Chapter Six
“An iced coffee with skim milk and a shot of butterscotch syrup, please,” I say with a smile bordering on rigor mortis.
My face is aching from holding this sucker in place.
It’s Thursday morning and I have decided to come at the world with the energy I hope to see.
Therefore, I am being the politest, most boundary-respecting bitch in all of time and space.
Wide eyes blink at me from behind the counter. “You’re that girl.”
“Yes.”
The barista mumbles something and gets busy with my order.
No idea what he said. I don’t really want to know.
Any hope people had been starting to forget about my existence has been obliterated, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The trailer is sitting pretty at a quarter of a million views.
And you just know ninety percent of those views are probably from the citizens of this fair city.
Briana Petersen and my ex and I are back in the news.
However, I am not going back into hiding.
There’s a sort of alert stillness to the people behind me in line. Like when someone is busy listening into your conversation. You can feel their focus on you. “They’re filming down at the lake,” says the lady over my shoulder.
“What did you say?” I ask with my smile still in place.
“For the documentary.”
“Oh.” My stomach sinks. This is some unfortunate fucking news on a bright sunny day. I thought they made trailers after they’d finished making a show. Guess not always. I turn back to the barista. “Make it two shots of syrup, please.”
“I saw them down there with a camera crew.” Her tone isn’t judgmental or anything. Just your usual level of interest in something salacious. She’s wearing a shirt with a picture of a cat on it, and I respect her fashion choice.
A young man stands waiting behind her wearing a Red Sox cap. “A bunch of them are staying at the Hilton.”
“They were in earlier with big orders,” says the barista. “Made the boss real happy.”
“The local economy could certainly do with the boost. But I don’t believe his story one bit,” the woman confides in me. She might not, but the dude behind her is squinting down his nose at me. Like I might pull a weapon at any moment.
“Can I have whipped cream too, thanks?” I ask the barista. Because eating and drinking your feelings are valid. And the skim milk balances out the sugar and cream when you think about it. I hold my card to the machine to pay for the order and then move aside.
“It’ll be interesting to see what the new evidence is,” says the young man in a tone suggesting his words hold much weight. Such an open-minded and unbiased point of view. We are blessed to be in the presence of one of the great minds of our age.
My hero, Cat Shirt Lady, is having none of it, however. “A court of law already found him guilty.”
“Yeah, but they might not have had all the information.” His suspicious gaze slides to me.
Give me strength. I can now vividly recall why I went into hiding in the first place.
Why I decided it was better to be silent and anonymous.
Situations such as this. Strangers in the street speculating about my guilt or innocence.
Though the first time around I was a teenager overwhelmed and out of my depth.
Now I am a salty almost thirty-year-old who has had enough.
In other words, there comes a time when being polite no longer serves you.
I pick up my drink, turn to the young man, and say, “You’re being a dick.”
His eyebrows reach for the sky.
“I am a real person standing right here just trying to live my life and purchase caffeine.”
Guess he didn’t expect me to defend myself. The poor man is aghast. “I am entitled to my opinion!”
“Yes. You absolutely are. But it takes a special kind of asshole to shove that opinion unasked for in my face.”
“Don’t think you’re supposed to swear at other customers,” says the barista helpfully.
I take a sip of my drink. “This is really good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The young man is now in a high state of agitation. “That’s all you’re going to say to her?”
The barista shrugs. “I gave her a warning.”
“You did,” I agree. “I am so warned. Thanks again.”
“Have a nice day.”
“But…” splutters the young man.
Meanwhile, Cat Shirt Lady is standing at the counter ready to give her order. “Oh, shove a sock in it, would you?”
I open the door and step into the sunshine. While this encounter could have gone better, it could also have gone a heck of a lot worse. And I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a small but authentic smile on my face as I walked home.
The knock on my door comes around sunset.
Noah is at work, Hana is on a date, Muriel is out of town, and Mateo left like an hour ago.
All of the people I’m willing to open the door for at this hour are accounted for.
I put down my water bottle on the kitchen counter and pick up my cell.
