Clint.

  Scotty.

  What these two men haven’t put me through in the last few months; it’s like I’ve been stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last time they were in the same room together, fists were close to flying. And to this day, neither one will tell me what it was about.