18. Aimless Arrows
Chapter 18
Aimless Arrows
N o wonder.
I can’t help replaying the awkwardness from last night while I throw a football around with Cori’s little brothers. Sam’s God complex as he cast judgment upon Cori’s choices. The way Cori’s shoulders slumped at Sam’s first hint of disapproval. The blank stare that moved over her face like a fog rolling in. Then a reenactment between her and her father. While I just sat there making it worse, unable to find the right words to hold on to her as she slipped into herself.
After dinner was over, Cori and Sage washed the dishes. I had volunteered to help, but when Spencer and Solomon asked me to play catch, Cori told me to go with them. After half an hour, she steps outside the back door behind Sam, who rushes out to the lawn to intercept a throw meant for Spencer.
“I’m taking a break,” I say, now that Sam’s there to take my place. I walk toward the covered patio, where Cori watches from a brown mesh chair, and gulp the rest of my iced tea. She looks up at me and straightens her lips in what I’ve come to recognize is her way of offering a friendly smile without actually smiling.
There are a million things I want to say to her now, but I can’t find the words. An apology isn’t enough. I want to get her away from here, but it isn’t my place. Besides, they’re her family. Even if she walked out now, there’d still be other family dinners, other holidays in which she’d have to endure the doubt they have in her abilities.
“So, that’s your family,” I finally say, as I watch a small gray bird fly out of one of the trees in her parents' backyard.
“Yep.”
“I’m so sorry. About last night. And this morning.”
“You already apologized. Everything’s fine anyway.”
I study her, the tension lingering in her posture, the light still dimmed in her eyes. “No, it’s not. Especially not after dinner.”
“Yeah, well. They’re right.”
I scoff. “How can you think that?”
“Because I’m twenty-three and I’ve done nothing with my life.” She looks down at her fingers picking at each other.
I keep saying I’m not going to coddle her, but maybe she needs it. “You’re only twenty-three, you have plenty of time.” But she continues as if I said nothing at all.
“Like you said this morning, I’ve let my insecurities keep me locked in a cage. I don’t take risks, I don’t venture out, I stay safely within the bars. I say no to everything for fear of not succeeding or not being good enough. And I don’t really know what I’m doing wrong, but I’m also not smart enough to know how to fix it.”
I get the feeling she’s venting more so than answering my question, so I stop trying to refute her claims and simply listen while she continues. Sam and Cori’s brothers stand far enough away that they don’t notice the slight rise in her voice or the rush in which the words come out.
“I don’t feel as prepared for life as I should have been. When we were kids, the adults talked big crap about how you can do anything as long as you put your mind to it. So I got good grades and followed all the rules, only to grow up and discover there are rules I didn’t know existed. And at that point, it was too late. You know, you have to start seriously thinking about your future when you’re like, ten? Any later and it’s too late, you’ve missed your chance. Life doesn’t care, it keeps moving and piling crap on top of you until you’re so far beneath the surface, there’s no way you’ll reach the top in time.
“Remember the interview I went on about a month ago? Well, it actually went great, I thought . But I still got the rejection email. So I emailed them back asking for feedback, or a reason as to why they went in another direction. She responded over two weeks later and said if I was more outgoing, they’d be able to overlook my lack of experience and degree. But they wanted someone who would work better in a team, and she felt that I was just too reserved. So, I don’t have experience,”—she ticks off her fingers— “I don’t have confidence, I don’t have a bachelor’s degree, I don’t have enough money to pay for school and to take more time off of work for classes. I feel like I’m tied to about fifty different ropes all being pulled in different directions with equal force, so that I can’t move in any direction at all.” She’s out of breath as her face falls into her hands.
Something tells me these aren’t thoughts that are shared with many people, and I’m not sure if I should feel honored that I’m hearing them, or like an ass for bringing them out.
I want to hug her, tell her she’s wrong about all of it. Tell her that the right job will come along and not to give up hope. Not to think so negatively about herself. But I don’t because she’s not in the mood to hear solutions—she’s in the mood to get some steam out before it cooks her from the inside out.
