by Kim Holden
He interrupts again. “Jesus, that’s kinda putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? Do they even have vegetarian restaurants in Minnesota? Isn’t there some sort of mandate or law or something against it? I mean, it is the Midwest after all. I expect it’s meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, right?”
“Or because I just need to hear your voice, because you’re my friend, and my family, and my past ... and me.”
He’s calm Gus again. “I’m always here. You’re going to do amazing things, Bright Side. You’re going to be the best damn teacher the world has ever seen.”
I don’t thrive on compliments or encouragement, but my heart swells when he says that. I’ve always wanted to be a special education teacher. “I’d settle for just a teacher, how’s that? And you’re going to be the biggest rock star the world has ever seen.”
Gus doesn’t thrive on compliments or encouragement either. “And I’ll settle for gigs that pay the bills, how’s that? I don’t think I can work in that fucking mailroom for another six months.”
But I love giving out compliments, not kiss-ass, brown nose, I-just-want-to-make-you-feel-good compliments, but genuine, no bullshit, I-mean-it-because-I-feel-it-in-my-heart compliments. “You’re so talented, you’re going to be huge, Gustov Hawthorne. Just don’t let your ego get out of control, okay?”
I was joking about his ego, but he answers sincerely, “That’s what you’re for Bright Side. To keep reminding me I’m just Gus … and I’m not as great as all the lying bastards tell me I am.”
“Deal.” But because I can’t help it I add, “But you are great.” He needs to know. He’s the most gifted musician I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot of musicians. Before now, music was my life. Gus and I attended a private music-focused middle and high school in San Diego called The Academy. (It was just down the street from where we both lived, so I was blessed by proximity and a little talent. Gus didn’t need proximity.) Gus played guitar, piano, and he could sing. I played the violin. People came from all over the country to attend The Academy. There were some crazy-talented kids, but Gus was always in a league of his own. He blew me away. And he’s been performing with his band Rook for the past two years. He writes all their music and lyrics. They play almost every weekend locally around southern California, but a few months ago an executive from a successful indie label was at one of their shows in L.A. and signed them on the spot. They just finished recording their first album two weeks ago. Gus doesn’t like to be pigeonholed into a genre, but they’re guitar driven alt rock. They’re amazing and Gus is their core, their leader. He’s going places.
For now, he’s done being serious and he’s back to his joking, self-deprecating self. “Dude, you’re supposed to be the antidote to my out-of-control ego. Stop stroking.”
I laugh. I sense that the conversation is about to run out and I’m glad it’s ending on a good note. I feel like myself again, like just Kate and Gus again.
But then his voice turns serious again, almost nervous. “Bright Side?”
Which makes me nervous. “Yeah?”
“Can I ask you one last thing? And then I won’t bring it up again.”
“Sure.” It comes out halfway between a question and a statement. Sure? Sure. Apprehensive.
He lets out one of his nervous laughs. “I’m not asking for anymore ego stroking,” he says calmly. “But I just have to know, to bring closure to this whole, you know, to this whole thing.” I cringe because I thought this was behind us. “How was it for you? I mean I know you’ve been with other guys and everything … but was it, you know, was it different with me?”
I pause and smile because this isn’t going down the road I thought it was going to. Gus is a guy and he does need his ego stroked. And like I said, I don’t just hand out compliments freely. They’re heartfelt and real, so I answer honestly, “You rocked my world.”
“Dude, don’t patronize me.” He thinks I’m twisting his cheesy but sincere phrase into something mocking.
“I’m not! That’s it; I’m downloading Skype the minute I get off this phone. Listen to me Gus; it was probably the best night of my life.”
“Hmm.” I can hear the smile in his voice. His ego has been sufficiently stroked.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I tease.
“Too late. I love you, Bright Side.”
“Love you, too, Gus.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
With renewed peace of mind, I fire up my laptop and do a Google-search for Skype. I’m going to find out exactly how it works, down to the very last detail. After that, I’ll sleep.
