Othello Station

by Rachael Wade

  “Hey. At least I have job security. I can do it all. That makes me an asset.”

  “That makes you a door mat.” I leave one hand on her hip and brush her long, wavy hair over her shoulder with the other. This gives me an absolutely perfect view of her gorgeous, perky breasts.

  I grope her again. God, I’m weak.

  “You can do so much better. Do you know how many high-end hotels in the city would love to have you? And they’d pay you a hell of a lot better, too.”

  “And what do you know about the hotel business?” She gives my shoulder a playful pinch. “For your information, I’m happy where I’m at. I love the people I work with, and I love the job. I take pride in what I do.”

  “You should. I’m not putting your profession down, babe. I’m just calling out the obvious. You deserve to work for a company that appreciates you and doesn’t take advantage of you.”

  “It’s the corporate world. It’s just the way of things. No matter where I work, it will always be the same dilemma. They’ll always want to pay me as little as possible and want me to do as much as possible.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s ridiculous.” She pushes off me and stands at the side of the bed, bending to snatch up the white lace that covered her body the night before. “Hey. You ditching me?”

  “I actually do have the day off. But I’m not staying in bed all day. I’m gonna wander around town and take some pictures.” She lifts an old camera from atop a stack of books.

  “That thing’s ancient. Does it even work?”

  “Works like a charm.”

  “What are you taking pictures of?”

  “The places I’d like to recommend to our customers. It’s for a project I’m working on. I can’t afford to actually go to them myself, but I had this idea…” She shakes her head and goes quiet.

  “What idea?”

  “Never mind. It’s dumb.”

  “Mira. Come on, what is it?”

  “I kinda wanted to make a cheat sheet. More like a book, for reference. Not just for myself, but for everyone at the front desk. Our guest service scores are better when we sound like we know what the hell we’re talking about. The more information we can offer people who ask us for recommendations at the desk, the more competent we are in their eyes, even if we don’t actually know firsthand. Our job is all about going the extra mile for our customers and improving those scores…so I thought this might be a way to…ya know?”

  A smirk spreads. “You’re saying you want to be able to fake it until you make it.”

  “Not fake it, exactly.” Her grin matches mine. “Just…fib a little.”

  “It’s perfectly reasonable.” I shrug. “It’s a way to research what you’re recommending without actually dropping the cash to try these places out yourselves. Makes sense to me.”

  Her embarrassment dissipates a bit and she looks at me with hopeful eyes. “Really? You don’t think it’s a waste of time or anything? Because I thought if I put this binder together and paired the pictures with print-outs of the menus for each place, it could be a handy tool for everyone at the desk. New hires included. Not everyone that comes to work for us is a Seattle native, ya know?” Her nose wrinkles and I remain quiet, staring at her. “Don’t look at me like that. You can tell me if it’s dumb. I can take it.” She says she can, but if I said something like that—and really meant it—the words would crush this girl. This job really is something special to her.

  So I opt to ditch my natural tendency to deliver my usual, cynical commentary and encourage her, instead. As much as I dislike her place of employment, I lessen the blow but still speak the truth. “It’s not dumb. It’s thoughtful and says a lot about how you value what you do for a living.”

  “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because this company has no idea what they have right in front of them.” This girl is doing this in her free time. Thinking of the best interest of her team and her employer. They need to pay her more. They need to promote her. Something. “People like you belong in management.”

  Mira cracks up, rolling her eyes. “Don’t get carried away.”

  “No. I’m being serious.”

  “Okay, well.” She waves a hand and pulls her hair back to tie it in a ponytail. “Anyway, do you want to come with me or not?”

  My jaw grinds and I glare at her, wishing she’d take what I’m saying to heart. But for whatever reason, she doesn’t see herself in the same light. So I give up and chew over thoughts of the next project I should be working on. And the fact that technically, I should be checking out of the hotel today and heading back to my place. But Mira’s standing there in white lace, asking me to spend the day with her. Who in their right mind would say no to that?

  “Under one condition,” I say.

  “Does there have to be a catch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t we just hang out? With no conditions?”

  “You let me buy you dinner tonight.”

  “Grant…”

  “Like a real, hot meal. And you accept it and enjoy it, period. No bitching.”

  Her arms cross. “Fine. But no dessert.”

  “What’s wrong with dessert?” Chicks love dessert.

  “Unless they have red velvet cake. Then I’ll make an allowance.”

  That strange sensation prickles again, alerting me to the smile that’s forming on my face. “Fair enough.”

  Mira grins brightly. “That’s three! Oh my God. Be careful—don’t smile too hard. You might just shatter glass. Or make a baby cry. You might throw everything off and completely alter the universe as we know it.” I try like hell to kill the smirk dead, I really do. But as I seem to do a lot lately, I fail and toss a pillow at Mira in pure, rebellious fashion. She deflects it, then trots into the bathroom to get ready.