And the person the camera shows standing outside is a major surprise.
I rush to open the door. “Grace?”
“Hey.” My cousin’s smile is cautious. “It’s been a minute.”
“Yeah. What are you doing here?”
Her smile wavers.
“I mean, you’re welcome of course. It’s great to see you.”
“But it’s been a minute,” she repeats with her grin back in place.
“It really has.” I step back. “Come on in.”
Grandma had two daughters—my mother and Grace’s.
Aunt Beth moved away for college and did her best to never come back.
She works for a bank in Manhattan. But every summer when we were children, Grace was sent to stay in Vermont.
We’d go swimming at the lake and do all sorts of things together.
This lasted until we were fourteen or so, when she wanted to stay in the city with friends.
We texted and stayed in touch for a while.
But we haven’t really been in contact for the last nine years or so.
When we were children, I used to pretend that we were sisters.
Because we used to look sort of similar, with the same dark blonde hair.
Though now hers has been dyed a rich mahogany.
And my hair is shoulder length, while hers reaches halfway down her back.
She’s wearing a beige slip dress with fine gold necklaces and white sneakers.
While I’m back to wearing my old blue jeans and a tank.
Though to be fair I had planned on cleaning, and was not expecting company.
She steps up to give me a hug. One of those where their body is rigid and kept at a careful distance from yours. It makes sense we aren’t immediately comfortable with each other after all this time. And not everyone is a natural-born hugger. I choose not to take this as a bad omen.
A shiny new luxury hatchback is parked outside. The shadows are lengthening as the last light from the sun streaks the sky. I lock the door and face her with a smile both polite and puzzled.
“Long story short,” she says. “Turns out my fiancé was cheating on me.”
“No. What a bastard.”
“He kicked me out of our apartment and caused trouble for me at work. I thought getting out of the city for a while would be helpful. Give all the drama a chance to die down.”
“That’s awful. I didn’t even know you were engaged.”
“Yeah. You can see why the idea of being somewhere different appealed. Give myself a chance to get my shit together and figure out what life is going to look like now. I would have called to warn you I was on my way, but I don’t have your new number.
You and I always had such good times here during the summers.
Guess I was feeling nostalgic.” She smiles.
“Remember how Grandma would play classical music at top volume? She was always saying it was the original pop and punk music, and we should know where things came from.”
“I remember those lectures well.”
“And how she used to pay us to pull weeds?” she asks. “I swear I still have calluses on both my knees.”
“We needed money for ice cream and movies. Though I distinctly remember you sunbathing around the corner of the house where Grandma couldn’t see while I did the gardening for both of us.”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all.” Grace laughs. Then she gives me this sad sort of smile. “Remember when we were little and we used to spend hours searching for four-leaf clovers?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I am sorry I disappeared on you. Would you believe I didn’t know what to say? And then Gran died, and Mom was so angry about you getting the house. She made it this whole big thing. God…the way she would go on about it. It was like she was obsessed or something.”
“Yeah. Her feelings were pretty clear at the funeral.”
“But we’re family, and I should have tried harder.”
Guess it’s my turn to not know what to say.
This is the thing when someone comes back.
Whatever faith you used to have in the person is gone.
Showing her how much she hurt me by not reaching out during my worst days isn’t an option.
Because being vulnerable requires a level of trust we don’t have right now.
Though she did make the trip up here and I could definitely use more friends.
“I saw the trailer for the documentary,” she says with a wince. “How are you doing with all of that?” Before I can answer she’s off and talking again. “I mean, having people know your name and being sort of famous must be at least a little fun, right?”
“It’s not the kind of situation where people give you free coffee or other perks. And the stares are more along the lines of ‘is she going to pull an axe out of her handbag and kill us all’ as opposed to ‘wow, check her out, she’s so cool.’”
Her enthusiasm dims. “Well, what do you think of the documentary?”
“Eh. The less said the better. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Fair enough.” Her smile disappears for a moment before returning to full force. “Do you still like to lie out in the backyard and howl at the moon?”