Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Hardships draw people together sounds like one of those sappy mountain posters that managers post on bulletin boards. You know, the inspirational messages. But employees push those aside to see who’s got the lawnmower for sale. “Hardships are won alone. Hardships also drive people apart.”

  She glances down, unable to argue. Because it’s true.

  “I’m in the climbing phase, Elena. I’m a climber and I’m building, and the odds are stacked against me. Way against me. Eighty percent of individually owned restaurants fail within the first five years. Eighty percent. I’m taking on a massive risk. And I can’t make any emotional commitments right now. I’ve got a business to start. A high-risk business. You’re a very beautiful girl, and I can’t lose focus. I won’t lose it. It’s better this way. We’re going to do things the Elena way, cerebral and dignified. We’ll be smart about this.”

  “Last night . . .” Her voice is faint. Far away.

  “How about we fast-forward to five years from now. Look at where everything’s at. But I know you’ll be with some guy who’ll be crazy about you.” I swallow hard. “I see you with kids.”

  Her eyes are watering, and she’s swallowing, her lips turned downward.

  There’s a knock at the door. Auntie Rob.

  “I’m warming up food. Baby-back ribs, baked beans, coleslaw, and cornbread.”

  My stomach feels like a cave, empty, yawning, and I’m almost sick. I’ve been subsisting on canned meat products.

  “Nick? Elena?”

  Elena opens the door. Her aunt’s standing there, holding a dishtowel.

  “Sweetie. Are you coming?”

  “I’m going out for awhile.” Elena’s voice is strained as she ducks her head. Over her arm is her coat and clutched in her hand are her puff hat and mittens. “You guys go on without me.”

  She slides past us, past the worried expression on her aunt’s face, past my pounding heart.

  Tell her that she’s not like other girls. Tell her.

  Instead, I take the safe, predictable route. Fork in the road, and I choose the off-ramp to Asshole Junction.

  I catch a last glimpse of Elena before she’s out the doorway, the back of her red coat, the collar turned up, the ends of her dark hair flipping up. C’mon. Go after her. As I start toward the door, her aunt stops me.

  Both palms are in the air in a halt gesture. “She needs alone time. She’ll be okay.”

  And she steers me toward the table and steaming plates, thickly sauced country pork ribs, melting butter on cornbread squares and coleslaw. Chris pulls out a chair for me and I slide onto the seat.

  Bad decisions haunt you.

  I should’ve followed my gut on this and gone after her.

  Too late now.

  I punch the pillow, then fold it in half and tuck it under my head. I’ve waited for the sound of her footsteps on the stairwell, but there’s been nothing.

  I want to creep upstairs, tap on her bedroom door, and hold her. Tell her that we’ll be okay. That we’ll last. That’s what she wants to hear. I can’t promise that, though. No one can. And in a twisted way, I respect and like Elena too much to lie to her.

  I remember last night, the phenomenal sex, her soft body underneath me, the incredible sensation of moving inside her.

  But I also remember the little things. Her slim fingers running through my hair. Her massaging my back, hands tracing along my skin. The little hum of satisfaction as I stroked her hair. Watching her fall asleep, her beautiful face turned into the pillow. I could freeze-frame that picture forever.

  So I make three for three.

  For hours, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the dark windowless room. One floor above me, I know she’s awake, too, in her twin-sized bed.

  And she’s crying.

  Near the foot of the stairwell, Elena removed her boots and snuck upstairs, socks muffling her steps.

  At their third-floor apartment, she went to the fridge to wrap ice cubes inside a washcloth. Pressed it against her left eye, flipped it over, and pushed it gently to her right socket. Best take the puffiness down now, thereby avoiding her aunt’s probing eyes and questions in the morning. Are you all right? Are you sure?

  She applied the dripping terrycloth to her forehead and cheeks. She refused to let his rejection defeat her. He was going after what he wanted. Likewise, she could get on with it. Her degree in women’s studies might not land her a coveted university job, but it could lead to something else. She plopped onto her bed and dragged over her laptop. Turned it on and began cruising job seeker sites. One article by a career expert was particularly depressing: “the lowest demand degrees are culinary, fashion design, art history, studio arts, fine arts, and women’s studies. Fewer than two percent of employers are actively looking to hire liberal arts graduates.”

