by Sarah Ready
“Get her off,” shouts the woman again.
Jack grins and a wicked light enters his eyes. He bends down and swoops me up. My legs kick out and I’m in his arms.
The driver nods and points at the door. “That’s right.”
The blue-haired teen starts a slow clap. The rest of the crowd on the bus joins in. I’m getting the slow clap. Unbelievable.
I bury my face in Jack’s flannel. But then, as we’re about to leave, I decide to own the embarrassment.
This is my ride. My list.
I raise my head and give the people on the bus a royal princess wave and throw them kisses.
“Go on,” the Christmas sweater man shouts.
Jack gives a full belly laugh. He steps down to the curb.
The bus door lets out a hiss as it closes and the driver yanks the bus into traffic. We’re left in a puff of diesel.
Jack’s laugh vibrates through me. It trails off as he looks down at me with bright eyes. I stick out my chin and give a cocky smile. It’s a new look for me.
“You’re trouble,” he says.
Never in my life have I been trouble. I think I like it.
I grin. I’m going to make that list. My interesting, thriving, surviving, loving myself, I’m trouble list.
I reach up and brush my fingers over his bruised eye.
“My hero,” I say.
He smirks. “I knew I smelled Mexican food.”
I laugh. It feels good.
Thank goodness Karl followed. He drives us back to Rose Street.
As we ride, I watch Jack and I wonder what part he’s going to play in my future.
16
Dany
* * *
A list. The list.
I chew on the tip of a Bic pen and think. Hard.
I’m curled up on the blue linen couch. The soft sea glass throw is tucked around my legs and a notebook is perched on my knees. I’m freshly showered and dressed in clothes for napping. But first, the list.
I still feel jubilant from the bus ride.
I write a big number one then dot a period.
I have a few limitations. I have to stay in the Stanton area while undergoing chemo. I can’t do anything that’s beyond my physical limits—fatigue is currently my biggest obstacle. And here are my hard limits. I don’t want to do anything illegal. Getting arrested is not on my list. And, more important, I’m not looking for romance, or love. No pity wooing from Jack. No rebound relationships. No friendly kisses that are only about making the poor, dumped, sick girl feel better about herself. Because what else could it be?
There’s nothing worse than a pity romance. I can’t imagine how horrible it would be if I fell for Jack. Especially if he told me the feeling wasn’t returned. That he was only trying to give me a little boost, make me feel better during hard times.
I realize that Jack is a really, really good guy. He cares about people and wants to take care of them. Even strangers or people he barely knows. The way he takes care of his sister—I know he has a big heart. Which is why the only reason he might pretend he cares is out of misplaced concern. To make me feel better.
No matter how appealing Jack is, that would be the worst thing that could happen.
So, no getting arrested, and no romances.
That decided, I circle the number one.
If I’m going to do this, then I may as well start big. What’s something that the old Daniella would never, ever do? Ever?
I wouldn’t let myself be free, wild, spontaneous, adventurous, or daring.
I stare at the vibrant modern painting on the wall. The colors are slashed together. I can see the speeding movement of the brushstrokes slashed across the canvas. Falling down in riotous colors. The effect is dizzying.
Ah.
The one thing the old me would never have done? Bungee jump off River Bridge.
Whenever I drove past and saw people dangling from a cord over the deep brown river water I would think ‘what if?’ Even thinking of the jump would send a thrill through me. But then I’d put it away. Because bungee jumping didn’t fit in with beige.
I write the words in looping cursive.
1. Bungee jump off River Bridge.
My heart is beating more quickly. Bungee jumping is definitely the opposite of beige. I look down at my camel-colored pajamas.
How about the ultimate in rebellion? No more beige, no more camel, no more taupe, ecru, khaki, or sand. No more muted colors.
I write a number two on the paper.
2. Go on a shopping spree and get colorful, bright, beautiful clothes I feel sexy in.
The sexy bit snuck in there. But I like it.
I think about other things I’ve always wanted to do. Scotland. That’s not a possibility but…
3. Explore a castle ruin.
I know of one not far from here. It was built years ago and then fell into disrepair.
Quickly I write the next items on my list.
4. Skinny dip at sunset.
5. Ride on a bus.
6. Eat whatever food I want.
7. Go to a dive bar and get in a bar fight.
I pause at number eight. Then, I write three X’s. For unknown possibilities. Places I’m not ready to let my mind venture yet.
8. XXX
For number nine, I have a big task. I need to find a new career. After college, I took a position at Drake International as a donations coordinator in development. It was what everyone expected, and a compromise to please my parents. But it doesn’t feed my heart. It doesn’t feel like the right place for me. I admit that now. I never thought about what I wanted to do for a career. I just glided along the laid out path. Lately, that feels wrong. So, I jot down number nine.
9. Find a career I’m passionate about.
The last number, number ten, I go back and forth on whether to include. This item was my dream, my biggest dream, even as the English rose. And I think it’s still my dream.
What if, after all this, I can still have it?
Will I still want it?
