Chapter 7
Dear July,
I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. My dad probably knew I’d run if I’d known what he was planning.
Joe
That dress is…damn.
The July I used to know was always in a steakhouse uniform or a swimsuit or shorts and a T-shirt. Grown-up restaurant July wears jeans and a T-shirt and a crisp apron. Softball July wears clothes suitable for sliding into base or diving for line drives.
This dress makes me forget my words. A little white top that clings to her breasts, bares her smooth shoulders and strong arms and a hint of cleavage and something lacy; a wide belt over a soft blue skirt that flutters around her ankles, giving me glimpses of pink-painted toenails peeking from leather sandals…all places my fingertips and my mouth want to map and rememorize oh so slowly.
Ever since she asked last night, I’ve been counting the seconds to this chance for us to get to know each other again. Now I’m not sure I’m even going to be able to speak.
I’ve always known what to do when I’m out with a woman and she slides me a long, slow look and a smile like that. Sixteen-year-old July hadn’t mastered that look. She’d just reach for me with mischief and laughter in her eyes. Whisper to me and run her hands through my hair. Kiss me and kiss me and kiss me. Hold me and talk to me for hours. We’d worked up to everything slowly—only ever had full sex once, that last night, so we never developed secret cues or private signals about it. I don’t know if I’m reading this—her—right tonight.
So I slide into her passenger seat and ignore her tanned shoulders a few inches from mine and the bare curve of her calf under the fluttering hem of that skirt. I try not to remember the feel of her in my hand, of her eyes and her body on mine, and that fucking sexy little growl in her throat when we collided last night. I try to talk to her, to bring back that easy way we used to have of being together.
She used to tell me stories of her life and confide her dreams for the future like it was no big deal. No risk in sharing. But tonight as we drive to the roadhouse and find our way to a booth inside, she has more to say to the people who hoot and holler to see her dressed up than she does to me.
I try for her attention when we’re settled across from each other in our booth. “Tell me how your life’s been, July. You know about mine.” This is my chance to link the then-and-now Julys in my mind.
But just as her eyes finally meet mine, the server arrives to take our order. And then someone brings drinks and townspeople I don’t know stop by to say hi, and then our food comes and the lights drop and the music cranks up and she’s tugging me out on the floor.
We make a half-assed attempt to learn a line dance, mostly screwing up and laughing at ourselves, but then the DJ plays “Tennessee Whiskey” and July moves into my arms and I’m back to not being able to speak.
Hallelujah. Finally, I’m holding her again, close enough to feel her heartbeat, to hear her sigh, to have her fingers tickling the back of my neck and her soft hair teasing my nose. I’m with my July.
And I close my eyes and wrap my arms around her a little tighter and just sway with her. Breathe her in and sway. I may not know what she’s thinking anymore—yet—and I may not know all her little signs and cues, but I’ve got this. I’ve got another chance. I can wait for her secrets. We can talk later. Right now I just want to feel this hope. Soak in this closest thing to joy I’ve felt since the last time I held her.
It’s hard to let go of her when the music speeds back up. My feet drag like a stubborn little kid’s as we head back to our booth.
But it’s all good. Now I can look in her eyes, listen to her warm honey voice, enjoy all her expressions over our meal.
“Tell me about this building of yours.” She picks up a fry and nibbles it. It has to be cold by now. My steak is.
I huff out a laugh. “It’s in pretty rough shape. I’ve done some cleaning, but it needs work.”
She shoves her plate away, food basically untouched. “Show me.”
“You’re not hungry?” Okay, we can talk somewhere private better than in this crowded, noisy place.
She shakes her head. I push my plate aside and reach for my wallet, but she’s already laid money on the table for our bill. She raises a finger when I start to protest. “My invitation, my treat.”
We’ve got our whole future to eat steak together. Next time I’ll buy. So I toss cash down for a tip and follow her out the door.
***
“It has potential,” she says after I’ve walked her through the place and gotten her settled with a beer on the secondhand love seat someone down the street had put out with the trash yesterday. Glad I wrestled the lumpy thing up here now; our only other choices are the flimsy metal folding chair downstairs or my squeaky air mattress in the back room.
No thinking about mattresses. Tonight’s not for that.
This place doesn’t seem nearly so depressing with July in it. After I patch the walls, I’ll paint. She can choose the color. I’ll get some real furniture, maybe a TV. I can have her over, cook dinner for her…
She moves her purse to the floor so I can squeeze in beside her with my own beer.
