One Night Flame

by Beverly Evans

  “Hey, Nadine,” the guy I’ve been avoiding, Daniel, says from behind the counter. He gives me a smile, and I give him a shy wave. Should I look at my phone? That would be rude. But I don’t want to chat.

  Thankfully he has to go back to doing his job, putting together healthy lunch bowls and making green juices. The two people in front of me have big orders, so I think about what I could possibly say to Daniel when he starts his usual friendly conversation.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m being ridiculous. He’s a very sweet guy, and cute. Not quite my type—he’s a little baby-faced besides the shadow of a beard he always has and has pale brown hair, and eyes that remind me of a 90s heartthrob—but I don’t think I have a type after what happened. And he’s always respectful in his flirting. I’m pretty sure he’s flirting. He gives me looks that make me want to shy away like a scared horse, so I assume that means he’s flirting.

  I clench the strap of my plain black leather tote bag. God, I wish I could just get the hell over my issues with men and date like a normal person. Make friends like a normal person.

  “Hey,” Daniel says when I get up to the counter, grinning at me. He’s a lot more animated with me than he was with the customers in front of me. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay.” I make eye contact with him for a second before looking down at the menu on the counter. Another perk of my job: I get free food all the time.

  “What’ll you have today?” He asks, but before I can answer, he holds a hand up. “Let me guess—two salmon kale bowls with an order of sweet potato chips?”

  I fiddle with my bag strap. He was half right.

  “No?” He smiles again, nonplussed by my lack of response. “Damn, I thought I had it. I always remember when you come in, but maybe I’m not as sharp as I used to be.”

  I laugh, more out of nervousness than actual amusement. “Um, one salmon kale bowl, then one chicken one with extra tahini. And the sweet potato chips. Oh, and a coffee.”

  “I gotcha.” He rings me up, looking up at me as he does with that little smile on his face. My cheeks are definitely bright red, and realizing it only makes them even more red.

  I hand him my corporate card, and he rings me up. Thankfully, he goes to prepare the bowls since they’re short-staffed. I wander over to the pickup area and wait, staring down at my phone. More and more email alerts pop up. I used to have them turned off, but Michelle flips a shit if I don’t answer emails during the workday on time.

  “Order for Nadine!” Daniel calls, putting down my bag.

  “Thanks!” I practically snatch it off the counter and turn to leave, but he stops me.

  “Wait!” He says. “Check the back of your receipt. See you around.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I make my escape onto the street, dreading what I’m going to find on the receipt. I yank it from where it’s stapled on the bag and tuck it into my purse since I’ll need it for Michelle’s expense report.

  I don’t dare unfold it until I’m back at my desk, shoveling my lunch into my mouth.

  Text me sometime? Or if that’s not your scene, you can find me online @danielspaniel97

  And his phone number is underneath. My cheeks burn. At least he didn’t ask me out to my face, or else I would have let the floor swallow me whole.

  I tuck the receipt into the envelope I keep them in and go back to eating my lunch. Out of curiosity, I go to his Instagram page. Luckily, it’s public. Hm. Despite his baby face, he’s got a pretty ripped body. I’m reconsidering my attraction to him, just based on these photos. Most of his photos are shirtless selfies or selfies with a cocker spaniel. The rest are with his friends and his family. I wonder if he’s the kind of guy who likes relationships or if he’d be fine with just sleeping with me to take the edge off. I don’t trust any guy to be genuinely interested in me beyond a date or two. That would be like booking a stay at a hotel after just looking at the outside and not the reviews.

  Or maybe it’s just been so long that I’d sleep with any guy who showed me enough interest. I got started late on the sex game, sure, but after that mortifying night when I word-vomited my secrets and gave it up to Noah, I tried my damndest to get some more experience. There were, and still are, a ton of guys in the city who are perfectly fine with hooking up and nothing more, which is exactly what I need. Too bad most of them aren’t that great at sex. Or maybe I’m not good at it.

