Donuts and Denial (Love and Breakfast #1)

August 21st, 2008

Toby

As I scratch my upper lip, my mustache reminds me of Mom, not because she had one, but because she loved mine. Te hace ver distinguido . It makes you look distinguished.

My growling stomach and Mom are the reason I’m here, parked outside a donut shop in my pajamas. Come algo. Eat something. Mom’s solution to every problem: I’m tired, come algo , I’m depressed, come algo , I’m hungry, come algo , my arm’s broken, come algo .

Eating something didn’t stop Mom from dying of a heart attack one year ago today. I cut the engine and drop the keys into the pocket of my cat-hair-covered trench coat and place the blame where it belongs, on Gordita. Her scratching and meowing woke me up thirty minutes ago at 2:42 in the afternoon, ruining my plan to sleep through the day.

I angle the rearview mirror down until I can see my greasy hair and run my fingers through it, then focus on my eyes. They’re tired and heavy, the eyes of an eighty-year-old on my 26-year-old face. And then I check my mustache. It’s usually tidy, but today it looks like two brown, furry caterpillars locked in a kiss below my nose.

My mustache gets more action than I do.

I place my thumb and pointer finger below my nose and drag my fingers out and downward in a circle around my mouth. The caterpillars still kiss, but their public display of affection is less frenzied.

After opening the door, I don’t immediately step out of the car. Instead, I crane my neck in a slow arc. There’s a reason I passed three donut shops before picking this one. If I get around to pursuing my doctorate, the last thing I need is a future professor seeing me. The University of New Mexico is its own world, and this donut shop isn’t part of it. Shoppers travel in and out of a nearby clothing store, but at the donut shop, the coast is clear.

My pajama bottoms stick to my thighs in the late August heat as I peel myself from the car seat and tighten the belt of my trench coat. I’d rather be sweaty than reveal my BB-8 shorts and Frodo T-shirt.

A woman and I reach the door simultaneously. My eyes start at her feet and move up her long legs to the backpack straps across her shoulders and land on her nametag: JerryAnn. I open the door, admiring her athletic stride despite a limp. She’s beautiful and much taller than me. Her company logo polo shirt and khaki pants tell me she works at the nearby hobby shop.

Inside, we study the menu board in silence.

JerryAnn takes out her hairband and shakes her head. She smells better than donuts, and her light brown hair reminds me of my ex-girlfriend’s. It was barely long enough to fit into the ponytail that was at the back of her head. Now wisps of hair frame her face.

A teenage girl materializes behind the donut-filled display case. “Can I help you?”

I gesture for JerryAnn to go first.

She gives a little smile. “One maple bar, a salted caramel old-fashioned, a raspberry Bismarck.” She’s taken the words right out of my mouth. I step closer to the counter as she continues. “An old-fashioned glazed, a cream cheese pillow, and...” She hesitates. “...A cinnamon twist.”

It’s kismet. She’s ordered exactly what I want. I keep my eyes on her. “I’ll have what she’s having.” I want to say something charming to get her attention, but instead, I take in her elegant long legs, pale blue eyes, and delicate hair.

JerryAnn’s gaze falls on everything in the shop but me. When our eyes meet, her face is strained, and her smile evaporates in a breath. I’m in pajamas and a trench coat staring at an attractive woman and unsure what to do with myself. I wink. Did she just cringe?

“You know,” Teenager addresses both of us, her voice chipper, “combining your orders will take three bucks off the total price. Cheaper for a dozen.”

I’m all about saving three bucks, so I nod and JerryAnn nods, but she’s distracted and fiddles with her ear. Is this fate, kismet, serendipity?

“Two boxes?” Teenager holds up two fingers, but JerryAnn shakes her head, no.

Wait, did she hear the question? Are we eating donuts together? Does she have earbuds in? Did she hear Teenager at all?

I want to play it cool, but if we’re not eating together, how will we split up the donuts without an extra box? My trench coat pockets are huge, but do I want glazed pockets? Is there a cool way to show interest in her while expressing my desperation for a donut?

While our orders are filled, JerryAnn glances at me, then stares at the door. Maybe she has a door fetish. Is that a thing? She sets her credit card on the counter, glances nervously in my direction, and stares at the door again.

No way is she paying for my donuts. I may look homeless, but I can afford six donuts. I dig my wallet out of my trench coat pocket before Teenager can grab JerryAnn’s credit card.

Teenager sets our single box of donuts on the counter, then steps aside and removes her gloves while JerryAnn eyes the door.

I drop a $20 bill beside the box.

JerryAnn grabs her credit card off the counter because Teenager has had plenty of time to swipe it, but hasn’t. Then JerryAnn’s out the door…with our donuts. With my donuts! Doesn’t she know the difference between six and twelve donuts?

Did serendipity just sucker-punch me?

