Chapter 10 Encounters of the Fourth Kind #4
Sandy nearly had an out-of-body experience. She’d already regretted inviting Moira out, and now the mouse had opened the invitation to the whole world.
Racing to put out the fire, Sandy said, “I’m sure he has other things going on.” Please, Harold, take the hint.
He stared into the eyes of Moira, seeking a lifeline. “Actually, I guess. Maybe. If that’s okay.”
George sat in the living room across from Bianca, both scrolling through their iPads.
They’d had to pull one side of the blinds to keep the last of the sunlight at bay.
An unopened bottle of wine stared at him from the counter; he was ready to go, tapping his foot to bluegrass music that she’d gotten into since moving to Austin, a Billy Strings guy.
Keeping it light, he said, “What’s the story with the bookstore owner? Sandy?”
It took a moment for her to respond. “She’s cute, isn’t she? You should ask her out.”
Though he’d considered exactly that, he faked a chuckle. “I’m too old for that, honey.”
Bianca barely acknowledged his answer, keeping her eyes on whatever she was reading, moving her mouth to make it clear she was busy. He went back to his own chore: cleaning out his inbox. An empty inbox wasn’t sex, but it was as close as he got lately.
Ten minutes later, the quiet was getting to him. “Don’t beat yourself up for the turnout.”
In a display of exhaustion, at either him or life in general, she closed her iPad and rested it on her lap. “It’s embarrassing, you know. I should have said no from the get-go.”
“You’re in a different country,” he said slowly, searching for the right words. “Nobody knows you. It’s an honor your book is selling in other countries.”
“Dad, we sold two copies.”
George sighed. He wanted to lob over an I-told-you-so. What did she expect?
In the open kitchen, she jabbed the screw of a wine opener into the cork. Thank God! “I’m done with writing books,” she said.
“There you go, then. It’s good you figured that out.”
“I knew that before coming here.”
“Then what are you doing? What else are you trying to figure out?”
Red wine flowed from the bottle into two glasses. “I don’t know yet.”
Here was his chance. He cleared his throat. “If I may . . .”
“Do I want to hear this?” She rounded the counter and handed him his glass.
“I don’t know. Just trying to help.”
She sat and took a long sip. “Okay, get it out.”
Go easy, but say your peace, George. She needs you.
“B, you can’t wait for something to fall in your lap. It’s not like I woke up dying to go into hardware engineering. I had a sense that I had that gift, and then I went for it. You’ve already found your gift as a therapist. But you’re running from it.”
Her jaws moved like she was chewing nails.
Tread carefully, George.
“All I’m saying is . . . don’t fall out of the habit of working. Don’t lose your groove.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a recalibration. People change paths.”
“Sure, they do. But walking away, I don’t know. I don’t want you to get caught running out of money and regretting this whole thing. You know I’ll always bail you out, but . . .”
He could recall his younger years in South Phoenix so clearly, his blue-collar father trying to get past losing his mother to Hodgkin’s disease, barely able to get out of bed some days to make it to the steel mill.
Skipped meals. Spoonfuls of peanut butter for dinner.
Sometimes George would give his sister his portion because her ribs were showing.
Besides, he was lucky enough to have a kind baseball coach who’d often take him for fast food after practice.
Soup kitchens. Food stamps. The generous people at their church always stopping by to lend a hand, delivering casseroles and hand-me-down clothing.
The electricity and water had been shut off so many times in their trailer that they kept flashlights and jugs of water at the ready.
Bianca brought him back to the present. “It’s noted that you want me to come back home. It’s noted that you disagree with my move.” She had her eyes on the wall opposite her, where some sort of Dalí-esque painting hung. She was chewing even harder.
He let his head fall. How could someone possibly know what it was like to be broke unless you’d lived it? He’d never told her much about his upbringing. Didn’t want her knowing too much about her origins. It might have held her back.
“You know this is all coming from me loving you.”
She set her glass down on the coffee table—a little too hard.
“You have to let me live my life. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to see a fortune teller, and I can only imagine how stupid that sounds to you.
But it’s not to me. I’m trying to find some sense of meaning.
I have no idea if I’m staying here. It’s only been a month.
But I can tell you that I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, and it’s not because I’m getting closer to figuring out my next move.
It’s because I’m finally living, enjoying the space in between moves. I want to keep doing that.”
A fortune teller? He’d heard nothing past that.