2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Betty
T hree Months Later
“There’s one missing,” I whisper calmly to Mrs. Buchanan, the eighth-grade teacher, staring down at the gathering of school trip students at the bookstore. “Be right back.” I turn before she gives me any more attitude.
I navigate through the aisles I know like the back of my hand because it’s my job. Rather, new job as of three weeks ago. The sixth new job I’ve taken in the last year. After my world was upended. After I had a scare that still has me shaken.
Her snicker gives her away, the tall, thin brunette thirteen-year-old that I spotted the moment the students arrived at the bookstore. She towered above her classmates, a speck of makeup on her cheek. The minute I saw her, I knew she’d be trouble. Game recognizes game. That was me at that age.
Hell, that was me all the way up to last year.
“Your teacher is looking for you. They’re about to start the program.” I approach, careful not to crowd her. Her finger pushes the hair hanging in her face as she looks up from a book I recognize. A book she has no business reading at her age: a steamy romance novel with a bare-chested man on the cover.
Her wide eyes do not show any hints of embarrassment. “My mom has this book at home. She hides it when I come into the room.” Her squeaking voice is filled with curiosity. I was raised to believe it to be a good trait for a young woman. At least, I used to believe that. “Why?”
I pause, resting my hand on the shelf to my right. I extend my other hand, taking the book from her. “You really should talk to your mom about that. The books in this section contain topics that…”
“I should have known.” Mrs. Buchanan’s tone is filled with accusations and anger. The young lady’s shoulders clinch, and her hands shoot down by her sides as if she’s in the military and her commanding officer just entered the room.
Mrs. Buchanan glances at the book cover in my hand. “Stay away from my students.” She directs her anger at me. Pushing past me, she grabs the student by the hand and drags her back in my direction. “You haven’t changed one iota. You think I haven’t forgotten.” She pushes the girl toward the other students in the back of the store and turns to face me. “My husband used to go to that sleazy bar of yours. You in your tight tops and skimpy shorts. I see you’ve moved on from poisoning the minds of the men of this town and are now working on the next generation.”
I take a long inhale, recalling my many sessions with my therapist. The hours and hours of mindfulness videos. I bite my tongue while I fight the internal battle of giving this woman a piece of what’s left of my tattered mind.
Don’t.
I’m no longer that woman. I can’t afford to be.
I stand there like a door mouse, quiet, timid, and let her rail on about past injustices that reveal more about her than me. It’s amazing the power quiet has over a person. The fire in her eyes flickers away when she realizes she will not get the reaction she wants from me. “Hmmmpff!” she scoffs. “I guess I’ll have to speak to the owners and let them know the type of person they’ve hired here.”
“Feedback forms are next to the register.” My voice fills with a sweetness that my former self would have punched right in the face.
Her lips pull tight, and a heavy silence fills the surrounding air. We stand there in a staring contest worthy of her middle-grade students. Three long beats. I ignore the murmur of the author starting the children’s program in the back of the store. I ignore the chime of the shop bell indicating a customer has entered. I ignore everything except the cold daggers being tossed my way from the furious eyes of a woman who only sees my past.
The heavy hand on my shoulder can’t be ignored. “Hey, Mrs. Buchanan.” Olivia. My former coworker and my best friend. Her warm hand gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze and lingers. She knows my history. She knows everything.
Olivia steps into my periphery, her gaze lowering to the book in my hand. She snatches it. “Mrs. Buchanan, didn’t I see you reading this on the boardwalk last weekend? I hope you aren’t recommending it to Betty. Haven’t you heard she’s a good girl these days?”
I want to hug and shove Olivia at the same time. I know what she is doing. And I love her for it. But this isn’t her battle. This isn’t her journey.
“Tssk.” The sound of Mrs. Buchanan tapping her tongue against her teeth draws our attention. The fire returns to her eyes, but she does the math, two against one, and turns, giving us her back.
“Must you?” I snatch the book from Olivia’s hand. “You’re not helping.” I slide the book back onto the shelf and walk toward the front of the bookstore. The quiet half.
Olivia paces behind me. “You’re welcome.” I shake my head. “The Betty I know would have never tolerated that before. You would have put her in her place in two seconds. Had her regretting her life’s choices and bowing in your presence.”
“Really? You went there.” I pray she hears the anger in my voice because all I hear is the hurt. “Regretting my life choices” were the exact words I used when crying on Olivia’s shoulders at the end of last summer, a time when I had to face the consequences of my reckless actions. “This was a mistake. Just like the last five jobs.”
