Chapter 11.
Timothy
Nothing compares to the delight of stretching against a set of cool, crisp sheets in the morning. I lift my head from the pillow, a sleepy smile on my face, and am mortified to see my reflection in the mirror across the room from me and what my hair’s doing.
I’m so stunned by my crazy hair, it takes me half a second to remember where I even am. I notice Austin’s gone. The bathroom door’s open, so he isn’t in there. Did he sneak off to get breakfast? Maybe some coffee because the room coffee sucks?
I get to my feet, aware suddenly of an urgent need to pee my brains out, and hurry to the bathroom while poking some serious crusties out of the corners of my eyes.
Or at least that was the plan before I notice the letter and pen sitting on the table by the window.
I approach it, still poking at my eyes, then read.
Perhaps calling it a letter is doing it too much justice.
It’s more of a remark scratched on cheap hotel letterhead.
It reads: “I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more.”
I stand there for a very long time. I’m not gonna lie, I read the note about thirty times in a row.
I forget I have to pee. I flip it over to see if there’s more.
I set it down, then set myself down in the chair by the table, blinking, confused.
The room feels deafeningly quiet. Every thought I have stings.
Then I pick the letter back up and stare at it.
“What the actual fucking fuck?” I blurt.
I’m out of the room the next minute, down the elevator, then standing at the front desk. The bumbling clerk insists the room is already paid for and I can just go.
He also kindly informs me that the free breakfast buffet is still open for another hour and ten minutes.
I’m outside. Harsh morning sunlight bakes my face. There’s a stickiness in the air that I hate instantly.
I wait for something to hit me. Epiphany. Heartbreak. Tears.
Nope. Nothing.
I’m just … annoyed.
“What the actual fucking fuck?” I mutter for the twenty-sixth time as I’m on the road zooming back home fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit. Yeah, I’m such a rebel. Watch out.
The note is on my backseat. His weirdly perfect handwriting is just a notch down from a literal printed font.
I’m sorry, Timothy?
You deserve more?
I pull into a gas station just outside of town and, after filling up the tank, sit in the car for a hot minute and debate texting him.
What would I say other than angry words or angry questions I could probably just answer myself?
He got spooked? I laid it on too thick, too much, too soon? He has a wife and kids back home? I’d believe just about anything.
Or nothing at all.
“I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more,” I repeat out loud, but do I?
By the time I get back home, I’m all out of everything: anger, sadness, questions. All I have is a ringing in my ears and a crick in my back. Guess those cushy hotel beds weren’t as lovely in reality as they looked on the surface.
Y’know. Like guys named Austin.
All dreamy and studly, then proving to be a total ghost.
I probably imagined him this whole time. Even at T she senses the storm brewing in me.
But by the time I’ve parked my car in town, it isn’t a storm in me. More like the gray glow after the storm, when even pavement feels soft under your feet, when you can still smell rain in the air.
I run the front counter at T&S’s while Billy sits in the corner interviewing a sweet-faced junior from Spruce High, a girl with major cheerleader voice.
I’m so distracted, I’ve been trying to wipe off the same spot on the counter the past half hour not realizing it’s a stain and needs something stronger.
With the abyssal lack of customers, I go to the back in search of a chemical to use.
And in the dark, I see Austin’s shadowed smile under his hat.
His strong, hardened eyes and breathless face after our kiss in the movie theater.
His widened “oops” eyes after the bowling ball flew from him.
“I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more,” I mutter, reciting the note from memory, not that it’s much to memorize.
I’m ringing up a customer whose order I messed up four times in a row.
Four. Wrong flavor. Then wrong container.
Then wrong toppings. Now I’m lost navigating a POS I helped set up and almost charge Malcolm for ten Football Sundaes.
“Need a breather, TJ?” he asks me over his glasses.
He wears glasses now. His boyfriend Samuel demanded he get them after complaining about headaches and eye strain, though I imagine half the strain is just working for the ever-demanding Nadine Strong.
“Is Billy running you ragged? If you don’t say something, I sure will. You need a break.”
“Sorry, there’s, uh … lots of stuff on my mind. Sorry, Malcolm. Do you need help carrying these to your car?” I offer.
“I can manage. Nadine’s having a thing at the church. Sort of an outreach thing, ‘listening to the people’, blah, blah. I heard you were in my neck of the woods last night on an outing? Your mom talked to my Spruce mom—Nadine—and they’re confused.”
Word sure travels fast here.
I’ve known that fact my whole life and it still surprises me.
Malcolm is from Fairview. His dad is head chef at a restaurant owned by the Strongs.
Malcolm works here now as something of an event coordinator for Mrs. Strong.
He’s dating a vet tech. It’s a long story.
“I’ll tell you about my Fairview adventure sometime,” I assure him, “just not yet. I’m still, uh … catching up with myself.”
“Oh, it was one of those outings,” he says, presuming all of the worst, “well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Secret’s safe with me.”
“There is no secret,” I mutter, a touch annoyed, but Malcolm just picks up his order, winks at me, and sees himself out. I let my eyes fall to the counter where I see that same spot-stain I spent half my morning wiping for no reason.
That stain is becoming Austin.
I can’t wipe him away no matter what chemical I use.
Even the ones that require gloves.
Which is technically all of them.
Billy lets me leave early, and I tell him that’s great because I need to hit the gym to work out some stress. But when I get in my car, I don’t go anywhere. I don’t do anything. I just stare blankly at nothing. Few minutes later, I forget I even wanted to hit the gym.
He was supposed to be my answer.
To all of this.
Was that unfair of me? To see him as a way out? To ask him to be the stick I grab to pull myself out of my stupid metaphor?
It’s right then my phone dings. For the love of licorice, I swear my heart stops until that phone is in my hand and I’m staring at it with wide, desperate eyes.
It isn’t him.
It’s AJ.