11. Daisy
Chapter 11
Daisy
My eyes linger on the street for a moment after Peter disappears around the corner.
Those scars on his side, trailing off to his stomach, I've never seen scars like that before. And then the look in his eyes when he saw me see them, the way he shuttered. The guy is an emotional fortress, but he was standing here with us, early morning sun increasing its grasp on the street and stores, and for a brief moment he looked relaxed. Almost playful , gently chiding me about my internal fire.
"I don't remember telling him my name."
Tearing my gaze away from the empty street, I turn my attention to Sal. "I must have said it when you were still inside the store." I can't remember if I did, or didn't. Everything from the last ten minutes feels fuzzy around the edges. Rarely do I interact with anybody but Sal or Adela on my morning runs, when I stop here and get something for my mother. Her appetite has been slowly dwindling, but if I bring her something from Sweet Nothings, she'll eat it. Or pick at it, at least.
Sal leans on his broom, staring into the now-empty trail blazed by Peter, eyes screwed up in curiosity.
Gently, I touch his shoulder. He is frail under my hand, his shoulder smaller than it appears in his shirt. "Are you ok?"
My question finally gets Sal's attention. "Does that boy look familiar to you?" he asks.
Peter's face flashes to the front of my mind. The straight nose, rugged jawline covered in a swath of stubble that wasn't there yesterday. The way he immediately struck me as familiar, like my heart knew him, but my brain did not.
"Maybe he has one of those faces, you know?"
Sal grumbles, dissatisfied with what I've said. "Nah." He starts sweeping, and I take it as my cue to go. "There's something about him. He's dead inside, but only mostly."
Has Sal been spending time with Crazy Cliff?
It must've been a joke that I missed, so I smile and ask, "Mostly dead?"
Sal does not pause his sweeping efforts when he responds with, "Better to be mostly dead than all dead."
"True," I agree slowly. Ok, yeah. Sal's been getting into the wacky tobacky with Cliff. Adela sometimes bakes it into treats for my mom.
Lifting the paper bag, I say, "Thanks again for the chocolate croissant."
"Adela threw one in for you, too."
"Not the extra-special kind, I hope." I made that mistake once, and I swear there were elephants dancing behind my closed eyes.
Sal guffaws. "No, no. The only high from these will be from sugar."
I search through the glass front window until I see Adela behind the register, and when she looks over, I give her a wave and blow her a kiss. She returns the sentiment, and I pivot to leave Sal to his work.
Mumbled words behind me pull me back around. "What was that?"
"You didn't say my name. To that boy. At least not in front of me, you didn't."
I nod at his insistence. "Have a nice day, Sal."
I start for my house, and the further I go, the more clarity I have. And here's the thing. I am positive I didn't say Sal's name to Peter.
There are other ways he could've known it.
But...
Call it women's intuition, call it a sixth sense, but something about Peter Bravo's story isn't adding up.