  I jam my empty food container into the trash a little harder than necessary. I certainly was good at it that first night with Noah. No one has made me feel like that since that night. I’ve done a surprising amount of experimenting with various non-vanilla things in bed since then, just to see if that’s the missing piece. Every time it felt like I was eating imitation crab cakes. I knew I should have liked it, but it just wasn’t quite right.

  Of course, that asshole would make every guy I slept with after him seem like a cheap imitation of what the real thing is supposed to be.

  I change up my playlist to my angry one, filled with hard rock and rap, to drown out my thoughts. I still feel a rush of bad emotions when I think of Noah and all of that crap that changed my life for the worse. On the one hand, I want confirmation that, hey, maybe I’m not the reason Grant cheated on me, and every guy since has been mildly enthused about me at best. But on the other hand, that would mean putting myself out there, which could give me new problems I don’t want.

  The angry music propels me through the rest of the day until Michelle leaves. I leave soon after her, feeling drained. Normally I’d go to the gym, but I’m tired, and the class I like isn’t even held today anyway.

  So I walk home, picking up some takeout on my way in since I’m also too tired to cook. I used to cook all the time and loved it, but I haven't felt the drive to do it here.

  I plop the bag on the little square of counter space I have and kick off my flats. My apartment is tiny, but I don’t have a lot of stuff anyway. It doesn’t feel too cramped with just me inside—there’s my bed in the far corner, walled off by a screen, my little loveseat, my coffee table, and my TV stand. The kitchen takes up the other corner. There’s only one photo of me, my mom, and my older brother Andy. Even if I did have friends beyond the few acquaintances who I hung out with sometimes, I wouldn’t be able to have anyone over.

  I sigh and change into my pajamas, then curl up on the couch with my falafel. I live in a densely populated part of the city, so it’s always a little loud and crowded, but today my apartment feels particularly empty. I turn on one of my comfort shows, Sailor Moon, in the hopes of filling the space. Even so, I can’t shake that feeling.

  Maybe I should text Daniel. Or message him on Instagram since I left the receipt at my desk. At least a drink or two and maybe a one-night stand would perk me up.

  Almost on cue, my phone starts ringing. It’s Mom, trying to video chat me. Does she have some sort of sixth sense for when I’m feeling down? I adjust my hair and rub my eyes to seem more awake before answering.

  “Hey, Mom!” I say.

  “Hi, Deenie!” Mom waves super close to the camera, which she always does, and moves her phone around like she doesn’t know how to put herself into focus. She’s not even that old, but her video chat skills are that of someone twenty years older. It’s strangely endearing.

  “Oo, new haircut?” I study her for a few seconds.

  If I’m lucky, I’ll look as good as she does when I’m her age. The running joke in the family is that Andy and I budded off of her like sea anemones since we look nothing like our dad. All of us have the same olive-toned skin, the same brown eyes, and the same mouth. She’s always kept her hair long, but now it’s just past her shoulders in layers. It’s still the same salt and pepper it’s been for a long time, now with more salt than before, but it’s super shiny.

  “Kind of new!” She runs her hand through it and grins. “You like?”

  “Yeah, it looks great! And nice lipstick.”

  A blip of confusion pops up in the back of my mind.
Mom owns a bakery, but most of the time, she isn’t the public face of it. Her usual work outfit is jeans, a t-shirt, clogs so she can stand all day, and no makeup. And this isn’t the first time recently that she’s looked more dolled up than usual. The last few times she said that she was meeting up with other pastry chefs or going out with her friends. I’m not sure if she’s still going on dates like she was a few months ago, but that might explain it too. Since my dad left when I was little, she’s focused on raising me and Andy. Now that we’re out of the house, she wants to get out there again.

  “Yeah, I just got in.” She flops down on the couch and looks at me. “How are you? Are you eating okay?”

  “I’m eating fine.” I point my camera toward my half-eaten falafel.

  “You just look a little pale.” Mom sighs again. “Anyway, did I tell you about the new pear tart I made for the bakery?”