Besides, who am I to give such advice? Like she said, we’re more similar than you’d think. Pressure to do something meaningful pins us in place. Pressure to find a job we care about, to make life feel like it’s worth the lows because we’re doing something that we love. Neither of us knows what direction to start walking in, but that doesn’t mean she’s worth any less because of it. And I realize now the reason she doesn’t fight for herself. She doesn’t think she’s worth the effort.
She puts her hands down and takes a deep breath. “Can we just not talk about it anymore?”
Unsure if she means the blog, the proposal, or her low opinions of herself, I nod anyway and silence falls upon us.
* * *
W hen we can no longer handle the suffocating heat, I follow Sam and Cori inside the living room. Everyone waits for a pot of coffee to brew before eating the peach cobbler that warms in the oven.
A black cloud still hovers above Cori, but she wears a fake smile for the sake of her family.
“Hey, Nick,” Sage calls to me from where she stands by the white-painted brick fireplace. “Wanna see Sam and Cori in matching Easter outfits?” Her devious expression has me intrigued.
I look over to see Sam glaring at Sage and mouthing, “ Don’t you dare,” and Cori looking at the ceiling as if in prayer.
“There’s nothing I would love to see more,” I answer as I rise from the loveseat. The photo Sage hands me shows two kids, probably eight or nine. Cori wore a yellow dress with pink flowers, and Sam wore a suit jacket and shorts made from the same fabric.
“Our moms thought it would be cute to make them dress alike,” Sage explains.
Cori sits forward on the couch and holds her hands up. “Okay, but what she’s not telling you is that all of us kids had the same outfits. Except Solomon, because he didn’t exist yet. But of course, she only shows you the photo of Sam and me.”
“Please tell me there are more photos of them,” I ask Sage. She flashes a sly smile and pulls a scrapbook off the shelf.
Even after we’ve all eaten the peach cobbler Stephanie brought for dessert—except Cori who only had coffee—Sarah and I sit side by side on the loveseat, flipping through pages of the scrapbook. Cori and Sam glare at us from the couch with their arms crossed and I can’t resist snapping a few photos of them with my phone. And their youthful, ornery faces in the scrapbook provide just as much entertainment. Clearly, they spent most of their free time together. Even during some holidays and family events, Sam could be seen among the four, and eventually five, Anderson kids. He fit right in, almost better than Cori.
“How did you and Sam become friends?” I ask.
“He wore a Hornets jersey to school once in first grade. I told him to get in the trash can.” She doesn’t elaborate and I fail to see how that led to a years-long friendship.
After a minute, Sam chuckles and explains further. “We argued baseball for a while. I can still picture her standing there, one hand on her hip, the other pointing a finger in my face. Then I asked if she’d want to watch the upcoming Hornets/Stallions game at my house and she promised me I’d switch teams by the end of the game. The rest is history.”
I can see that. Cori’s passion for the things she enjoys could easily grab hold of anyone’s heart.
On one page are two photos taken just seconds apart. In the first one, Cori was wearing a birthday crown and sitting next to Sam in front of a cake with chocolate icing and candles. In the next, Cori’s happy expression had morphed into one of shock, her eyes crossed to look at the chocolate icing on her nose. On the next page is Sam’s birthday, the photos almost the same, except the chocolate icing covers Sam’s nose.
I look closer at another photo of the two of them, I’m guessing preteen-age, dressed as each other for Halloween. Cori wore a short, blond wig, along with a full football uniform, while Sam wore a brown wig, a graphic t-shirt, jeans, and white vans.
Neither one of them has changed much, with a few exceptions. Sam’s personality still takes up more space than it should, but his arrogance seems to have grown along with his height. The biggest difference is in Cori’s eyes, innocence glittering from the sky-blue in the pictures, but the lightness is gone now, transforming her irises into a gray storm.
* * *
A fter we arrive back at Sam’s, I open the fridge to put away the leftovers Sarah insisted Sam and I take home, then think better of it. Cori hardly ate anything at her parents’ and coffee doesn’t count as a meal.
