Chapter 4 Brokenly
“ L auren,” I stammered, almost in disbelief myself. “Look.” I pointed to the signature below, then placed the two side by side for comparison. “Do you see what I see?”
“Wow, I do. I guess she was trying to hide something.”
“I mean, that might be a wild assumption based on different handwritings, but the only other option is that someone forged her signature and did a poor job at that.”
“That, I doubt,” Lauren said in an attempt to sway me. “It’s not like they had high-tech programs in the seventies for detecting false signatures.”
I pounded my hand into my head, banging my skull multiple times to the throbbing headache that was clouding my mind. However, as I went for another round in aggravation, I felt the softness of Lauren’s hand catch my wrist.
“Joshua...” she whispered. “It’s going to be alright. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen if you just let Ms. Debbie’s past remain a secret?”
“The worst thing?” I hissed. “For starters, I could lose the bookstore. I already sank all my money into this place, which means, my apartment could be next, and Ms. Debbie was the only friend I had. So—I don’t know—you tell me, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
I fell silent while Lauren lowered her eyes to the ground. Losing my cool was not something I was accustomed to, but excuse or not, my world had been shaken, and I was feeling the aftershock.
“I should go,” she finally managed, still looking down at the floor.
“Lauren, I’m sorry,” I said, attempting to grasp her hand with mine, but she quickly pulled away. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the backroom, never stopping as she pushed past the front door.
The natural instinct to shove my feelings aside and consider that she had not overstepped a boundary was the first reaction I wanted to side with, but I knew better. I had been down that path before, and it never led to anything good.
My head buzzed with dark thoughts from the past, before I realized the stupidity of comparing Lauren to someone else. So, doing the only thing I knew to do, I ran after her. As I headed toward the door, just above a jog, the sunny afternoon dissolved the coolness of the store into a busy sidewalk. I glanced about the crowd, trying to spot Lauren. Surely, she had not managed to disappear so quickly. But, as I peered up and down the street, my eyes settled on an empty parallel parking spot.
Frustrated, I turned and headed back inside. I faulted myself for being so rash while considering the trigger of Lauren’s voice. Her offer of comfort had delivered a blow, setting something off deep within my soul that years of healing had failed to reconcile. And now, there was no doubt—without knowing her last name, phone number, or email, I would likely not get a chance to make amends.
Passing the front desk, I stopped and stared at the computer, thinking of how likely it would be that all that information was housed inside if she was a rewards member. The sketchy feeling that accompanied the idea, however, left me to dismiss the thought and return to the backroom.
Instead of settling down and opening another box, I shut off the lights and stood in the surrounding darkness. Hoping to still my mind, I tried to only conceive the tranquility of the silent abyss. Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift back to the various conversations I had had with Ms. Debbie. Most of them were centered on the thrillers she was reading, business advice such as not to trust anyone when it comes to money, and a very few short personal discussions. Of those, I only remembered when I first met Ms. Debbie and was looking for advice geared toward relationships, or lack thereof. She would often dismiss the subject in a subtle tone, saying, “Being alone can be a good thing, you know.”
Maybe this all meant something, or perhaps not. At the moment, nothing seemed to matter. I had not had a vacation in years, nothing relationship-wise since, well, Brooke, and my whole career and life seemed to gravitate toward the bookstore.
Letting my thoughts sink in, I was ready to call it a day. Leaving work an hour early was something I had never recalled before, but as I picked up my keys from the desk, I turned off the lights and never looked back until I reached around to lock the front door. With no answers or peace of mind, I was going to go home, eat dinner, watch a movie, or whatever struck me in the moment. I had next week to figure out Ms. Debbie’s past, and if I did not, who knew what would happen to the store.
As I began the mile-long walk to the apartment, I noticed my head hanging, focused on the pavement below and the problems I could not fix. So, instead of continuing down such a path, I turned around and headed in the opposite direction. For once, I needed a break from my routine.
With each step, I began to focus on what I might do for the rest of the day. Passing the Beehives Bookstore sign, I failed to take a second look and continued my walk past the front and around the corner. Just ahead lay the “All Scoops” ice-cream shop that I had once been accustomed to visiting, mainly with Brooke. It had been about ten years since we last spoke, so I decidedthat maybe it was time to reclaim the spot as my own.
Stepping through the doorway, I could instantly tell the place had undergone a facelift since our last visit. For this, I was thankful. There was something about familiar places that always set me off, reminding me of the good and bad parts of our relationship. However, either upon habit or desire, standing at the counter, I ordered our usual request: Rocky Road with marshmallow toppings and a dash of strawberry drizzled across the top.