  Two percent.

  Ugh. She snapped her laptop closed.

  Wait. Where had she put it? The note Nick had left next to the cash register?

  She got up and went to her purse, dug out her wallet, where she’d tucked the business card between her driver’s license and a library card.

  DUSTIN TANNER

  SENIOR CORPORATE TRAINING MANAGER

  . . . at one of those giant companies employing thousands, so big they operated shuttles to various buildings belonging to their corporate complex.

  An entirely different world from what she was used to.

  Everything was different from what she was used to.

  Getting a job would help her recover from this crash and burn, this “affaire de Coeur.” Except it would be her “affair de CURE,” part of the remedy of getting over Nick. Stay so busy that she couldn’t feel.

  A career counselor she’d once talked to said that sometimes the best jobs came through the recommendations of near-strangers. She’d be setting a new precedent: not a near-stranger, but an ex-lover. Desperation, not politics, made strange bedfellows.

  She glanced at her alarm clock. First thing tomorrow, she’d put on her schmooze hat and dial Dustin’s number so fast, it would make Nick Zaccardi’s head spin.

  Eyes still swollen, she picked up her phone and deleted all the photos of him from her cell phone, as well as his contact information. Blot him out of her life.

  The polar bear mug sat on her dresser. She got up to turn its cute face away from her, so that all she saw was the plain red color, as blank as her heart felt right now.

  Over the next couple of weeks, I watch for her, but Elena sightings are rare.

  Chris texts me that they’re ready to vacate. I bolt upstairs to wish them well. And yeah, I’m hoping to see her, too.

  The rest of their furniture and boxes has been hauled out of the third-floor apartment. In the empty kitchen and living room, our voices echo, bouncing around the walls and wood floors. Norman’s meowing from his gray plastic crate, and I sneeze. Chris rocks back and forth on his feet, fatigue jacket loose on his shoulders. He gives me a bear hug and a fist bump. Auntie Rob tidies a white wool scarf around her neck and hugs me. She pulls back to look at me and her voice catches. “Stay in touch, you.”

  I nod and scan the room.

  Smiling, Chris stands next to his aunt, hands in his pockets. He must’ve just made a trip to the barber because his hair’s short and he’s clean-shaven. “You just missed her.”

  My stomach sinks a little.

  I track with his pointed finger toward the windows and hustle closer to the glass.

  Down below, Elena is carrying a belted tan briefcase, her red coat folded over her arm. Dressed in a royal-blue suit, black heels that make her legs sexy. Her dark hair blows around her pretty face. Classy yet hour-glass hot.

  She turns to blow a kiss in our direction, but it’s not at me. Her aunt’s next to me, waving back. A sensation burns up my chest, and I breathe faster. Who is she meeting? Has to be a guy, to look like that. “Where’s she headed?”

  Chris shrugs. “I hardly see her these days.”

  Auntie Rob sighs, and her ey
es go blank, gaze still directed at the street. She knows but isn’t talking.

  My cell rings. “Excuse me.”

  It’s Cos’s number, but his wife’s on the other end, a little breathless. “Guess what. I’m helping do some PR for NEW EATS. Their social media.”

  Whoa. This might seriously help me get a foot in the door to the contest.

  “No, Nick. I can’t make you a finalist.”

  “Wasn’t going there, Tiffany. Congratulations. Wait. You’re working? Didn’t you guys just have a kid?” Cos had called me earlier in the month, joking about cigars and no sleep.

  “I’m only working five or so hours a week. Marc’s taken off work and helping me with Isabella.”

  “Is your son going to be Ferdinand?”

  “Shut up, Nick, or I won’t help you. I’m calling about a potential opportunity. Another contact of mine knows the people who run REPLEN*ish.”

