Chapter Three Andrea and Gordon
Lt. Rockland said there was no charge, but he saved my cat.
That’s up there with saving my baby, if I had one, even if my cat wasn’t in danger.
It was still horrible. And my day is still ruined.
And my phone is still blowing up. I send a group text telling everyone my cat is safe and that I’ll start arguing with airlines and cruise lines tomorrow.
“We’re going to bake him some cookies and take them to the fire station,” I tell Chopin. “Hey, Rimsky!” I yell at my smart hub, “Play my Rainy Day playlist.”
Soothing, flowing piano starts to pour from the little globe of a speaker in my living room. Chopin plops onto the couch and begins a thorough grooming, no doubt trying to get the nature out of his fur.
I ignore the mess on the floor. The luggage that’s wildly unpacked and unzipped. The things I knocked over in my haste to go search for him.
I’m ignoring it all in favor of baking cookies to take over to Lt. Rockland first thing in the morning as a thank you for saving my cat.
And for the pep talk, my inner voice reminds me, but I’m iffy about that.
I thanked him for it at the time, because I know it’s good advice.
If I were back in my college days (oh wow, so long ago, a whole year), I would have given that same speech to every girl in my dorm who was sure she needed to drop out, sure she was too homesick to go on.
As an R.A., I literally did give that same speech a dozen times.
Stick to it, make friends, join clubs, find activities, use the community/campus resources.
“It was good advice from that big firefighter. I mean, I know he’s right.
I gave girls in my dorm that same advice all the time, and most of them made it to graduation.
But I don’t know if I want to take it, Chopin,” I inform the cat, getting out butter and eggs, now glad that I didn’t discard the rest of the dozen before I went on my trip.
Chopin looks at me, one leg above his ear, head busy bathing the back of his thigh.
“Oh, you’re going to remind me that you’re better than me, yoga god?” I tease. “Well, you suck at climbing down from trees, buddy.”
“Mrrr,” Chopin gives me a quizzical stare before yanking on the fur at his ankle, contorting himself further into a pretzel.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be nice to you. You are my only friend in town,” I sigh.
Which brings me back to the problem, and Rockland’s advice, and the pity party I’m throwing myself because my besties are cruising to the tropics without me.
I thought I’d make friends in my teaching community, and it’s not that I haven’t met wonderful people; I have!
Kelly Lupescu, the new strings teacher, Cathy, one of the second-grade teachers, and Mr. Joe, the janitor, are so nice and friendly—but they’re not my dance-the-night-away buddies.
There definitely isn’t any chance for romance in the tiny little school community or the slightly larger town.
Romance... That’s not even a thing that was on my radar until Pine Ridge.
This stupid little town is covered in happy couples, like everyone here was personally shot with Cupid’s arrow.
My parents (the original love-at-first-sight couple) are big on my brother and me getting married to “solid citizen” types.
If it were up to them, I would only ever get the warm fuzzies for doctors, lawyers, accountants, and hedge fund managers who already have fat tax shelters.
Since I’m not ready to book myself into boring bridal-hood, I thought some fun dating experiences, a few casual little flings—and a shipboard affair to remember— would be good.
Nope.
“But a boyfriend to go out with a couple of times a week would be a good distraction,” I tell Chopin.
“Like, bowling and wandering around that Night Market place wouldn’t be terrible if there was a hot guy holding my hand.
It might even stop me from dwelling on what a stupid mistake I made, moving here.
And I’m cute, right? I was even cuter before some four-legged felon ruined my new dress! ”
Chopin doesn’t even look guilty. He flops out of his pretzel and stretches on his side, the picture of contentment, not a care in the world.
“I’m not even going to tell you what Tita Carla said about you,” I mutter darkly.
Tita Carla.
She’s going to look so damn smug if I come home after only one year.
She’s going to tell everyone I couldn’t hack it as a teacher, or I was homesick, or that I should have listened to her.
Yeah, definitely that last part. She’s going to say everything everyone is thinking—and to be honest, what all of them will get around to saying at some point.
“Hey, Rimsky! Play ‘Bad Mood Playlist!’” I shout. I look at my disaster of a living room and the ingredients on the counter. I’m going to have to make a double batch, because I’m going to eat half of the dough before it ever gets to Lt. Rockland.
