Chapter 14
Dear July,
MF’s been a smug, happy asshole since we’ve been here, but I know how things work. Pretty soon the tension’ll start to build again, and then it’s only a matter of time before he goes off on us…
Joe
I let myself into my building, feeling as empty as this echoey downstairs space. Like somebody took a melon baller and scooped out my guts. For a few minutes I had her back…and then I woke up.
It’s like I lose July all over again every time we touch.
What kind of asshole has sex with a sick woman he doesn’t even really like? Looks in her fever-heated eyes, hears her say, “Please,” and can’t stop?
Upstairs Angus has kitchen cabinetry in place, and a note for me that countertops and appliances will go in today. In the bathroom there’s another note saying I can start using the new shower tomorrow. Halle-freakin-lujah.
I wash up, making a terrible mess with shampoo suds when I try to rinse my hair in that little sink, but at least I’m clean when I’m done. I throw on a plain T-shirt and jeans, and head back to the restaurant.
Tina’s already been baking. Donna lets me in the back door, still holding her purse. She tosses it into the office and grabs aprons for the two of us.
“How was July last night?” they ask, together.
Oh yeah. Nobody knows I was just up there.
“Okay, I guess. Sleeping a lot. She ate all the dinner I took her though.” I check to make sure our prep stations are stocked. They are. The night crew did their work well. I keep my head in the reach-in long enough to add, “I think somebody else should check on her today.”
Donna pauses with a stockpot in her hand.
Tina stops rolling out dough and turns to stare at me. “Was there a problem?”
Damn. If I thought Donna was scary with a knife, Tina is freaking terrifying with her impressive biceps and her rolling pin. The women of this town are a united, formidable front when it comes to July.
I deserve whatever kind of justice they might hand out. Not going to answer that question though. “It just…doesn’t seem to cheer her up to see me the way I think it would to see you all.” I glance through the orders that were placed yesterday for pickup this morning. I’m telling the truth, but it doesn’t feel like it. I sigh. “July and I don’t really know each other anymore. You all are closer.”
I feel them standing down. See their tiny nods, their glances at each other. “Okay,” Donna says. “I’ll take up some breakfast later.” She pauses beside me on her way to the stove. “We need an entree special for lunch and supper. Got any ideas?”
I recognize this for what it is: a gift. A sign of trust and approval of my work yesterday. I appreciate it, I needed that this morning, and I’ll take it. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Tina turns up the music and we get to work. The servers come in, the breakfast rush starts, and we’re swamped for the next few hours. Midmorning there’s a brief lull, and Donna takes July some fruit with a big piece of quiche. Comes back down saying, “That’s a nasty bruise she’s got, but she says she’s not in pain. Not shaky. Still got a little temperature. Argued with me when I said she can’t come back till she’s been clear of that for twenty-four hours.”
Tina snorts. “How long did it take her to try some I’m-the-boss shit?”
Donna grins at her, lighting her whole face. “’Bout two seconds after I said the twenty-four-hour rule.”
“You fire her?”
“Oh, you know I did.”
They high-five in passing as Donna gets back to work.
Sonya pushes through the kitchen door to collect an order for her six top. “We got a couple more flower deliveries for July,” she says to Tina. “Here’s the cards that came with them.”
“We don’t have any more vases, do we?” Tina frowns. She’d texted July about the first few, and July’d said to tell the servers to split them up into bud vases for the customer tables.
Sonya laughs on her way back out with a loaded tray. “Ran out of those an hour ago. Now we’re just putting whole arrangements on the tables.”
Tina takes the cards to the office and grabs her purse. “I’m outta here, babe.” She kisses Donna’s cheek. “I’ll come back at three unless you need me earlier.”
I put the finishing touches on my proposed special for the day—fusilli with pepper jack bechamel and assorted peppers and mushrooms, blistered shishitos on the side—and hand a spoonful to Donna to taste. “What do you think? Give ’em a choice of meat if they want.”
She takes a bite and chews, her eyes drifting shut. “Ooh, that’s got some nice heat on it. Good flavor. Let’s do it. I’ll have Sonya add it to the specials board.”