“Thanks for asking me out tonight.” I clink my bottle to hers, trying not to be done in by her nearness, her clean scent, the firm, warm press of her thigh all along mine. A million questions run through my head. What did you think when I disappeared? Were you okay? Did you hate me? Could you feel that I was out there loving you? The one I blurt out is, “What was it like for you after I left?”
Her gray eyes meet mine, and for the first time tonight, I feel her full attention on me. “Aw, Joe,” she sighs, dropping her head to my shoulder. “It wasn’t fun. I don’t like thinking about it.”
I twist to see her better, to ask more, but she takes my bottle and sets it on the floor beside hers. Turns back and gazes at me for a long, intense minute. And then she reaches for my hand. Strokes her thumb across my palm and raises it to her breast. Pressing, holding it there to her softness.
I didn’t expect this, this fast, overwhelming onslaught of feelings and reactions and instincts. I’m hardening but something’s not—
And just as I lift my surprised eyes to hers, to make sure she’s wanting what it seems she’s wanting, she dips her head in— for a kiss? —and starts to swing her leg over my lap to straddle me, and then, oh god, her nose pokes me in the eye hard, and as reflex jerks me away, her knee catches me right in the groin, and my world explodes in pain stars and the sound of air leaving my lungs in a high-pitched whimper.
I double over, trying not to throw up—that’s never a good thing to do mid-date. Around the edges of jagged stars, her voice creeps in, panicked and horrified. “Oh god, Joe, I’m so sorry! What do you need? What can I get? Ice?”
I shake my head, afraid to open my mouth. Her fingers flutter over me, nervous moths on my back, until the pain starts to subside.
I don’t know what just happened. We’ve barely spoken tonight. Every time I’ve tried to get her to talk to me, we’ve been interrupted or she’s distracted me. Sex with her tonight…it would be everything I want and nothing I want at the same time. My heart squeezes.
Something is wrong. This is not us. Something is wrong here.
***
July
He was trying to talk to me. I was so focused on my plan that I didn’t pay attention.
So focused on myself that I didn’t pay attention to him .
When I made my move and he looked confused, I ignored that. There was as much alarm and concern on his face as anything else, but I told myself, Nah, it’s excitement.
When we were young, we’d just reach for each other. No need for words. We’d wrap our arms around each other, and he’d whisper, “Click.” The first time he said it, I asked why. He shrugged and hugged me closer. “We just…go together. Like…two halves of a seat belt. Makes me feel more secure.”
But tonight there was no click. Zero clicking. And I feel anything but secure.
And now we’re quiet as he recovers from my clumsiness. I’m mortified and full of regret, my eyes blurring on the smudged, discolored wall of his living room.
Finally he straightens. Looks me in the eye and raises one hand to my hair, touching me so carefully. So gently. “July.” His voice is low and uncertain, hopeful and cautious at the same time. “What just happened? What was that about?”
I close my eyes, trying to keep tears in and my utter fucking stupidity out. The least I can do is give him the truth. “It was…an attempted exorcism. Sexorcism.”
I didn’t know a person could go so still. If I couldn’t see his pulse in his neck, I’d think he’d turned to stone.
“A…sexorcism?”
It feels like I’m imposing on him, crammed in against him like this. Taking up too much space. Probably crushing him into the cushions of this ugly love seat. I climb to my feet. I can’t meet his eyes now. I am the world’s biggest coward, the world’s stupidest person.
I so did not think this through well enough. “I thought… Joe, I’ve been obsessing ever since you came back. Messing up everything I touch. Feeling like I’m losing my mind. I thought maybe if I…if we…” I gesture between us and force myself to look at him. “I thought maybe this, tonight, would help me get it out of my system.”
His eyes widen a fraction and I see it: the light dying. He turns his face away and clears his throat. “And…” He clears his throat again, but his voice still comes out sandpaper rough. “Did it? Am I out of your system now?” He turns back to watch me answer, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he’s bracing for a blow. I’ve never seen an expression so bleak, even when he was reliving being forced to go to Germany.
I imagine it’s how he looked the day he gave up on me ever answering his letters.
And the dying of that light echoes the death of something inside me…any belief I had that I am basically a good person. Someone he could want or love again. Shame rushes in to fill the void.
Did it work? Good terrible question. Again, I owe him the truth. “I don’t know.”
He swings his head toward that fugly wall again and climbs to his feet, moving like he’s aged thirty years in the time we’ve been here. “Your plan was, what, to use sex with me to…be done with me?”
I can’t honestly tell him no. I hadn’t known for sure what to expect. What I wanted.
At my silence, he shakes his head. Says, “I’m glad you just kneed me then. Less painful.”