I ask her if she’s hungry and she glances at Sam before answering as if to ask for permission to eat.
“Yeah, I am, actually.” I’m relieved she doesn’t say no.
“You’re not full yet?” Sam asks.
“She ate like one green bean. You didn’t notice?” A loving boyfriend doesn’t miss his girlfriend distressed enough to push away her plate. Or overlook her seeking confirmation from her mom and boyfriend before deciding she better not risk taking a serving of cobbler.
Sam keeps his gaze on me as he says to Cori, “Go ahead and eat, babe. I’ll wait up.”
Except, he doesn’t. I shower and change my clothes, and when I come back out, Sam is passed out on the couch while Cori washes the dishes she used.
I lean against the counter and cross my arms, watching her dry the plate and fork and put them away. She changed clothes at some point while I was showering and, once again, wears my sweatshirt. I don’t know why I haven’t told her it’s mine yet. Maybe because it’s just a sweatshirt. Maybe because I know she’d be unnecessarily embarrassed and never wear it again. And what a shame that would be.
She leans against the counter, mirroring my stance, and it’s a few minutes before I have the nerve to say, “I want to read that poem.” I raise an eyebrow, daring her to say no.
She scrunches her nose. “Counterproposal. What about a more recently written poem? One I’m not quite as ashamed of?”
“You still write?”
“I’ve recently found the inspiration again, but it comes and goes. I actually wrote it this morning.”
I want to ask where this newfound inspiration comes from, but I don’t want to scare her away. “Okay, then. Deal.”
She leaves, then hands me a brown, leather-bound journal once she returns. But before I can grab it, she hides the journal behind her.
“But,” she warns, pointing her finger at me. “Don’t be mean if you don’t like it. Poetry is very subjective, and everyone has their own preferences of style and rhythm.”
“Just give it to me,” I say, playfully. “I can barely write a full sentence, let alone poetry. It doesn’t take much to impress me.”
She considers my words for a moment before handing me the journal, her finger slipped in between the pages marking the spot I should look.
Aimless Arrow
I’m an arrow pulled back and ready to fly,
Ready to soar through a cloudless blue sky.
I wasn’t made to sit idly by,
While everyone else around me rose high.
I was made to do great things.
But a ruthless timidity darkens my way,
Veiled promise lets talent decay.
I’m too tired and wired at the end of each day,
Pent-up ambition is here to stay.
Rooted and growing and gnawing and choking.
The answers to life have been written in codes.
The pressure to prevail builds until it explodes.
My armor takes hits faster than my weapon reloads.
The weight crushes my soul until it implodes,
Since my doubt appears to be stronger than hope.
Dreams tried on and discarded like clothes,
With every change of outfit, my insecurity grows.
I put on a smile but it’s just a pose,
As my mind succumbs to that familiar place that it loathes.
Because nothing fits, making me unworthy.
I’m an arrow pulled back and ready to fly,
Ready to soar through a cloudless blue sky,
To hit my mark, to flourish, to defy.
But as the hand lets go, it all goes awry.
There is no target on which I could land.
I go to sleep feeling as if she had ripped me open and copied the words that were painted on my soul. I’ve never felt as seen as I do now, laying in my bed, wrapped in contentment from the simplicity of relating to another person. Because sometimes all we need is to know that we aren’t alone.
When I wake the next morning, I walk out to the kitchen, starving for a hearty breakfast. I find Cori already awake and sitting at the dining room table, coffee cup sitting beside her while she scribbles something down in a notebook.
“Good morning. You’re awake early.”
She smiles and returns the greeting. “Yeah, but I might have to take a nap in a little while.” She yawns into the crook of her arm. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got to work.”
“Got to work on what?” I ask, fetching two skillets from the cabinet and bacon and eggs from the refrigerator.
“It’s for the diner. A list of drinks and their ingredients. Along with costs.”
“So you’re going ahead with it? Even though your dad forbids it?”
She nods.
I can’t help the smile that appears or the warm joy that spreads through my body. “Good. I’m glad. Once you get the facts to Mike, maybe he’ll talk your dad into accepting the idea.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making it seem more of a big deal than it actually is.”