“These are for you, to thank you for saving my cat. And the pep talk,” Andrea Flores says, smiling at me with an outstretched platter of cookies.
The little human pianist and teacher stands in front of me at the station.
It’s a much cooler afternoon, warm and sunny, and the big sliding doors are open to let in the breeze and make it easier to get the trucks (Big Red, Screaming Stever, and Mean Janine) out in case of a call.
She’s in a pink t-shirt that shows a piano keyboard spiraling around a series of planets.
Words above it say, “Piano? I like the sound of that!”
It’s a bad pun, maybe not even a pun, but it’s cute on her, that and her black skirt and little flat shoes. She looks—sweet. And kind.
The appropriate response would be “Thank you so much. They smell great.”
My mouth goes rogue, just like the rest of my bulky troll behind did when I ran away from home and came here without anything but the clothes on my back and a few necessities.
I blurt, “They have baking classes at Cakes by Claire on Pinecrest Avenue. Oh, and The Pine Loft Coffee Shop is attached to it. It has themed nights a couple of times a month. Speed dating. Bingo.”
Andrea stares at me. “Oh?”
“Because you like to bake.” I glare like it should have been obvious, but the glare is truly directed at myself. Why does this little tiny woman make me open my big, ugly mouth?
And why in the name of everything holy or otherwise did I mention “speed dating”?
“Oh. I... I do like to bake, but I don’t do it much. I’m more of a cook. Chocolate chip cookie dough is my go-to bad mood food. And last night I was in a horrible mood,” she confesses, looking guilty.
“Why?”
“Why?” Andrea looks at me like I have the mental capacity of pond scum. “Well, my cat, for one, and then there was missing the cruise I saved for all year, and my best friends—”
I cut her off. “No. Why did you look like that when you said it? Guilty for having a bad mood? I would have had a bad mood, too. I wouldn’t have baked, either.” I would have uprooted a couple of trees. Thrown a few boulders.
“I... I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to having someone to vent to outside of my cousins and some of my really close friends.
My family members are all in high-stress jobs, mainly nursing and medicine.
Whenever I would complain when I was little, my mother would list all of the things I could do while her patients at the hospital were learning the things they might never get to do again. ”
“When you were a little girl?” I ask, suddenly very angry at Mrs. Flores.
“And a teenager. A college student. Also, we have a rule in my family. ‘If you have time to whine, you have time to refine.’ Meaning if you are caught complaining, you must be bored and not busy enough, so as a kid I would have to go practice my piano, or my debate speech, or whatever.” Andrea suddenly gets that guilty look again.
It’s adorable, but it pisses me off. “Sorry. I did this yesterday, too. It’s weird how you get starved for adult conversation when you talk to kids for nine hours a day. ”
“I can’t imagine.” I really can’t. I would go for a year without talking to anyone if it weren’t for the fact that humans have silly rules about speaking to one another to say silly things.
“Good morning.” Is it? Why? What’s good about it?
How are you, they say, and then they don’t listen.
But, if you want to work with humans, you have to blend in, at least a little.
“And my cousin Meghan and our best friends, Shane and Danica—they’re all nurses.
They have crazy hours that don’t mesh with mine half the time.
They work overnight, or twelve-hour shifts, or the weekends on rotations, and don’t even get me started about how often Shane had to be on-call this year because her hospital restructured. ”
I wouldn’t dream of it, for many reasons. I nod once to indicate that won’t happen.
“You’re just very easy to talk to. And you’re an adult.” Andrea’s eyes travel from the plate of cookies still in her hands up to my face without flinching, although they widen a little.
That’s normal. Trolls are big, meaty creatures. But the fact that she doesn’t flinch means she probably can’t see how hideous I am compared to the kind of human man who she normally talks to.
Right. Talks to. That means you say something back, you tadpole-brained mudguppy. “Uh. Yep.”
Wonderful. Brilliant, Gordon.
Why doesn’t she leave?
“So... I wouldn’t be into the baking classes, but thanks for telling me. The themed nights... Those sound... Interesting. I might as well do something fun since I’m stuck here, vacation-less. And I have to stay in my apartment until the end of August, anyway, since I have a lease.”
“Okay.” Why do I need to know if she has a lease?