Heart in my throat, I press firmly on the paper and write out:
10. Have a beach wedding.
Only a short while ago I believed that if I got Shawn back that I’d beat the cancer. Do I still believe that? I don’t know.
I sigh and set down the pen.
That’s it then.
I take a good look at my list.
1. Bungee jump off River Bridge.
2. Go on a shopping spree and get colorful, bright, beautiful clothes I feel sexy in.
3. Explore a castle ruin.
4. Skinny dip at sunset.
5. Ride on a bus.
6. Eat whatever food I want.
7. Go to a dive bar and get in a bar fight.
8. XXX
9. Find a career I’m passionate about.
10. Have a beach wedding.
I wonder if a few items on a piece of paper can really make me thrive and survive?
Yes, something inside me whispers.
But there’s doubt there too, and a little bit of trepidation.
17
Jack
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” I say.
Dany and I are in the kitchen at the house. Dany wandered down after taking a long nap. She has a pillow crease on her face. Clearly, she showered after the bus incident. She’s in a light pink cardigan with pearl buttons and a pencil skirt.
I sit down at the kitchen table across from her. She has a list and a pen. I stare suspiciously at the paper with its neat cursive writing. She hasn’t told me all the items, but enough of them to get the gist.
I continue, “You rode the city bus as part of your bucket list?”
“It’s not a bucket list.” She narrows her eyes and sits up straighter.
I hold up my hands in a peace gesture. “Is this all because of that pencil neck? Is this some sort of crisis because…” I trail off. I realize too late that I sound like a jerk.
&nbs
p; “Because I have breast cancer?” Her lips are tight. I watch them and expect them to loosen. They don’t.
“Not what I was going to say.”
“What then?” she asks.
“I guess I don’t think you need to start doing crazy things because your ex showed his true colors.”
“Riding the bus isn’t crazy.” She shakes her head in agitation. A lock of hair falls out of her braid. She holds up her list, “Going to a dive bar isn’t crazy. Swimming at sunset isn’t crazy.”
“Swimming at sunset naked. Naked,” I repeat. Then I squash the image that flashes in my mind. I look back at the list she’s holding up like a talisman. “And going to a dive bar in this town is borderline crazy.”
She sets the list down and glares. “Pardon me, but I’m not asking your permission.”
I drag my hand down my face. This isn’t going well. She came down for something to eat, not for a lecture or my uninvited opinions.
“Sorry, you’re right,” I say.
Her eyes widen in surprise. She tilts her head and studies me. “That’s really big of you. How’s your eye?”
I shrug. It hurts like a son of a gun, but I’d do it again. “It’s alright. I’m going for that dark and dangerous air.”
She laughs and little lines crinkle at the edges of her eyes. I lean forward, drawn to her. I impulsively say what I’ve been thinking since I saw her list. “You don’t need to change. Forget what he said. You’re perfect the way you are.”
Her laughter cuts off. “Funny thing. I’m tired of being perfect. Perfect is boring.”
Ah. I hear the pain in that one word.
I let out a long breath and scoot closer. Then I reach out and rest my hand on the table, not far from hers. My fingers twitch to touch hers. But I don’t.
How can she be so unaware of her appeal? I wanted her the second I saw her.
“You’re not boring,” I say. “You’re the opposite of boring.”
Clearly, my blood wouldn’t rush every time she came in the room if she were boring. Flipping pencil neck. An idea suddenly comes to me. It feels absolutely inspired.
I don’t think too deeply about why I’m so excited by the thought.
“You forgot something on your list,” I say.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“You need to be swept off your feet. Wooed. Romanced.”
“You’re kidding,” she says dryly.
But I’m warming to my idea.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ll come with you on your adventures. On top of that, I’ll woo you.”
I tell myself that I’m aiming to get my bid accepted. But really, honestly, I want to spend time with her. I know we won’t end up together. I already counted the reasons that won’t happen. But is it so wrong that I want to be near her? To see her eyes scrunch up when she laughs. To watch the hair that inevitably slips loose from her braid. I’m in it deep. But as long as she doesn’t return the sentiment, as long as it stays casual and fun, it’ll be fine.
Her fingers curl into her palm and I watch as her knuckles turn white. Finally, she responds. “You think I’m some pathetic woman that needs a confidence boost, don’t you? You want to play pity party to my poor broken little heart? Who signed you up for the role of charity Don Juan?”
I shake my head in denial. Clearly, she has no idea that I fell for her the second we met. Before I knew anything about her situation.
“No,” I say. I hold up my hands. “That’s not it at all.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “You want something, don’t you? What’s in it for you?” she asks.
Right. I’d already forgotten. I was going to come clean about my project.
Do I tell her that she can get my bid through with her connections? Should I tell her I want to use her to win my proposal? I have a feeling that won’t go over well. That she might shut me down and not speak to me again.
The thought scares me more than it should.
So, I hedge.
“Uh, well. You see. I’m raising my sister. It’s new. I don’t know much about girls. I thought you could help out.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Help out?”