Teenager returns to the register with sloth-like speed. Her expression turns quizzical at the empty spot on the counter where JerryAnn’s credit card and our donuts used to be. She scratches her head. “What the…” Her eyes meet mine.

I show her my empty hands. I should be chasing down JerryAnn and my donuts, but Teenager is holding my $20 hostage. I need the change.

With donut-hole-wide eyes, she points to the parking lot. “She stole your donuts!”

I nod. I’m aware.

She opens the cash register, carefully counting out my change while my donuts get farther and farther away.

“Want me to call the cops?” She places the last coin in my hand.

I drop the money loosely in my pocket and say, “No,” as I run for the exit.

Aside from Mom’s Buick, the lot is empty. The tables outside are empty. About thirty yards away, limping east on Montgomery is JerryAnn with my donuts. One sweaty, sockless foot in front of the other, I march toward her.

It’s not only hunger or the anniversary of Mom’s death that has me fuming. I’ve spent a lifetime dealing with people like JerryAnn: women who look down on me because I’m short, who belittle me because I’m paunchy, and dump me because I’m not the kind of guy you have a serious relationship with.

When brakes squeal down the road behind me, JerryAnn turns, sees me, and I wave frantically, shouting, “JerryAnn.” She speeds up. Nice . I want my donuts, so I increase my pace, but one of JerryAnn’s long-legged steps equals two of mine.

I open my mouth to yell that she’s got my donuts, but the wheezing hits in a major way. I pat my pockets. Great, my inhaler is in the car.

She’s faster and her limp intensifies.

To keep up, I jog down the sidewalk as traffic blows past. I’m a jingling, wheezing, sweating, cat-hair-covered mess. If I were JerryAnn, I’d be running away too.

JerryAnn veers left, out of my view, behind a coffee hut in the same shopping center lot as the donut shop.

I lumber across the gravel landscaping, nearly scraping my calf on a cactus. I’m mad Mom’s dead. I’ve lost enough, but I’m not losing my donuts. I veer left, making a tight turn around the corner of the coffee hut. Then…

BAM!

I tumble to the ground.

I’m not unconscious, but I’d like to be. My breathing is erratic, and I’m facedown, ears ringing from the percussive thwack. I concentrate, keep my eyes closed and pull oxygen into my lungs. It’s hard to concentrate on breathing with jagged rocks on my face and one throbbing eye.

“What did you do?” a woman yells from above and behind me. She’s close, probably inside the coffee hut.

“He was staring at me, ogling me, and following me.” Must be JerryAnn.

“You’re like, eight feet tall. I would think you’d be used to people staring.” She’s not eight feet tall, but she’s over six feet.

“People stare at my height, not my face. Besides, I barely hit him with my backpack.” She doesn’t sound frantic, just matter-of-fact, but it wasn’t just a backpack. I know a book when it hits me in the face. “I was protecting myself.”

A door opens and closes, and footsteps crunch on the rocks. “Did you kill him?” A woman whose scent is equal parts coffee and perfume leans over me. Coffee Lady places her fingers on my neck, feeling for a pulse.

Breathe , I tell myself. Breathe . Should I say something? Probably, but I can hardly breathe let alone speak, and I’m loving the attention, her gentle touch, her soft fingers. This is the closest I’ve been to a woman since getting dumped a month after Mom died.

Coffee Lady sighs. “He’s alive.” She removes her fingers from my neck.

I miss her touch already.

“He can’t stay here,” Coffee Lady whispers, hovering over me. “He’s lying across the drive-thru. Should I call the police or an ambulance? Maybe he has a concussion.”

Another hand—this one smells like soap—brushes my hurt eye. It must be JerryAnn. “He’ll be fine.” She sounds confident. Does she do this often?

They’re silent, presumably staring at me. I should have shaved, brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, showered, worn clothing…stunk less.

Coffee Lady’s fingers comb my shaggy hair out of my face. If I were Gordita, I’d purr. “What do we do with him?” My shallow wheezing is the only sound. “He’s kind of handsome.” No response from JerryAnn. C’mon, I am kind of handsome, but it’s Coffee Lady who speaks again. “He looks like…”

I wait for her to say Antonio Banderas. Mom always said I looked like a young, pudgy Antonio Banderas.

“An escaped convict,” JerryAnn whispers.

“Yes,” Coffee Lady whispers back. “Exactly. It’s the mustache. It gives him a rugged, criminal quality.”

JerryAnn’s hand tugs on my jacket sleeve. “And the trench coat. Only creeps and criminals wear trench coats.”

Apparently, I missed that memo. My breathing is improving, but I keep my eyes closed out of curiosity.

Coffee Lady says, “Do escaped convicts wear Star Wars pajamas?”

Nice . So much for hiding my clothes.

JerryAnn shifts beside me. “Maybe?”