Wednesday, August 24
(Kate)
I sleep until 9:00am and Maddie is already at work when I emerge from my hibernation chamber. Damn, do lawyers pump pure oxygen into their homes? Because I sleep like the dead here. I feel like such a lazy ass. I know that Dr. Ridley said I need to get more sleep, but I’ve had more sleep these past two days than I usually get in a week. I decide to take Princess for a walk and then go downstairs to the gym and pound out a few miles on the treadmill before I quit. I can’t surf, so I run. I remind myself the pain in my exhausted muscles isn’t pain, it’s life. And life feels divine. Every day, every minute, every second.
I shower and run a comb through my wet hair and brush my teeth. I’m dressed and ready to go in ten minutes. Gus has never been able to figure how a girl can shower and be out-the-door ready in that short amount of time. It takes his primping ass forty-five minutes to get ready to go anywhere. I guess society does dictate certain expectations where woman are concerned, I’ve just never bothered with them. Time is precious. And I don’t waste it. Growing up, mornings were always rushed and I had to learn to fine-tune my routine. I’ve never worn makeup and I don’t own a blow dryer or straightening iron. Truth be told, I wouldn’t even know what to do with any of it even if I did. Junior year in high school a friend decided I needed a makeover and put make up on me and straightened my hair. It felt like I was wearing a mask with that shit all over my face. I don’t like looking in the mirror and seeing someone else. I like looking in the mirror and seeing plain old Kate. The only thing I’m picky about is my clothes. I hate anything unoriginal. I mean, I wear jeans most of the time, but as far as tops go I don’t wear anything straight off the rack. I scour thrift shops, always looking for shirts with interesting patterns. I cut them up and salvage the best parts to combine with T-shirts Gus is always buying me. Gus calls it “rocker-bohemian.” Whatever. I like it. As I zip up my duffle bag, I unfold the “I heart San Diego” T-shirt Gus gave me before I left. My fingers are itching to make something unique out of it.
I grab my sunglasses and head out to my car wearing my “surf or die” modified tank top. It’s warm and humid today. It reminds me of home, so I dress for it. I’m happy as hell. And I need to check out my future home, so I’m ready to make the fifteen mile drive to Grant and the college campus. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve only seen the campus in pamphlet photos and online.
Maddie’s apartment is on the western edge of the Minneapolis city limits, just off the highway. Grant is due west of her place. I find the on-ramp and pull onto the highway, and within seconds I’ve passed every car in sight. Ten of them. I counted. With that few cars on the highway it feels eerie as hell. Is the apocalypse coming and no one told me? Where is everyone? I’m used to traffic jams and honking horns or people driving 90 miles an hour on the highway. What the hell? People actually drive the speed limit here? I feel like some sort of criminal as I blaze past them, speeding through 15 miles and rolling into Grant in only 10 minutes. I slow down along the residential streets, and soon Grant College comes into view.
Grant is pretty, picturesque even. The campus is small and the buildings are old, but not old like shitty and rundown, they’re old like grand and well cared for. The dorms are old too. Four stories of brick, mortar, and ivy, but they’ve got character and look inviting. I sigh in relief. In a
few days that building will be home, and it actually looks like a home. It hits me that this is really happening. I’m a college student in Minnesota. I’m also alone for the first time in my life. And even though alone is going to take some getting used to, at this moment it isn’t as scary as I thought it would be.
Just beyond the dorms is Main Street in the actual town of Grant. I pull up to the stoplight and look around. It’s a cute street lined with a flower shop, a liquor store, a deli, a small grocery/pharmacy, and a hair salon. And then I see it—a coffee shop. And not some obnoxious chain coffee shop, but a real live, down to earth, unassuming coffee shop nestled at the end of the block in a brick building with big windows facing the street. And even though I’ve already had three cups of coffee this morning that I brewed in the Holy Grail at Maddie’s, I can’t resist checking it out. I tell myself I’ll just stop in and introduce myself, but as I pull to the curb out front I’m already debating whether I need a small or my usual large. Coffee is crack, I swear. I can’t resist it. I can’t say no. I begin to rationalize the visit by telling myself that they may be hiring. And I need a job, like yesterday.
