Grace for Drowning

by Maya Cross

  "What are you doing here?" she asked eventually.

  "I work here."

  She exhaled sharply. "I mean, what are you doing here now?" She nodded toward the empty room. "In case you hadn't noticed, the crowd isn't exactly rowdy this time of night."

  I shrugged. "You can't be too careful. There might be more ninjas around."

  This time, nothing. Oh well, one out of two ain't bad. "I'll take my chances," she said.

  "Well, perhaps I have ulterior motives."

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't say."

  "The truth is, I've been thinking about branching out, career wise. You know, grow my experience and all that good stuff, so I thought I could help you with the cleaning."

  She did a double take. "Cleaning?"

  I nodded.

  She folded her arms across her chest. She was clearly pissed but, truth be told, that only made her look hotter. There's something about tiny women with huge tempers that just pushes my buttons. The fact that her current stance was squeezing her tits together also helped. Yeah, I know, I'm a pervert, but you try being an athlete on a bout of self-imposed abstinence and see how long your thoughts remain pure. I swear to God, some days I felt like my blood was pure testosterone.

  "I've got it under control," she said, in a tone that could have frozen water.

  I shrugged. "Well, I think I'm going to stay, all the same. I'll get these tables over here." I leaned across the bar to scoop up a spare washcloth, unable to ignore the way her body tensed when I drew near. Fuck, what kind of bastard fantasizes about a girl who is obviously going through some major shit? Even if I wasn't on sabbatical from all things feminine, that was going to be the last thing on Grace's mind.

  Obviously my presence wasn't welcome, but what was she going to do? Run to Charlie? An employee offering to do extra unpaid work was hardly grounds for a complaint. She had no choice but to tolerate me, and she knew it.

  I cleaned in silence for a while, acutely aware that Grace was still staring at me. I wished I knew what was going through her head. I was walking a tightrope, and I had no idea how much pressure I could apply before it snapped.

  "Why are you doing this?" she asked eventually, her voice now very small.

  I turned, looking her dead in the eyes. "Like I said, I just want to help." I knew the double meaning of that wouldn't be lost on her.

  She drew a long breath and then her tongue grazed her lips, and I found my thoughts hurtling back into inappropriate territory. Eyes on the table, Logan.

  Nothing else was said that night, but that was fine. Forcing conversation hadn't worked with her so far, so I was happy to try sitting back and letting it come when she was ready. For now, it was enough to let her know that I wasn't giving up, and that I'd be there if she needed support. Companionship is one of the best defenses for people in her position. Even silent company is better than nothing. It's when you're alone with your thoughts that shit can really get dark. Besides, nobody likes exposing their weakness in front of others. Charlie taught me that. Deep down, anyone who drinks knows they've got a problem, and they're not proud of it, which is why they usually do it alone. Sure, shame is a pretty low way to approach this issue, but I'd take what I could get.

  Obviously I couldn't be there all the time. The periods at the end of her shift were just a drop in the bucket. But everything starts from a seed.

  *****

  We continued in that rhythm for some time. There were nights when Grace wasn't rostered on late, and others where Joy hung around to keep her company, and on those occasions I kept my distance, but whenever she was alone, I slipped in there and made myself busy.

  The first few times, she looked poised to say something, but then her jaw took on a stubborn set I'd come to think of as her "fuck you" face, and she'd simply turn her back and ignore me. So we cleaned in silence. It was a little odd at first, but soon it became something of a ritual, almost meditative. Even with no conversation, I enjoyed watching her work. Hell, I think I could have enjoyed watching her do just about anything, and in this particular environment, there were plenty of things that required attention both up high and down low, which made the view all the more irresistible. I did my best not to make it obvious, but occasionally, my concentration lapsed and she caught me, which always resulted in this adorable little huff and a furrowing of her brow. It made me feel like an asshole, but what could I do? I could ignore her about as easily as I could ignore my hand if it were on fire. Look but don't touch, that was my mantra.