“Well, convict or not, he looks harmless. Decent. You know how hard it is to find a decent guy?” Coffee Lady doesn’t wait for an answer. The gravel crunches. “Stay with him while I get ice for his shiner.” Her voice gets quieter with each word.

JerryAnn moves closer, and her hand rubs my arm. The coffee hut door opens and closes. JerryAnn’s touch is soft and gentle. “Suck it up,” she whispers close to my ear. The fabric of her shirt grazes my arm again, and she pats my back. “Wake up. Walk it off. It was just a backpack.” She rolls me over. “You’re fine.”

I smile. What kind of woman knocks a guy out and then tells him to suck it up? My smile turns to a grin which becomes a full-body wheezing laugh as I open my eyes.

JerryAnn backs up, eyes wide.

When Coffee Lady returns and hands me an ice bag, I’m still laughing. They monitor me cautiously from several steps away, an appropriate reaction considering they think I’m a laughing, wheezing, escaped convict.

I sit up on the curb and drop my feet onto the drive-thru cement. The ice feels great on my eye. My breathing is ragged, but it’s been worse. The words come out between laughter and breaths. “You think I’m an escaped convict?” The women move closer and stand over me. I face JerryAnn. “And what? Did you think I was chasing you down so I could murder you?”

“No, you don’t look like a murderer.”

“What, then, abduct you?”

She shrugs and gives me a half smile.

“If I were going to abduct a woman, it wouldn’t be one taller, stronger, or faster than I am.” Wheeze. Breathe. “There aren’t many women I could abduct.”

JerryAnn folds her arms. “You chased me, and you know my name.”

“Uh,” Coffee Lady interjects, pointing at JerryAnn’s name tag. “ I know your name.”

JerryAnn’s eyes drop to her nametag in surprise. She removes the tag and shoves it into her pocket.

It hurts to hold my head up. I’m not concussed. I’ve had a concussion before, in high school. A jock pushed me to the ground and kicked me in the head. This is different. I prop my elbows on my knees, hold my head in my hands, pressing the icepack to my wounded eye, and focus on oxygenating my lungs.

I gesture to the box of donuts sitting on the picnic table parallel to Montgomery. “I paid for our donuts.” Sometime between attacking me and telling me to suck it up, she set the donuts down.

JerryAnn’s arms are no longer folded, but she shakes her head. “No, I paid for six donuts with my credit card.”

“You took your credit card before it was swiped, and I paid for a dozen.”

JerryAnn limps over to the box of donuts, opens it, and her understanding turns to a blush across her face. She leaves the donuts and returns. I wait for her apology.

Silence.

Coffee Lady moves closer to me. “And you’re sure you’re not an escaped convict?”

“I’m not an escaped convict. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.” Strained breath. “I’m a substitute teacher.”

They exchange a glance with each other, and Coffee Lady giggles. They don’t think I can hold down a job as a substitute.

“I usually shave and wear real clothes, and this is the first time I’ve worn this trench coat.” Gordita uses it, not me.

Coffee Lady smiles, but JerryAnn’s eyes narrow.

I need a donut and my inhaler. I’ve got a headache now, thanks to hunger, the hit, and the resulting light-headedness. The ice provides some relief, but I need to lie down—again. “I’m a good guy, really. I loved my Mom, and I wanted one of her bu?uelos but settled for donuts, and when you took them away, I got mad.” Their expressions reflect confusion. I sigh. “My Mom died today, okay?”

Both ladies gasp then mutter, “Your Mom died today?” Coffee Lady steps back.

They think I’m an abductor who murdered my mother today because she didn’t give me bu?uelos .

“Not today today. She died a year ago today.” They’re silent, wide-eyed. “Of a heart attack. My mom died of natural causes.”

They exchange a skeptical glance.

“I didn’t kill my mom.” My throat catches. “I loved my mom.”

Their expressions soften. JerryAnn approaches first. She sidles up beside me on the curb. Maybe she wasn’t sending me the don’t-touch-me, you-creep-me-out signal. She places one arm underneath my armpit and comes in for an awkward hug.

I whisper, “Hi. I’m Toby Delgado.” I breathe in the scent of her hair. It’s a sweet, clean scent. She peers down at me, and as our eyes meet, “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel bursts into my mind. I lift my arm and reach around to hug her.

JerryAnn stiffens and pulls her head back. “This is not a hug.”

Darn it, I need a hug. And then I remember what I smell like and pull back. With her arm under mine, she attempts to stand and lift me. She buckles under my weight. My legs are fine, but I’m too dizzy to stand.

JerryAnn groans. “A little help?”

Coffee Lady comes to my other side. They pull me up to standing. Coffee Lady grunts. She’s tiny, so the limping JerryAnn carries the brunt of my weight. We stagger to the picnic table.

Sandwiched between two beautiful women, I regret my hygiene choices.