  “No, you didn’t. It sounds good.” I curl my legs up under myself and rest my chin on my knee.

  If anything can get my mom to talk a lot, it’s baking. She goes off on how long it took her to perfect the recipe and how many iterations Andy had to taste, so many that he got sick of pears. I listen intently, the sound of her voice soothing me the more and more she talked. I miss her. She comes to the city to see me maybe twice a year, even though I could always go home to see her with a short train ride. My schedule’s a lot less hectic than hers, my job aside.

  And yet, I feel stuck here. Going home means swan diving into a cesspool of bad memories. I haven't internet stalked anyone I used to hang out with in a long time, but I’m still scared of bumping into them. I don’t know if they’re still in town or not. I just know that if I did run into someone, I wouldn’t be able to keep my cool. And that doesn’t even take Grant into account. We mutually blocked each other on every social media channel, even freaking LinkedIn, so I can’t find a way to avoid him if he still lives back home.

  Several minutes later, Mom’s still talking about baked goods. She’s usually chatty, but today feels different. She seems nervous, almost.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” I ask, cutting her off mid-sentence.

  “Of course I am, sweetie.” She laughs but looks away from the screen for a second. Mom’s a terrible liar.

  “It seems like you’re hiding something. Like what’s up with the new hair and the makeup?” I ask. “Not saying that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s all kind of recent.”

  Mom goes quiet, looking down at her lap. Her cat, Mimi, is probably there, but it seems like she’s looking down to avoid me.

  “Mom?” I say again.

  “You’re too perceptive,” she finally answers with a sigh. I don’t want to tell her that I’m not—it’s just her inability to keep anything quiet if she's directly called out on it —but I don’t want to dig myself into a hole. “There is something going on, but I need you to promise me that you won’t freak out.”

  I react the exact way I do when someone tells me not to freak out — I freak out.

  “Are you sick? Is Mimi ok? What about Andy? God, the last thing we texted about was a poop emoji or something. I mean, we don’t talk often, but—”

  “Nadine.” She holds a hand up, her left hand. And on it is a huge honking diamond. “I’m engaged.”

  “Oh my god! Mom, what the hell?” I shriek. Sure enough, Mimi’s on her lap, and I’ve scared the shit out of her. She darts up Mom’s shoulder, over the back of the couch, and out of the camera’s view. “Since when? What? Who? Oh my god! I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”

  Mom smiles, one of her big ones that light up her whole face. “I know. It happened really fast. We’ve only been officially dating for three months.”

  “Holy cow.” I laugh. “Okay, tell me everything.”

  She’s still smiling, but she’s definitely nervous. “We met online. We actually went to the same high school, but he’s a little older than me. He took me to dinner, and we just clicked right away.”

  “Wow,” I marvel, truly shocked. “That’s so exciting, Mom. What’s his name? Tell me more.”

  Mom pauses, her smile fading. “His name is Joseph.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s a super common name,” I point out. “Unless his name is Joseph Joseph, and in that case, that’s kind of weird.”

  “Why don’t you come back home for a little bit to help out with the wedding? My wedding with your father was a quick thing in Las Vegas, so I’ve never planned a proper wedding before.”

  My eyes narrow. “Why can’t you tell me more about him?”

  “I’m worried how you’ll feel about him.”

  “I mean, you’re a grown woman, Mom. It’s not like I can forbid you to marry someone. And besides, it’s not like you get swept off your feet every other week. I’m sure he’s great.” A knot is forming in my gut. “What’s wrong?”

  Mom bites the cuticle of her ringed hand. Her ring’s a monster, so this guy must be pretty loaded. “I’m scared you’ll hate him on sight.”

  “What?” I’m low-key offended. I’m not exactly the most social person, but I’m not mean or super judgmental. Or at least I don’t think I am. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “I don’t think you’d come home if you knew.” Mom stands up and walks across the room; the camera angle giving me a view straight up her nostrils.

  “Who could I hate that much?”