I nod.
“What? Do mani/pedis, talk about our periods, braid each other’s hair?”
“Yeah?” This feels like a trap.
“Riiight. I don’t think so. You’re some kind of creep that gets off on dating girls with an expiration date, aren’t you? Oh gee, this ones got cancer. I can date her and in three months she’ll be gone. No breakup text necessary. Gee, swell. You’ve got some real commitment issues, buddy.”
I can’t help it. I grin.
She glares.
“You’re amazing,” I say.
She shoves her chair back and stands to leave.
“No, you’re right. You’re right. Here’s the truth.”
She sinks back into her chair.
“This is important. I need to convince some people to give me a chance on rehabbing a property. If you’d help with this house, see how much I put into my work, maybe talk to some of the people on the committee, it could change my life…truthfully, everything’s on the line. You could help.” I clear my throat. “I need your help. Please.” Even giving this much truth makes me feel uncomfortably exposed. If she learns the full truth, though, that her father is the reason I’m asking for her help, she may say no. She may never want to see me again. The jab of pain that thought brings convinces me to stick with vague explanations.
“You want me to help you renovate? Talk to some committee? So you can keep your job?” She weighs my words.
I clench my hands under the table.
“Yes. I’m asking for your help. To save my career. My dream.”
“What kind of renovations?”
“Nothing strenuous, nothing you can’t handle.”
“And the committee?”
“The Downtown Development Committee, for housing.”
I hold my breath.
“You need help?”
I take a breath. “I do,” I say.
“And you want to join me in my list.”
“That’s right.”
She looks over at the moon shining through the stained-glass window above the kitchen sink. The silence stretches into a minute. I shift in my chair.
Then, finally, “Yes. Alright.”
“Good. Great.” I close my eyes in relief. Only now do I admit how worried I was that she’d say no. I want to join her on her adventures.
“On one condition,” she says.
“Anything.”
“No Don Juan.”
“What?”
“You can tag along on my list. Help out if I need it. But I don’t want your pity romance.”
“It wouldn’t be pity. You’re amazing—”
“Ah ah.” She holds up her hand.
“You are. It could be fun and—”
“Shhh.” She shushes me.
“You know, it might be inevitable—”
“No.” She shakes her head.
“Alright.” I hold out my hand. “I help with your list, you help with my project. It’s a deal.”
She smiles. A full-on beaming smile that knocks the breath from me. She glows with it. She takes my hand and gives a firm shake.
“Deal.”
18
Jack
* * *
“I didn’t know the list doing would start so soon,” I say.
It’s the next day and we’re in a booth at Chet’s Bar. The vinyl seats are sticky and cracked. The windows are blacked out. There are peanut shells on the floor. The tangy scent of old beer, cigarette ash and dirty fryer grease permeates the air. The room’s dark and the jukebox plays an old country western favorite. This is as dive as it gets in Stanton. If you’re looking for trouble, or running from trouble, this is where you come. I don’t know which side of the line we fall on. Maybe both.
“I’m hungry,” Dany says. “That’s rare lately. So I�
��m going with it.” She scans the stained paper menu.
I nod sagely. “What you said earlier…” I pause and consider my words.
“What?”
“Are you really going to…uh, check out in three months?”
She sniffs and sets her menu down. “No. Didn’t you read my list? I’m going to survive and thrive. Starting with a bacon, onion stack, barbeque burger at my new favorite dive bar.”
“So you’re not—”
“I’m going to live,” she says.
“Alright,” I say. But I have this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that if I get too close to her, or fall in love, she won’t.
“What’ll it be?” a hoarse-voiced waitress asks.
We place our orders and in five minutes the food is plopped down in front of us.
“Oh wow. Look at the grease,” Dany says.
I take a bite of my double bacon burger and chew. Yeah, that’s good. “You said you wanted a dive bar. The grease makes it authentic.”
She takes a small bite. Her eyes widen as she swallows. “Oh, that’s good.”
I watch in awe as she wolfs down the burger. Grease runs down her chin. She dabs it away with a paper napkin. Tea party manners for a greasy burger. I smile.
“What’s so funny?” she asks. Her burger’s already gone.
“I like your enthusiasm.”
“I’ve never eaten a bacon, onion stack, barbeque burger before. I liked it. I really, really liked it.” She’s progressed to delicately licking her fingers. I watch, entranced as she places each in her mouth and sucks.
I clear my throat and throw my crumpled napkin in my basket.
“All set?” I ask in a choked voice.
She shakes her head. “I’m getting dessert. Did you know, I haven’t eaten red meat in almost two decades?”
“Really?”
“Red meat is uncouth. Not fit for proper young ladies.”
I wince. “It sounds like you’re reciting instructions from some freaky 1950s debutante instruction manual.”
She gives me a tight-lipped smile, the devil sparking in her eyes. “My life was a freaky 1950s debutante manual.” Cool as a cucumber Dany waves down the waitress. “I’ll have the deep-fried Snicker balls.”