While the bacon cooks, I walk over to her chair. “No, you’re not. You’re taking initiative. Giving ideas. Good ideas. Your dad has to see that and realize your potential. It starts with one idea, and soon you’ll have all kinds of them to help the diner improve. You’re paving the path toward leadership and maybe he’ll realize that and put you in charge if Mike ever leaves, or instead of him. Or, maybe he’ll give you the diner.”
She snorts, but her eyes still lack that luster I saw in those photos. “Now you’re the one dreaming big.”
“No, I just believe in you.”
The air sizzles and pops, and I almost mistake the intensity in her gaze as the cause.
Walking over to check on the bacon, I ask, “Is there anything I can do to help? I don’t really know anything about coffee, but I can fetch you cups of it while you work, make copies, highlight some stuff.” I grin. “I can be like your assistant.”
I hope she understands how much I support her and how badly I want her to succeed.
She chews on the inside of her cheek, seemingly considering something. “I had another idea. One that I know for sure Sam wouldn’t approve of, so I wasn’t going to say anything until I did some more research on it.” I nod for her to go on. “But that company that I interviewed for sold bags of coffee beans, some whole, some ground. And they had people you could work with to develop your own blends. I was thinking, since I already post about coffee recipes, that I could start selling coffee too, and promote my own brand through my recipes. I need to figure out how much money I’d need to start, but if I’m running it from home, it shouldn’t be an outrageous amount. Sam wants me to save my money now that I’m not paying as much towards rent and I could use it towards that.”
“I think that’s a great idea. And I can tell you already that you’d have a customer from me. And probably my mom too.”
She smiles softly, but averts her gaze, suddenly shy. After getting to know her and her family members, I imagine she’s so desperate for support that it makes her uncomfortable when she finally receives it.
“Can I ask, though, what is your obsession with coffee? Why, of all things, are you so passionate about it?” Before she can get defensive, I raise my hands. “And I’m only asking because I’m curious. Not because there’s anything wrong with being passionate about coffee.”
She rises from her seat to stand beside me at the stove. “I don’t know, I guess because Grandma’s house always smelled like coffee. She always took a moment from housework, the diner, working in the yard, or whatever she was doing around three p.m., and had a coffee break. And if I was with her, she’d use that break to tell funny stories about her childhood or about people she knew from town because, back then, everyone knew each other. It was a community, not just a town full of strangers. And while my siblings were drinking chocolate milk in the mornings, Grandma and I were drinking coffee together. Decaf for me, of course. She’d clink her glass against mine and call me her drinking buddy.” She grins. “I guess, I felt important in those moments drinking coffee with Grandma. Like I mattered.”
“You do matter, Cori.”
“Sure. But I truly felt it then.”
The air is thick with her silent admission—that she doesn’t truly agree that she matters now . It’s an exhausted subject anyway, so I change it. “I wish I could have met her.” If only because she’s an inspiration to Cori and someone who showed her the love she deserved. “And I won’t tell Sam. I promise.”
“It’s not that I want to lie to him. And I feel bad asking you not to say anything. It’s just, I need to do some planning before he finds out. And it may not even happen. It’s just an idea.” I don’t think it’s me she’s trying to convince.
“Well, you’re not asking me not to tell him. I’m telling you I won’t. And I agree that it’s better if you wait to tell him.”
“Thank you. So, that’s my update. What’s yours?” I furrow my brows, so she explains. “Are we still accountability buddies?”
“Oh, that. Right. Well…” I run my hands through my hair. “I haven’t made any progress, to be honest.” The deal we had made completely escaped my mind.
“That’s okay. You’re at the hardest part. The field is too open, there are too many directions you could go in, and you won’t know it’s the wrong way until it’s kinda too late.” She rubs my upper arm consolingly, but pulls her hand away too soon, leaving my arm cold from her absent touch. “You have a good job now, one that doesn’t seem to crush your soul, so there’s really no rush for you. Like you told me the night of that interview, and like my grandma used to say, the right thing will come along at the right time.”