Breakfast drifts into lunch, and we’re busy the whole time, cranking out menu items and my peppery special. Maisie and Sam come in around the same time as Tina, all of them laughing and joking with us.
It feels like my Colorado restaurants’ backstage areas. Like home. Like family.
The kids aren’t due to clock in until four. They go out to the staff table with me when I take my break. Donna shoves two plates of my special at them. “Here, Maisie, you should taste Joe’s special in case anybody asks you about it tonight. You have some too, Sam.”
I get the feeling she feeds them a lot.
“Ooh, this is good! Spicy!” Maisie says after a bite of the pasta. She pokes a shishito with her fork. “How hot are these?”
“They’re not hot.” Sam sets the stem of the one he’s just eaten on his plate.
I’ve been wondering since yesterday if he recognizes me from the lake. Probably not, given that I woke him up. Should I mention that I’ve seen him before? He seems okay now. Maybe best to let it lie.
Maisie takes a cautious nibble of the tip of one shishito. “Mm, that’s really good! I can’t believe it’s not hot.”
They clean their plates and ask me about how July is doing. I tell them what I know. Tell them about the flower deliveries, pointing out the arrangements on all the tables.
Maisie nods. “I’m not surprised. She’s the town mom. Always remembering everybody’s special occasions… It was weird not to have her here last night, popping out to chat with people. Teasing us in the kitchen.”
Sam nudges her. “Making sure we take sandwiches home after our shift.”
She smiles at him. “Yeah, the women here really do like to feed us, don’t they?”
He nods and pats his belly. “They sure do.” He stacks their empty dishes and pushes them aside, then pulls out a notepad and flips it open. Correction: a sketch pad.
“Whoa!” I blink at the color blazing from the pages. “Sam, did you do those? They’re great!” I’m not a big reader of graphic novels, but these look really well done. Professional.
Before Sam can answer, Maisie says, “He’s going to be a famous graphic artist. Maybe do graphic novels. Or bigger stuff. Murals.”
Sam blushes beet red. “Maisie. That’s a long way off. And I got a lot of work to do to get there.”
She shrugs and picks a shishito stem off her plate, finding a little more pepper to nibble off of it. “You will.”
Sam gives me a women! look and shakes his head, but he leans into her a little after that, and she leans back, right up until we go back to the kitchen together.
They’re an odd couple, the tiny, pretty girl and the big, quiet boy. Not a pairing anyone would expect. I can’t tell whether it’s platonic or romantic, but they are tight. Like puppies seeking warmth and comfort.
I wonder if people used to think July and I were a mismatch, she with her sunny, golden self and her perfect family, and me with my problem home life and my feeling that I’ve always been an old man.
I glance over at Maisie and Sam. She’s tying on an apron and fake shoving him, laughing, out of her way as she heads to work in the dining room. Man, was I ever that young?
It hits me then: July and I were exactly that young—sixteen—when we were together.
Kids. No matter how grown-up we felt, no matter how many grown-up things we did, no matter how big, important, and forever our love felt, we were literally just kids.
And now we’re adults. I may never understand the sexorcism thing, but this morning July was injured and ill, and she was not to blame for what happened on that couch. It was my mouth on her breasts, my dick looking for home inside her.
And she’s right; she didn’t ask me here.
And it’s not her fault I can’t stay away.
***
July
To my horror, it’s two more days before I’m able to go back to work. True, I feel lousy—and not just emotionally, because as far as I know, humiliation and rejection don’t cause fevers—but staying upstairs in my apartment is torture. It’s a nice place, comfortable, but I hear life and people downstairs. Out my windows I see folks I know moving around the square, laughing and talking and going about their days. Up here I feel cut off, even with my whole family video chatting me and Andi and Rose texting and Donna and Tina bringing me food, refusing to talk about the restaurant. “Tell you what,” Tina says, when I’ve asked for the fiftieth time. “We’ll promise to let you know the minute we need you if you’ll promise to rest and stop worrying and get well until then.”
They don’t need me? She’s speaking the truth, I can tell…but it’s not exactly comforting. Who am I if my own baby doesn’t need me?
I chew on that for a while before concluding that this empty-nester stuff sucks.