  We both change and wash up, then proceed to spend most of the day café and bakery hopping. Mira snaps pictures of the storefronts, while I wander inside each shop and buy something. We get weird looks as we argue outside on the sidewalk over what I buy. A routine is born. I insist whatever delectable treat I bring her is a sample. That it wasn’t paid for, no way, no how. That I wouldn’t dare go against her wishes. She calls my bluff, but I shove the treat at her face anyway. She nibbles, I watch. She pouts in defeat, then smirks when she realizes just how damn good the treat tastes. I wipe the powdered sugar, crumbs, or sauce off her cheeks, then feel my chest swell with victory. Or pride. Or both.

  Rinse, repeat.

  By the time five-o-clock rolls around, we’re stuffed and unable to eat another bite. Mira’s camera is full with pictures, and her notebook is packed with descriptive notes for each place we visited. No doubt, with details like these, hotel customers will believe that every member of the front desk staff knows each restaurant personally, inside and out. Mira has single-handedly helped turn her team into experts on the local culinary scene.

  “Next time we’ll do dinner joints. Oh, and brunch places. I’ve been wanting to check those out for a while now. We get a lot of requests for those.” She holds her stomach and her face pales a bit. “Okay. I can’t talk about food anymore. I’m going to be sick. No way are you taking me to dinner now. It’d be a huge waste.”

  “Then let’s kill some time. You wanna catch a ferry and get out of the city for a bit? We could wander around Bainbridge Island.”

  “Nah,” she answers quickly. “I hate Bainbridge.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She grows quiet and puckers her lips, swishing them to the side, averting her gaze. “Just do.”

  “It’s a great island. I bike and hike over there all the time. Great trails, good food. Close enough to the city without being in the city…my sales pitch isn’t working, is it?” I study her displeased expression.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Okay, look.” I step in front of her. “We’re friends who kiss, right? And other things.” Her cheeks turn pink. I bend down to kiss her softly. �
��Friends let friends in and all that. So, I’d like some details, please. I’d like to know. Tell me what’s so bad about Bainbridge. Enlighten me.”

  “This goes both ways, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Give and take.”

  “Give and take.” I lift a hand, offering a cordial shake. We’re making an agreement here. I know what I’m sacrificing. Some of my secrets. Some of myself. Parts of me I have no desire to share with anyone else. I can barely acknowledge them in private. But if this is going to be the game, and Mira is the prize, then I’m willing to play.

  “If I tell you this one thing, you have to tell me something. Deal?” She accepts my handshake and we both nod, holding each other’s gazes.

  “Deal. Shoot.”

  “My ex lives on Bainbridge.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “That’s it?”

  “I can’t go over there without driving by his place. I’m not a creepy stalker, I swear. I just…” She freezes up and begins to stutter. I hold her eyes, patiently and attentively, letting her know I’m with her. I’m not going anywhere. No matter what she’s about to say, she’s not going to scare me off. Because I’d put ten grand on the likelihood that my baggage is ten times more fucked up than hers. By the end of this conversation, she’ll be the one thinking about running on me.

  “Go ahead,” I say, coaxing her onward. “You can say it.”

  “Have you ever seen that movie with Jonny Depp – Secret Window? A Stephen King story, I think.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe?”

  “Well in his character’s case, he is sort of a creepy stalker. But that’s not the point.”

  “You’re not really helping your case, here.” I playfully nudge her nose with mine.

  “Be nice.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Well, there’s this scene where he’s parked at his old house, watching his ex-wife go on with her life, and he says something like, ‘This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife anymore.’ But it’s not just the pain talking. It’s almost as if he’s trying to help himself move on, like he’s giving himself a mental push. By forcing himself watch her live her life without him, he’s forced to face his own reality. He has to move on, too.”

  “Is that what you do, when you drive by your ex’s place? Give yourself a mental push?”

  “Yeah. It motivates me. Reminds me that despite the shitty way it all ended, I actually have an opportunity for something better. He did me a favor when he decided he didn’t want me anymore. But every now and then, I doubt everything. I back track. I wonder if I did everything I could. I think about whether or not I did the right thing, walking away. That’s when I go to Bainbridge and drive by his house.”

  Something crumbles in me, listening to her talk about her ex. The pain evident in her eyes slices into me. I can tell it’s still raw—whatever rejection she’s talking about. No wonder she’s so hell bent against others doing things for her. She feels abandoned. Cast aside. No wonder no one is reliable in her world. The question sits on my tongue, teasing me. I have to ask. “What exactly do you mean when you say he decided he didn’t want you anymore?”

  Her head lowers and her eyes find the floor.

  “Mira.” I rest my fingers beneath her chin and tilt her head up. “No judgement here.”

  A small, shaky breath rattles from her lips as she hesitates. “He chose the other woman.”

  “He was cheating on you?”

  “No. I was the reason he was cheating. He chose his wife.”

  There’s no disguising the surprise on my face. I cannot deny the fact that I’m taken back by this piece of information. But as I stare down at her, a potent anger unfurls inside of me, casting shadow over the disbelief. “He did this,” I say, voice low and stern. “He pursued you. He chose this. Didn’t he?”

  Mira shakes her head, and tears form on the tops of her cheeks, where just minutes ago, a smile was spread. “I let him pursue me. I let it carry on. I’m just as much at blame.”

  “No. I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, you should. You’re only seeing what you want to see, Grant.”