  I wasn't the only one with a wandering gaze. I often noticed her studying me out of the corner of her eye, sometimes looking curious, but usually just exasperated. My unique brand of stubborn love was really starting to piss her off.

  Despite my stony reception, I was making some progress. As far as I could tell, she'd stopped drinking mid-shift. She still showed up looking buzzed, but that always seemed to have faded by the time cleanup came, and I never noticed her slipping out back again. It was a small victory — most of the damage was happening when she was firmly out of sight — but it was something.

  Finally, after a week and a half of ghostly quiet, she cracked.

  "What are you, a fucking monk or something? How is this not driving you nuts?"

  I suppressed a smile and turned slowly to face her. She was behind the bar with her hands on her hips, her eyebrows slightly raised as if to say, "Yeah, I'm talking? So what?"

  "I was in the military. On a mission, talking can sometimes be a great way to get yourself shot, so I learned pretty quickly how to shut up."

  "Would it change anything if I told you I was getting ready to shoot you myself?"

  I chuckled. "I've been shot at before. Still here."

  She glowered.

  "You'd be doing this alone if I wasn't around," I continued. "Can't you just pretend like I'm not?"

  Her lips compressed. "Believe me, I'm trying."

  I'd known guys like her in the army, guys that couldn't stand the quiet. They were the ones that would talk your ear off during downtime, just for the sake of making noise. They'd usually grown up in big cities; children of bustle and noise. In light of the sort of shit we went through, I wondered if they still felt the same way.

  "I actually like the silence, truth be told," I said. "It's peaceful."

  "Well, it's driving me crazy."

  "I can see that." I gave her my most innocent smile, which I admit, probably doesn't look innocent in the slightest. "I guess we'll just have to find something to talk about then."

  The glare she shot my way told me exactly how she felt about that. I shrugged and returned my attention to the floor I was mopping. The ball was in her court.

  It only took another five minutes.

  "Are you fighting this month?" She continued to scrub the bench below, not meeting my eyes. It was a victory, but I wasn't about to make a big deal of it. As far as I was concerned, we were just two colleagues killing time.

  "Yep. Charlie's found some new guy for this round. A hotshot from a bigger league over in Chicago. Calls himself 'Caesar.' Apparently he's a bit of a hero over there. Should be interesting."

  "You're not worried?"

  "Worrying doesn't get you anywhere. I'll get in there, do my thing, and whatever happens, happens."

  She raised an eyebrow. "That's very Zen of you."

  "That may be the first time anyone has used the word Zen in reference to someone being punched in the face repeatedly."

  She didn't stifle her laugh this time. It was a wonderful sound, exuberant and full of energy, and it brought a smile to my face. In that moment, I could picture her before whatever tragedy had stormed through her life; a gorgeous, effervescent, carefree girl who warmed the room around her. That image only hardened my resolve to help. There were traces of her old self in there somewhere. She could beat this, whatever the hell it was.

  "I'm still not sure I understand how your friendship with Charlie works. You two are close, yeah?" she asked.

 
I nodded. Charlie was the only thing I had left resembling family at that point.

  "But he spends a good amount of his time scouring the country for guys who might be able to beat you to a pulp."

  Now it was my turn to laugh. "When you put it like that, it does sound kind of fucked up. But he knows why I fight. He knows I welcome the competition. I wouldn't have it any other way."

  She studied me for several seconds. "And why do you fight?"

  I hesitated. Working in a bar, chatting with hundreds of random strangers every night, you get pretty good at small talk, but I wasn't much for going any deeper than that. Once you start delving down that rabbit hole, you're liable to fall in and never see the light of day again. Since I'd been back, I could count the number of real honest-to-god conversations I'd had on one hand. But if I wanted her to open up, I couldn't expect it to be a one way street.

  "It's the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore."

  Her eyes widened a fraction. "That's kind of messed up."