Joe doesn’t come back. The look on his face said it all. Sixteen-year-old Joe had wanted to be with me; thirty-six-year-old Joe does not.
There’s no reason for me to feel shame this time. I won’t. He doesn’t have to like me or be attracted to me. He can feel however he feels, and I’ll just…move on. Act like I have some dignity. If he doesn’t want to stay around here, doesn’t want anything to do with me, I’ll just…keep my head up and let him go. At least I’ll know what happened to him this time.
I sleep as much as I can Friday after Donna reminds me of that damn twenty-four-hour fever rule, and maybe it works because Saturday morning I’m fever free, something I gleefully text to both Donna and Tina along with a photo of the digital thermometer reading.
Tina texts back Yay! and a string of emojis I’m afraid to examine too closely. Donna’s text says, Well done. If it stays down all day, perhaps you might be eligible for rehire.
I’m determined to be the first one at work tomorrow.
I bar them from bringing me food or checking on me today. Instead, I get up and fix myself scrambled eggs and toast, and squeeze myself some fresh orange juice, feeling like my arms have lost half their strength while I’ve been marooned up here. I hate that more than anything, but it’s another sign I need to pay more attention to what my body needs.
I throw in a load of laundry, including my sheets and towels, wince at my reflection in the mirror, and then I venture out to the living room to reclaim my couch.
It looks the same as usual; I took my quilt back into the bedroom yesterday morning. Now I circle the sofa slowly, pausing to open one tall front window and then another, wiping my finger across the top edge of the wall-mounted TV to see if it needs dusting, and then I scoop up the remote, press power, and drop onto the couch. My couch. The couch I chose before Joe came back to Galway. The couch I’ll still have when he leaves.
I settle my butt right down on the center cushion and watch TV for an hour. In broad daylight, my memories of yesterday’s gray dawn are no more substantial than my dreams, and by the time I’ve watched two cooking shows, my apartment is my own again. No lean, hard, bright-eyed ghosts seducing and then abandoning me.
I take a nap in the afternoon and wake up feeling like if I don’t get out of this place, I’m going to start screaming and never stop. Tom knows I can’t play ball today—he actually texted to see how I was doing—so no one’s expecting me at the game, but I sneak out to the alley to my car and drive to the ballpark anyway.
There’s one empty parking space out near the right field home run fence, where no one’s likely to notice me. I pull into it, cut the engine, and watch the game.
It’s weird seeing my team adjust for my absence. We start out behind due to fielding errors, with miscommunications and hesitation from players who have been shifted to different positions than usual. It’s all I can do to not grab my bag out of the back and hustle down there, I want to help so bad. Want to pull my weight.
But then they hit a rhythm. The stronger players like Joe and Andi and Tom stretch to cover a little more ground than usual, and the less-sure players gain confidence. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I see Joe encouraging everyone, teasing them, making them smile. By the fifth inning, we’ve pulled ahead. I’m so proud I have to roll up my windows to keep my cheers from alerting them to my presence.
But it hits me as the game ends with us winning by one. The restaurant doesn’t need me. The team doesn’t need me. The person I once considered my soul mate doesn’t want me. Who am I, even, and why am I here?
I start the car, back out quietly, and head for home.
Upstairs in my apartment, I clean my kitchen and my bathroom. Put away the laundry. Fix myself a sandwich and sit in front of the TV until it’s dark enough that I can go back to bed.
***
It’s still dark when I creep downstairs Sunday morning. Tina doesn’t work on Sundays; she makes all the dough the day before and I bake it later. So no one is here before me today. I flip on the lights to a bright, shiny, meticulously clean kitchen. Same as every morning.
I ease open the swinging door and peer into the dining room. Again, clean and tidy, as usual, with one difference.
There is a flower arrangement or green plant on every single table. Three more on the counter near the register. Two big ones flanking the front door. What the hell? It looks like a funeral parlor.
Geez, people, I wasn’t that bad off.
There aren’t any cards with the arrangements. I check the kitchen. Nothing there either. I unlock the door to the office, and there, on my always-messy desk, what was probably originally a tidy stack of envelopes has avalanched sideways so that a couple have fallen to the floor.