  “Did he tell you he was married? Did you know when you met him?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Like hell, it matters.”

  “I didn’t know. Not until after. It was too late. What matters is the fact that I let it go on.”

  The thick anger that’s slowly unfolding mixes with disgust. It coats my throat. My limbs are antsy. My heart is pounding. “Well, that settles it.”

  Mira’s eyes pop wide. “Wait—please, don’t go. I didn’t want to tell you. I tried to warn you—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mira. We’re going somewhere, as in you and me. Right now.” I turn and grab us some fresh clothes, tossing a dress and a bra at her while I begin to change. She stands there watching me. She hasn’t moved.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “We’re going to Bainbridge. Whether you like it or not. But we’re making a pit stop at the store, first. Come on, get ready.” I nod to the clothing in her hands and zip up my pants. She’s still baffled, but she begins to move. What I’m about to do is dumb. Adolescent stupidity at its best. But it’s going to be worth it, and when it’s all said and done, Mira won’t look at this douchebag’s house with sadness anymore.

  From now on, she’s going to look on with anger.

  That’s always what kills what’s left of the sadness, burns the final remnants to nothing but ash. It’s what helps us move on. I just have to get her in touch with that inner monster. Once it’s released from its cage, she can be free. She can look at that house and smile.

  With any luck, she can smile for the both of us.

  TEN

  The crisp, late afternoon breeze whips at our cheeks as we step off the boat. We bundle our rain jackets tighter across our bodies and lift the hoods, then stroll up the road until we hit the Town and Country store. Mira waits patiently—albeit nervously—on the sidewalk while I run inside. When I come out, I find her biting her nails. She’s an anxious wreck. A part of me feels badly for dragging her here. But the other part, the one that wants to help her bury this thing, is bigger. Much bigger. The plastic bag hangs in my hand, the large carton an impatient tease weighing down the plastic.

  “Are those…eggs?” Mira scrunches her nose, peeking inside the grocery bag.

  “Where’s the bastard’s house?”

  “Um…up the road. Off Madison.”

  “Okay, then. Lead the way.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Her eyes slowly close and she exhales. “This is such a mistake.”

  “Don’t overthink this, Mira. Just start walking.”

  “Just start walking, he says,” she mumbles, repeating my words as if they’re annoying little pests. We pass the art museum and begin the stroll down the main drag. Bainbridge is an eclectic mix of hippies, ex-hippies, outdoor enthusiasts, computer nerds, and wealthy retirees. This is not a cheap island, which vaguely leads me to wonder what this ex of hers does for a living. He’s probably a doctor or some type of techie. Maybe he’s one of the rich yuppies who make the commute on the ferry each day to the city, donned in a fancy suit and tie.

  Whatever. I don’t really give a damn. All I care about right now is this carton of eggs in my hands and Mira’s face when she casts the first throw.

  She reluctantly leads me into a quaint neighborhood on the left, where perfectly manicured bushes line the driveways and old, white picket fences frame the yards. When we reach the house, she stops, looking straight to the driveway for any sign of a car. There is none.

  I stop and stare with her, taking it all in, attempting to paint a mental picture of what this man must be like and what he must do to sustain this charmed life. The place is cozy, alright, like some idyllic stone cottage in the English countryside somewhere. Like many of the homes on the island, it has a modern edge, and is neighbored by stark
ly different residences—one a log cabin style abode, the other a retro piece of artwork that was probably some aspiring architect’s college project. There are a lot of those on the island, too. Architects. Maybe that’s what this ex of hers does for a living.

  “Okay,” I reach into the bag and grab the carton. “Let’s get this thing started.”

  “What if someone sees us? Isn’t this technically a crime or something?”

  “No one will see us.”

  “What if they call the cops?”

  “Then we run.”

  “Running from the police is not my idea of a date. Not on my bucket list, either.”

  “Well, this isn’t a date. Think of it as an exercise.” I pluck two eggs from the carton and roll them around in my hands. I’m loving this, and we haven’t even started yet.

  “An exercise? Grant, we should just go. Come on, I’ll let you take me for dessert somewhere or something. We’re here, we might as well enjoy our time on the island.”

  “I agree. You’re going to enjoy this. Take a damn egg.” I grab her hand and place a large white egg in her palm, nodding to the house. She steps timidly behind a tree and I join her, willing to let her deliberate in the shadows for a moment more. But not much longer. She’s not leaving this island until she empties this carton of eggs. I might not be able to have freedom from my own demons, but Mira has an opportunity—right here, right now.

  Who knew egging someone’s home could be so epic?

  “This is crazy!” She squeezes her eyes shut and shuffles from left to right, her arm bent as she holds out the egg like it’s going to bite her.

  “Crazy is good. Just start throwing. Aim for the windows and the door. Each one you chuck, think of all the ways he hurt you. Think of what you’re not missing by being without him. Think of how much better—how much braver you are because of his absence. Remind yourself that the end of this was the best thing to ever happen to you.”

  “How do I know that? How do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve seen you at the front desk of your hotel. I saw you watching that band. I see you, now. You’re alive. There’s a light in you. Don’t you feel it?”