  I dig through my mind, and every terrible choice I can think of is someone who’s married, like Grant’s dad or something. God, imagine having to be my ex-fiancé’s stepsister. How twisted would that be?

  The guy is older than her, but how much older is she talking about? I can’t see myself hating a super old guy just because he’s marrying my mom. Unless he’s like, eighty-five (despite going to high school at the same time as Mom did), and in that case, I’d be worried that he’s marrying her for the wrong reasons.

  “Baby, please just trust me. Come home. I miss you, and you need a break from that awful job of yours.” She’s basically begging, and she never has to beg me for anything.

  I pause for a few long moments. She’s right—I do need a vacation. But based on Mom’s attitude, it doesn’t sound like I’ll be having a happy, relaxed time.

  “We can do some fun stuff, just you and me. A spa opened up in Ridgeton ,” she continues. “Please?”

  “Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll let you know when I can come down.”

  Mom sags with relief. “Thank you, Deenie.”

  “I gotta go,” I say, even though I don’t have to. “Love you.”

  “Love you too, baby.” She blows me a kiss and hangs up.

  “What the hell?” I mumble to myself, tossing my phone back onto the table.

  Now I’m even more anxious than before, even though I’m also excited for Mom. She’s a beautiful, accomplished woman who could have had her pick of guys when I was growing up, but she didn’t date. Her judgment is good. But who the hell could be so repulsive to me that I wouldn’t come home to her freaking wedding?

  I pick up my phone again and text Andy.

  Who’s Mom’s fiancé?

  It takes him five minutes to get back to me, but he just sends me the shrug emoji.

  WTF, you live there, and she didn’t tell you?

  He sends a gif of Shaq shimmying with a mischievous look on his face like he knows something everyone else doesn’t. I wish I could smack the back of his head through the screen.

  Can’t tell you. U comin’ home? he responds.

  Yeah, as soon as I can get some time off. Can you at least give me a hint?

  He doesn’t text me back. Ugh.

  I finish up my now cold falafel and watch a little more TV. When it gets to be 11:30, I start to get ready for bed, and of course, Michelle sends me an email labeled urgent. As if I don’t have a freaking life or need to sleep. And it’s such a dumb request too, something that could easily wait.

  Instead of replying, I write up a new email telling Michelle that I’ll be out
of the office for two weeks starting at the beginning of next week. I haven’t used my vacation days the whole time I’ve worked for her, so I hope I don’t get any crap tomorrow. I really do need a break from the office. And I bet my curiosity will kill me if I don’t get home as soon as possible.

  As I expected, Michelle isn’t pleased at all with my vacation, even though I’ve arranged for other paralegals to help her when I’m gone. The first thing she asked was who would get her morning coffee. Not who would help her put together information for that upcoming civil case that’s been about a year in the making. Nope—I’m basically just her coffee girl. Eventually, I’ll be put out of a job by a robot.

  After work ends on Friday, I figure out how to set my out of office message for my work email and head over to Penn Station. It’s just as gross as I remember, but I still find it in me to get a donut or two. I need to get used to eating sweets again, so I won’t go into a coma when I go back into Mom’s bakery.

  When I get settled on the train, I pull out my phone and start to check my work email out of habit.

  “Damn it,” I mumble to myself, putting my phone back down. I can’t do this. I need to wean Michelle off of my help so I can get some peace and quiet. And maybe I’ll learn to cut the cord too and not have a guilt-driven meltdown if I don’t check my email every single half-hour.

  Instead, I pull out my book, some smutty romance I picked up at Barnes and Noble. At least it looks somewhat upscale, or I’d be too embarrassed to read it like this. It helps me pass the time and not think of what might be waiting for me when I get off the train. Well, for the most part. The closer and closer we get to our destination, the tighter the knot in my stomach grows.

  I get off and text my mom, who says they’re waiting in the parking lot. They. Is she springing this guy on me in public? Maybe she’s doing it, so I don’t make a scene. Not that I make scenes regularly, besides that one time with Grant. My long walk to the car feels like it takes ages.