He bends to scoop up our mostly full bottles and takes them to the kitchenette. Upends them in the sink. Then he glances at the door and pats his pockets as if searching for his keys.
I guess I’m leaving now.
That seems like the best and worst idea in the world.
I have never hurt anyone like this in my life. It feels like we’re both being impaled on the same two-pointed blade. To me the pain is so fresh and sharp I almost expect to see my blood splashing out on the floor, but Joe’s suddenly become a different person. Or a robot. All his light and life and energy and grace are…just gone. Everything that made him Joe. Made him wonderful.
I’ve done that.
I clutch my purse to my belly. “I’m sorry, Joe. You—”
He interrupts me. Raises a hand, shakes his head. “Just…” He’s never cut me off before. He moves to the door, holds it open for me. Studies the floor as I come closer.
“You don’t have to walk me back.” Mine is the tiny voice of a person who knows she’s committed a wrong so big she can barely fathom it. I’ve broken this sweet man. Somehow he survived abuse and a massive betrayal by his hellish parents, only to come back and have me…do this.
His answer is rusty and resigned. “Yeah, July, I do.” For the first time ever, my name sounds ordinary on his lips. Just another word. Nothing special.
He walks me back down the street to my corner—that’s a million steps when your conscience swells, burning, in your throat and on down through your body to pool with the weight of lead in your feet—and stands silent as I go alone the rest of the distance to the restaurant door. With shaky hands I fit the key in. When the lock clicks open, he gives a weary half wave and is gone.
My fingers find the grooves on the doorframe, but tonight the claw marks are no help at all. Maybe Hope isn’t a sweet little creature eager for a new, better world. Maybe Hope is a monster.
***
I wake up on my couch, ravaged and raw and exhausted in the gray morning light, but as the day gets underway, I know what’s going on around me. I can do my job. At the same time, I’m hyperaware of the connections between the people around me—strong, fleeting, fragile connections, some obvious and some invisible.
We carry a special birthday pastry out to Ramona, the fire chief’s tiny daughter, and she sings along with us, her dark eyes shining, her little puffball ponytails bobbing. She carefully gives her baby brother the first bite, and he beams. People all over the dining room are smiling and clapping as we go back to the kitchen. Tina is thrilled her newest pastry creation was a success, and Donna is bursting with pride for Tina. Threads of kindness and joy and love connect them with each other, with Ramona’s family, and with all of us in the kitchen and dining room.
Even Maisie smiles, and she’s the most fiercely focused trainee we’ve ever had, listening intently to every instruction, trying so hard to get everything right that her hand shakes with the effort.
She’s pouring a tray of iced teas to take out to the dining room. Sonya’s beside her, talking to Tina, waiting for me to plate four orders for one of her tables.
“Wonder if they’re ever going to figure out who it was that died in that bus crash in Asheville,” Sonya comments.
Tina shakes her head. “I heard they’re gonna offer a reward for information if nobody comes forward to identify the body. Maisie, hon, add a little more ice to each of those. It melts so fast in fresh tea…”
Maisie fetches a big scoop from the ice machine and tries to divide it between the glasses, her hands shaking again, her face way more serious than the situation calls for.
I put Sonya’s orders up.
“Maisie, I need you to sign one more payroll form.” I nod her toward the office, and when she follows me in, I tell her, “Listen, don’t worry so much, okay? You’re doing great. Everybody likes you, and soon you’ll have this job down pat. You’re good, okay?”
She looks at me with those enormous, serious eyes and manages a tiny, wobbly smile and nod before she ducks back into the kitchen.
I follow more slowly, hoping I’ve woven a comfort thread into her day.
Comfort. Joe. I wish for the millionth time I’d done everything differently last night. Skipped the outfit, skipped the roadhouse, skipped inviting myself to his place. I could’ve cooked him dinner, and we could’ve sat on my couch, watched the comings and goings on the square, and talked. I think that’s what he wanted—just to talk. Maybe that would have calmed me down better than a botched sex attempt. And it sure wouldn’t have ended with me hurting him. Trying to use him.
My stomach rolls. There were threads attaching us too—past love, current interest, curiosity, hope—until I hacked them apart.
I plate the next two orders and try not to resee the light dying from his eyes.
I’d been so worried about what would happen to me and my business—and all the people who are my responsibility—if I couldn’t get my Joe-obsessed head out of my ass that I never stopped to consider what he might want or need.
I was so scared of breaking like I did before, of being unable to function, that I didn’t remember how people always help me through tough spots. Then and now, people have always helped me through.
Joe didn’t have anybody then. He came back here knowing only me. And I’ve just severed our threads.