I scoop them up and ease into the chair behind the desk. Get well soon, July! We love you, July! We miss you! Card after card, from everybody, the mayor’s office down to the youngest T-ball team I sponsor. The Galway High Cooking Is Chemistry field trip bunch. The red-hatted Ladies Who Lunch club and the Thursday Night Guys. PFLAG and the women at the shelter and the dairy people and the folks at the free clinic. Even cranky old Miz Ames, and she hates everybody, except maybe Rose—I haven’t quite figured out that relationship yet. But I’m blubbering like a baby by the time I reach the one that really gets to me.
No envelope for this one. It’s a single sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook, all the tiny little ripped-paper fragments removed from the edge. In pencil, all caps, is the message, July, feel better soon. Love ya. There are six or eight signatures, some legible, some not. The clearest is Devon’s.
I had thought the most beautiful bouquet in the dining room looked like wildflowers. Now I know.
Donna and Tina find me here, still sniffling and wiping my eyes, a few minutes later.
Tina stoops to hug me. “You’re here!”
I hug her back. “You’re here too!”
Donna is her usual low-key self. “Doing okay?”
I wave her off and sniffle one last time. “You know that empty spot at the far end of the square near the library?”
They nod, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Let’s donate a bench. Have ’em put a plaque naming it the Friendship Bench.”
“Oh. That’d be great!” Tina glances at Donna, then back at me. “I just came in to see if I needed to do the baking today. You want me to stay?”
“No, I’m good. You go do your usual Sunday things.” I’m not at full energy, I can tell already, but Sundays we close at two. Pretty sure I can hold out till then.
“Okay.” She reaches into her purse. “I should text Joe not to come then.” She pulls out her phone and starts typing.
That gets my attention. “Where you going with Joe?” Not that it’s my business. Then again, since when does anybody mind their own business around here?
“She means not to come here. To work.” Donna eyes me as if realizing…something.
“What?” My voice comes out flat and short.
Tina frowns as she hits send and slips her phone back into her purse. “You didn’t know? How did you not know?”
I put both hands flat on the desk. Push myself up out of my chair. “Know what?” I already know what they’re going to say.
They speak over each other.
“Joe—”
“—filled in for you—”
“—while you were out.”
I sink right back into my seat. “Let me guess. This was Rose’s idea.”
Donna faces me. “Rose’s and Joe’s. It was a good one. Look around. Everything’s fine.”
Everything’s juuuust fine now that Joe’s here .
Great. I rub my temples. “How’d you pay him? He on the payroll now?” This is my fault. I shouldn’t have kept us understaffed. Should never have thought I was invincible.
Especially with Joe around. I should know better.
“He wouldn’t take any money,” Tina says quietly.
“What?” I shouldn’t raise my voice. None of this is their fault.
“Said he doesn’t charge friends for help.” Donna tosses down her purse and reaches for an apron. Ties it on and heads for the door, giving Tina a hug on her way past.
I tie my own apron on more slowly and follow, setting to work on the cinnamon rolls.
I don’t know why this seems so bad to me. I think about it all through morning prep, all through breakfast and brunch and lunch. I greet people and smile and laugh and talk and wave through the door Sonya holds open so the dining room customers can holler, “Welcome back, July!” in some kind of freaky but really sweet unison. I think of it as I listen to Maisie and Sam chatter about how “Joe said” this and “Joe did” that. I think of it midafternoon as we finish closing and I drag myself upstairs. As I strip and climb into the shower and let hot water pound down on every part of me except my liquid-stitched forehead.
Then I pull on my robe and settle on my bed, exhausted, staring at my phone.
Joe , I text, finally. Why didn’t you say anything about filling in? That’s…too much. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to thank you.
Almost immediately the three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. It’s a full two minutes before his reply comes through. No big deal. I had fun.
That’s something my old/young Joe would have said.
I text back, Joe. You saved my staff. My customers. Maybe my business. It was a big deal. Tell me how I can thank you. Then, afraid he’ll think I was propositioning him, I add, Gift card? Free meals forever?
Three dots again, on and off and on and off and on for an eternity before finally he replies, I could use a running buddy.