  REPLEN*ish is a 30,000-square-foot marketplace in Chicago’s central business district, located on the ground floor of a historic 1900s stone building. There, franchise-free restaurateurs ply their trade, in twenty stalls featuring many favorite neighborhood eateries in a grab-and-go setting, plus a handful of all-new concepts debuting from acclaimed Chicago chefs.

  “Would you be interested in a temporary stall there?”

  Would I? Inside I’m leaping around like a kid on a sugar rush. “Sure.”

  “It’ll only be for a week in February, but think about the exposure you’d get. Marc says you’re opening, what, in March?”

  “Nick,” Chris whispers and waves a hand near me. “We gotta go.”

  I lift a forefinger to stop them, mouthing, “Wait. Please.”

  They nod and fold their arms across their chests. Chris whistles softly and taps a boot.

  “Here’s what I recommend,” Tiffany says. “Get on Twitter, Facebook, do a group text to all your friends, that Nick Zaccardi’s making a name for himself. Tell them you’ll be at REPLEN*ish soon. That’s quite a splash. How many of the thousands of restaurants in Chicago make it into REPLEN*ish, huh?”

  “Yeah. Finally. Thanks.”

  “I’ll e-mail the details.”

  I thank her and turn around.

  Auntie Rob and Chris have left.

  The cat’s gone, too.

  All quiet on the Midwestern front.

  The place is one hundred percent mine now; something I ought to be ecstatic about.

  There are three identical keys on the counter, a key for the three of them. I stuff down the emptiness in my gut and sneeze one last time.

  Downstairs, retail level, we accelerate everything, opening up the floor plan and sealing the arched windows to the brick façade.

  The equipment arrives. Most of it is top-of-the-line; however, many of the steel pieces are secondhand—like the low-boy stainless steel refrigerated unit that goes underneath the grill and fryer and the walk-in cooler. I’m working with a budget here.

  The second floor’s been fitted with more support beams, and the storage room’s demolished. It’s flat and expansive and echoes, as empty as a dance hall on Sunday morning.

  I look around for the usual collection of contractors and workers. “Hey. Where’s everyone going?” I ask, waving my arms in the air like the Italian I am.

  “Nick,” the foreman jokes, slipping into his jacket. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  The reno crew takes off early to be with their families. Laughing, they carry out oversized toys, bottles of wine, and rub their stomachs in anticipation of a feast.

  I decide to pick up some Chinese takeout. I stride past Java and Jive. Inside, the owners recognize me and wave. They’re wearing bright red matching scarves. A dozen women are milling around, clutching slim-bound books. On the top of their heads, matching red antlers. A tall kid in black-framed glasses wears Seuss stripes and is holding an accordion. I assumed the earth’s last accordion was gathering dust at a polka museum.

  I shake my head, grinning. How crazy is that? Local carolers. That’s a first.

  The third floor is where I live. I moved my queen-sized bed and ugly locker storage unit and mismatched furniture to her aunt’s former room, the biggest bedroom. The painted-over fireplace is bare, with no stockings, no Shakespeare bust or Capote picture. The recipe box is on the counter, near the old electric stove. I nod at it, setting down my paper bag purchase. The box fits in here better than in the Streeterville condo.

  I’d found a discarded table sticking out of the dumpster in back. I scrubbed it up good and repaired the legs with screws. Their aunt left the two toffee chairs until I can buy more furniture. She squeezed my hand and told me I could borrow them for awhile, and whispered, “for good luck.” I never pass up genuine goodwill these days.

  I rub my hands together and begin to lift the white Chinese takeout boxes from the brown paper bags.

  Tonight, I’ve treated myself, and the holiday spread favors spicy: hot and sour soup, spring rolls and Kung Pao chicken. A stir-fried dish made with chicken, peanuts, vegetables, and chili peppers.

  I crack open the window a little so I can hear them singing.

  I eat my meal, chew on the spicy chicken and vegetables. The ole molars crunch a few peanuts. Not bad, the Grinch might say. I take a swig of tap water and tell myself it’s okay. People are passing around lumpy gravy and dried-out turkey, going comatose on their couches. New Year’s Eve happens next week, and I’ll be moving on.

  I carry my paper plate of food over to the windows.