  I shrugged. "I know. The military is a messed up organization, and it produces some messed up individuals. Sometimes, when you spend years running on fear and adrenaline, your wiring starts getting crossed. Your body doesn't work right, anymore. I've tried doing other things, but I can never make myself concentrate on them for very long. Eventually, I always wind up back in the ring."

  I wasn't sure how she'd react to that. On the personal baggage scale, that answer sits somewhere between "unhealthy" and "this dude is a goddamn psychopath." But she didn't run screaming for the door. If anything, she seemed more curious than frightened.

  "So why not just stay in the army?" she asked.

  My body tensed. We were heading down a dangerous path now. There were limits to what I wanted to share, to what I could share. "Being back home may be hard, but it's nothing compared to being over there. I can't do that again."

  I expected more questions, but she simply appraised me for a few seconds, then nodded and returned to work. It was a relief not to have to delve any deeper.

  "What about you?" I asked, not wanting to lose momentum. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess pulling Buds and shaking margaritas doesn't exactly get your blood pumping."

  She flashed a wry smile. "It's not so bad, but my real passion is food."

  Cooking. I could totally see that. "I wish I was a better cook, but you try finding fresh food in the middle of the desert. And now, with my training, it's just not practical."

  Her head cocked to one side. "Not enough time?"

  "That's part of it, but it's a little more complicated. I'm at the gym six hours a day at least, and we're not talking a light jog on the treadmill here. Tony gives me hell. I figure I need about nine thousand calories just to break even, and they have to be quality calories — lean meat, lots of veggies etcetera. If I concentrated on making every meal a culinary sensation, I'd never leave the kitchen."

  "I guess that makes sense. So, what, your diet is all chicken breast and broccoli? Olympic athlete style?"

  I nodded. "Wild, hey?" I leaned in close, like I was sharing a secret. "When I'm feeling naughty, I sometimes try and sneak some tuna fish in there. Keep that on the down low, though."

  She laughed. "You rebel."

  "You better believe it."

  "Don't you ever get bored eating like that?" she asked.

  "A little, maybe, but at this point I'm kind of used to it. It's not like my adult life has been full of options. You know what an MRE is?"

  "Nope."

  "It stands for 'meal, ready-to-eat.' Basically, they're pre-prepared ration packs for soldiers. They made up a lot of our diet when we were out in the field. They usually taste like ass, but they have all the nutrition and energy you need in a simple, no-fuss package. Eat that shit for a few years and you start seeing every meal that way; just fuel in the tank."

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "God, I can't imagine thinking like that. I never get sick of trying new things, mixing flavors. There was a time when I'd go entire months without eating the same thing twice."

  I loved seeing her so animated. Just the mention of food had set her eyes sparkling.

  "So, this is probably at the top of the list of 'questions chefs are sick of hearing,'" I said, "but what's your favorite food?"

  Her gaze rose to the ceiling and she began pacing. "Oh God, I don't know. There's so many. Sushi, maybe? I love Japanese. It's simple and fresh, but the flavors are so unique."

  I made a face. "Never been able to do the raw stuff. Something about that texture just doesn't work for me."

  "Oh, come on, where's your sense of adventure?"

  "I guess I must have left it over in Afghanistan." I let my face grow serious for a few seconds, just long enough for her to freak out that she might have offended me, before breaking into a smile.

  She laughed. "Touché."

  "Is that the kind of stuff you cook then? Japanese?"

  The slip in her expression told me I'd hit a nerve. "I can do the basics," she replied slowly, "but sushi and some of the other stuff is deceptively complicated." There was a wary pause, as if she was weighing how much more to say. "Most of my experience is with European styles. I worked in an Italian place back in New York, and then here..."

  She trailed off, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to put the basic picture together. Before I got my shit under control, I lost two jobs due to my drinking, and those were just entry level retail gigs. Low stress, low responsibility. I couldn't even imagine trying to hold down a position in a high-powered kitchen while running a twenty-four-seven buzz.

  "Let's just say that I haven't cooked in a while," she said.

  "That's a shame."