“You got that right.” Olivia hops on the counter, pressing her hands next to her ridiculously tight jean shorts. It’s inappropriate, but it’s Olivia. She pulls a bookmark from the jar, wagging it like a flag. “It’s time for you to come back to the bar. It’s summer, our busiest season. You know Buddy will take you back in a heartbeat. You were always his favorite.”
What she says is all true. I worked for Buddy for eight seasons. He keeps tabs on me. It’s not that difficult in our small town of Seaside, Oregon. Each time I left a job this past year, I would get a text from Buddy the next day, reminding me he would always have an open spot for me back at the Driftwood.
I shove Olivia by her rear off the counter, and she stumbles dramatically with a fake laugh. She pushes back her strawberry blonde hair and squares her shoulders, pushing out her boobs, which threaten to pop out from her tight tank top. Her requisite cutoff jeans, which she lives in each summer, complete her ensemble. “You can’t hide out in this place all summer. There’s an entire world happening out there.” She sweeps her hand toward the door.
Bookstore on the Shore sits on a pier across from the ocean here in Oregon. Hidden between a coffee shop and a surf store, we sit on the quieter end of the boardwalk. I sneak a peek over my shoulder toward the rear of the store to confirm there aren’t any prying ears. “Maybe I should leave Seaside.” I wave a hand in Mrs. Buchanan’s direction. “There’s always going to be someone like her still judging me for who I once was.”
Olivia flips the bird toward the back of the store. “You were a freaking badass. Always have been. Don’t you dare think otherwise. Remember, I was right there next to you every step of the way. You have nothing to regret. Sure, we get out of hand sometimes, but it’s all in the name of fun and living life. That’s what our twenties are for.”
“I turn thirty next month.”
Olivia pumps a fist to the sky. “And thirty is the new twenty.”
I shake my head. “It’s time for me to grow up. I got the memo. The very loud and scary message.” I lift my hand shoulder-height high in front of her. “It’s still shaking.”
She steps to me, taking my hand in hers and pulling it to her bosom. “That’s your inner freak trying to shake this wet blanket you’ve wrapped her in. Set it free. Come out with me tonight. The music festival is starting soon. Some of the artists have already arrived. I’ve heard from a reliable source that Lana Ramirez is going to crash the open mic at McDaniel’s.”
My pulse races with the mention of the Seaside Music Festival. It’s one of the largest festivals in the country. Every summer, the top up-and-coming artists flood our small town. What makes the festival such a draw is the number of music industry insiders and executives who conduct workshops and scout for new artists.
For a little more than a week, our little town becomes the center of the music industry. It had always been my favorite few weeks of the year. That is, until last summer. “That’s this week already? I didn’t realize…”
“Yeah, because you’ve had your nose buried in a book.”
I squeeze the edge of the counter so hard I fear I’ll crack a nail. “I should leave town.” My breath shortens, and I close my eyes to center myself. My therapist has me picture waves lapping on the beach, but all I see is the handsome face of the man who I spent the last festival with. A guitarist with talented fingers and the lips of a god. It was the most intense festival fling I’ve ever experienced. A mutually agreed-upon week and a half of sunshine, music, and fun. A one-and-done, don’t-look-back moment in time that would only leave us with happy memories. That was the plan, anyway. But actions have consequences.
Olivia’s voice fills with the compassion of a best friend. “He’s not coming.” She knows my history. “I’ve already checked. I have your back.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “It’s not that.” It most certainly is.
“Good. So, you joining me tonight?” she probes. She pushes. She won’t let me disappear into a cave alone. Olivia has been by my side every step of this journey. From the shock of the news, the roller coaster of emotions, the tears, the anger, the resignation, to this. Me wandering around clueless, shifting from job to job in search of what, I’m still not sure. I’m trying to escape my past. Attempting to not repeat those same mistakes. But people like Mrs. Buchanan refuse to let me forget it.
As if reading my thoughts, Olivia gives me what I need. “I got you, babe. We’ll persevere. Tell me what you need, and I’ll go rip it from the claws of a mountain lion.”
She steps around the counter and pulls me into a tight hug. “Musicians can go suck it. That’s why I prefer a man in uniform.”
She provides the levity that I need. “Thank you.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and I bury it in Olivia’s shoulder.
“We’ll get through this, and I’ll never mention his name.”
I nod and wipe away the tears. The problem with having a past is that it’s always there. Others don’t have to call it out, not when you’ve decided to torture yourself daily. Olivia doesn’t have to say his name. The festival doesn’t have to list it on the program or have it blasted on three-foot-tall lights on the billboard.
His name is always on the tip of my tongue. It plays on repeat in my head every day. The one name that changed my life and has me questioning everything.
Laredo.