Perhaps the fact that Brooke and I meshed so well was the reason I began to rethink my life and steer away from dating. It was as though we had agreed on everything—well almost everything. With everyday issues, we fell together like a puzzle. Brooke and I loved to cook together, watch romance and horror movies, and even ordered the same peculiar ice-cream. But our relationship went deeper than that. Religion, politics, and even the friends we hung out with were shared. We had talked about how we would open our own business, once we had the money, of course; have a bakery mixed in with a bookstore, and that life would be amazing.
As the lady slid the bowl of ice-cream over to me, I greeted the memories of the dessert with a smile before turning to scan the parlor. There was a slim crowd for the afternoon, which somehow guided my eyes to the same table where we used to sit. Taking a seat, I instantly scooped up a large bite with a spoon and sunk my teeth in. However, it was then a painful thought jogged my memory.
The reason our perfect life failed to exist today had not been so obvious at the time. Over the years, the fog from denial and naive youth faded and I saw the true reason why our relationship had suddenly ended—giving me much-needed closure. Regardless, the decision she made to break things off, never convey a clear explanation, cut all communication, and move away had broken me to the core. I quit dating, was fired from my job as an accountant for lack of performance, and no longer could afford the three-bedroom apartment I had prematurely signed a lease on before asking her to marry me.
So, why had our world come tumbling down? Children—not hers, nor mine, but ours, or lack thereof. All my life I had envisioned a life with a wife and a few kids. I never cared if it was one or ten, but a family was important to me. Brooke, on the other hand, had no problem with getting married, but children, to her, were non-negotiable. However, the topic of children typically only arose during intimate evenings, right after climax.
Brooke had never been one to discuss the details of her femaleness. For that reason, she never cared to share if it was her time of the month, when she was ovulating, or if, in fact, she was on birth control. Since she was the first girl with whom I had reached a point in the relationship in which those issues became important, I felt clueless about how to approach the subject. The problem, which made more sense after the fact, was we never used protection. I guess, at the time, her not wanting kids and the lack of preventative measures should have made me question her, but there were two things that kept me from considering her rationale. When we had sex, I loved not having to use a condom. I figured most girls would prefer using one, so I counted myself lucky. However, the only hang up was that she always told me to pull out before I finished. This was not so bad, though. It was the only form of prevention that I knew we were using, and she always finished me off, one way or another.
But as I had revisited our time together over the years, I found that the puzzle in which we lived was missing a piece, a piece that Brooke never laid on the table but accidently left for me to discover long after she had left. There had been a reason she failed to share the details around her cycle. There had been a reason she had not been afraid to have sex without a condom. And there had been a reason for me pulling out, but they were for different reasons.
Brooke had not moved in with me at the new apartment as she was still waiting for her lease to end. However, she had decided to move over the necessities: a selection of clothes, toiletries, and her pillow. The idea was we could spend the night together, get up the next morning, and get ready for work without her having to return home. For about a month, that worked out well.
One night, after sex, she lay snuggled up against me. For one reason or another, I asked her why she was so opposed to having children. In the beginning, Brooke had said things like, “Wouldn’t it be great to travel the world, just you and I?” Or, “If we had kids, we couldn’t have sex on the couch in the middle of the day.” Then as time passed, her explanations became shorter, oftentimes shutting down the conversation entirely.
However, that night was a little different. Tears had clouded her eyes, and the ability to hold them back was almost too great.
“It’s not that I haven’t thought about holding our little boy and admiring how much he favors you,” she offered with a partial smile.
“If it’s the dirty diapers, I’ll change them all. I promise,” I inserted, hoping for a laugh.
“Ha!” she huffed. “No, not at all. Stinky diapers don’t bother me.”
“Then, what is it?” I said, more bluntly than I intended. “If it’s the thought of going into labor, we could adopt.”
Leaning closer, she pressed her chest against me and placed her lips on mine. With a simple kiss, Brooke pulled away. Then, with the saddest eyes I had ever seen, she asked, “I love you, Josh; isn’t that enough?”
Shocked and confused, I raised my brow, unsure of how to answer the question. She had not offered to clarify anything, yet here we were, with our sights on marriage, and the most controversial topic we had discussed had no resolve in sight.
“Of course. I promise your love is all I’ll ever need, but can’t you be open and honest with me?”
Perhaps it was the question of her integrity that did it, or the mere condition added to the unwavering declaration of my love for her. Either way, Brooke rolled over without another word and went to sleep. The next day, when I woke up, she was gone, and all that remained from the night before was a tear-stained pillow.