  She nodded, but the heart had faded from the conversation now. We were back in murky waters.

  We didn't talk for the rest of the night except to share a limp goodbye, but still, it felt like progress.

  Chapter Six

  Grace

  "God, they're all so shiny and orange, like bodybuilding Oompa Loompas," said Joy. It was one of the rare nights where both of us were off work, and so we were holed up in her apartment with pizza and a lethal dose of ice cream. I was trying to introduce her to the wonder of Jersey Shore, but it was not going well.

  "Think of it as a nature documentary," I replied. "You're learning about a more primitive form of man."

  She scrunched up her face. "I don't know, it makes me feel kind of dirty somehow."

  "But don't you feel better about yourself too? You know, by comparison?"

  She laughed. "Ah, it's a self-esteem booster. I guess I can see that. And it's certainly wiped out any lingering desire I had to try fake tan."

  I couldn't believe how much fun I was having. Our conversation was totally mundane — news, movies, music, just ordinary people chatter — but that was exactly what I needed. It made me feel like a normal person again, passing time the way everyone else did. Ever since Tom's death, I'd felt detached, like I no longer had any idea how to relate to this world, so it was wonderful to find that I was still capable of just being.

  Seizing the ice cream tub, Joy spun to face me, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Anyway, no more avoiding the question. Is your new late night friend still paying you visits?"

  I let out an exasperated laugh. Initially, I'd kept Logan's behavior to myself. I didn't want to have to answers any questions about why he was being so tenacious, and I figured that eventually he'd get the hint and give up. But it was like trying to stare down a stone. He just kept showing up, day after day. Eventually I caved and told Joy. I'd already opened up to her about Tom, and I really wanted a second opinion.

  "Yep. Every damn time." I gave my head a little shake. "I actually talked to him the other night."

  Triumph flashed across her face. "I knew you'd crack!"

  "Yeah, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes. "It was just so confusing and so awkward, and he clearly wasn't going to stop. I figured maybe if we talked, I could find out what he wanted."
Obviously I already had some idea what he wanted. That night outside the bar all those months ago, and then again in the alley the other week both pointed in one direction; he wanted to play the white knight. I just had no idea why. It didn't make any sense. The curiosity, the earnestness, the concern, they didn't belong in a man who barely knew me. And yet there he was, poking his nose where it wasn't wanted, silently inserting himself into my life. That brute force approach made me angry. I didn't need his help. I had things under control. Hell, I'd stopped drinking at work, just to show myself that I could.

  "Isn't it obvious?" Joy asked, carving out a snooker ball sized chunk of ice cream and stuffing it into her mouth. For a girl who had to have a single digit body fat percentage, she ate like nobody I'd ever seen before. On our pie date a few weeks earlier, it had been like watching a carnival sideshow. "Step right up, step right up, and see the amazing bottomless Joy! Marvel as she consumes twice her bodyweight in pastry and stewed fruit!"

  "E got da hot fo you," she continued, her cheeks now puffed out, her throat madly pumping like a pelican with a fresh catch.

  I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "Has anyone ever told you how charming you are when you eat?"

  With a mighty swallow she downed everything, then grinned. "All the time."

  "You really think that's it?" I asked. "I thought you said he wasn't chasing girls anymore."

  "Maybe he got a look at all this," she replied, gesturing to my body while waggling her eyebrows, "and decided to make an exception."

  With almost anyone else, this sort of discussion would probably have sent me into a downward spiral, but Joy's unwavering optimism was infectious, and instead I just found myself shaking my head ruefully. "If that's the case, he picked the wrong girl to break his streak with."

  It wasn't like the possibility hadn't occurred to me. Somehow, he saw through my act. He knew that all wasn't right in Grace-land, so to him I probably had "vulnerable girl" written all over me. But, at the same time, he didn't seem like the sort of guy to take advantage, and he hadn't done anything untoward. Well, nothing except stare at me with the sort of intensity usually reserved for lingering close-ups in old school Patrick Swayze movies.