  Outside, a powdery snow curls under the street lamps. The carolers are there, accompanied by Waldo on the accordion, casting shadows on the dirty snow and concrete curb. They’re singing “Silent Night,” surprisingly on-key.

  I find that my mouth is open, but not from eating. I’m singing.

  Mama used to sing lullabies before I went to sleep. She sang Christmas songs when she baked gingerbread. Iced them, too, and used sprinkles, like the sprinkles on our hot chocolate.

  How breathtaking Elena had been that evening, both of us coming down from the high of Spa Night.

  I glance over at the pathetic table. At least I could buy a friggin’ tablecloth. Still, it wouldn’t be as full of food as Thanksgiving. I remember passing the mashed potatoes and bean casserole and lasagna around the table, the frayed potholders, Elena’s pink sweater, their aunt asking about Mama, the pool game with Chris.

  Then I remember how her cool hands feel on my back. When I’m pissed off, I overheat, and her hands are like dipping into a trickling stream, the cool water of spring, I can see to the bottom, to the marvel of it, the living things, rocks, grass blades moving in the currents.

  She’s too beautiful to be alone for long.

  I’m aware that I’m singing, barely making a sound, words I memorized a long time ago, and my eyes are wet.

  “You settling in?”

  Several weeks later, Elena looked up from her desk and computer. Dustin stood at the entry to her cubicle, reddish hair cut in manageable waves, hands in his pants pockets. He wore a gray suit, a white shirt, and a navy polka-dotted tie. He squinted at the February sunshine warming their office through the large windows.

  She beamed. “Yes.” Full-time employment had been a confidence boost and surprisingly stimulating. Their multi-story building housed thousands of employees. Her commute wasn’t too bad, and she often had coffee with Auntie Rob in the mornings. Her aunt was looking into part-time proofreading jobs. Chris had recently quit a construction job but seemed upbeat. He talked about taking night classes.

  Speaking of which, she’d taught her first employee course that morning, an orientation to the company, including a review of their history, mission, and values. Management also hired her to develop original content for several new courses; using soft skills such as communication styles, conflict resolution, teamwork, and ethics. But she was especially excited to be developing a “managing technology” course.

  “Hey. I got a last-minute opportunity to run by yo
u,” Dustin said. “There’s a conference coming up for training professionals, one of the best. Boston. I’m booked already. We might be able to finagle a ticket and room for you, too. Think you’d like to come along?”

  “Absolutely.” A business trip would be exciting. The travel, another city.

  “Great. I’ll tell you more about the conference over lunch downtown. I figure we can grab some lunch and then head over. I got a text from our mutual pal Nick about this food hall. REPLEN*ish. Ever hear of it?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll go surprise him. If we don’t like his selection, there are other vendors. Sound good?”

  “Uhm, sure.”

  What could she do? Say she hated Nick’s guts? That she’d slept with him and they’d parted ways, separated as permanently as the continents from Pangea? Of course, she couldn’t. During the interview, she’d pretended they were casual friends, that her “girlfriend” had dated him at Wharton.

  Except now her creative storytelling was about to backfire on her.

  Her cell rang.

  L. WAGNER

  Who could this be?

  Dustin let her answer and rapped his knuckles on the cubicle frame. “See you in a bit.”

  She nodded and focused on her phone.

  “Hi, this is Lisa Wagner returning your call. I couldn’t get back to you right away because we’ve been on vacation. I’m Lois Taggert’s daughter. You called about Maria Zaccardi?”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you for getting back to me.”

  They spoke pleasantly for a couple of minutes before Lisa gave her reason for the call.

  “We found something that might be of interest in our mother’s attic. It might be a gold mine.”

  The trendy REPLEN*ish is like a cavern, a sprawling monolith of restored marble columns and floors from the Al Capone era—lots of natural light streaming from the entrance.

  The dining areas consist of long birch tables an Amish reunion would love. Black wrought-iron fixtures and globe lights are threaded throughout the place. A quiet section houses bookshelves in the same light birch, stocked with lots of hardback bestsellers.