The door is huge and intricately carved and looks like it must weigh a ton, so I grip the handle and push with all my might. I practically fall on my ass when the damn thing flies open, light as a feather. A bell clangs against the door. And it’s thunderous. Wide-eyed, I look around the shop. There’s a guy with his nose in a book sitting on the loveseat on one side of the room, a couple sitting at a small table on the other side of the room, and a guy behind the counter, and they all look up at the ruckus I’ve created. It’s instinct to try to quiet the bell and take the attention away from myself, but when I stretch my hand high above my head, I can’t reach it. I’m five feet tall and the bell is suspended at least a foot out of my reach. I smile sheepishly, and when the bell dies itself out I announce, “I’m here,” in little more than a whisper.
The dark smiling man behind the counter confirms it. “Yes, you certainly are.” He speaks with an accent, but I can’t place it yet. He’s probably around forty, with hair as black as coal, deep toffee colored skin, and huge, dark, smiling eyes. And his tone isn’t mocking, it’s kind and welcoming. I like him already. “You are new here, no?” He motions for me to come closer. “I’m Romero. Welcome to Grounds on Main, my friend.” He salutes at me and instead of being silly, it’s endearing.
I awkwardly salute back. “Um, yeah, and I’m Kate.” When did I transform into a bumbling, socially inept fool? I clear my throat and extend my hand to Romero. “I’m Kate Sedgwick and you’re right, I am new here.” I laugh. “Is it that obvious? Well hell, I’ve completely blown my cover. I was kind of trying to keep a low profile, but then I went and woke the dead with your bell.”
He laughs warmly. “No worries. This is a small community. I know everyone. But you, you I have never seen, Kate Sedgwick. You are from California?” When he says California, it’s like five separate words: CALL EE FOR NEE UH.
My eyebrows pinch together as I try to figure out how in the hell he knew that. “Yeah, that’s right.”
He sees my confusion and points out the front window at my car. “Your license plate. Where in California?”
The crease in my forehead relaxes. “Oh right, of course. I’m from San Diego, born and raised.”
His face looks truly pained. “Oh, Kate my dear, I wish you luck this winter. I am from El Salvador and I can assure you that Minnesota winters are not for the faint of heart.” Minnesota sounds like four separate words: MINN EE SO TAH.
I huff; he’s touched on my one true fear about moving here … the cold. “Yeah, I hear they’re a bitch.”
He chuckles and his eyes sparkle.
The guy sitting on the loveseat reading a book chimes in. “They are a bitch.” I look over and his nose is still in his book but he’s smiling. He has red hair and a thick beard. I can’t help but think he must be suffocating in this humid heat. His smile is innocent, youthful even. He has hipster written all over him. He doesn’t say any more so I return to Romero.
“So, Kate, what can I make for you?” Romero asks.
I glance up at the menu board behind him. I know I’ll be a regular here and I don’t want to insult him right out of the gate by not following protocol. I’m relieved when all the items are arranged by price according to small, medium, and large sizes.
“Maybe I can recommend something? Do you like light, medium, dark roast? Espresso? Cappuccino? Perhaps a frozen drink to cool you off?”
I’ve never been a coffee snob. Coffee is coffee. I don’t concern myself with the semantics. “Um, all I really want is a large cup of strong coffee.”
Apparently that was the right answer because he raps on the counter twice with his knuckles, a light tap. It’s a happy gesture that says I agree with you one hundred percent and I know just what you need. “Ah, you must try the house blend then.”
Yes, I must. Right now. “Sounds perfect.”
Romero tilts his head inquisitively. “Anything in the large cup of house blend aside from coffee?”
“No thanks, just black.”
His smile widens and he looks to the bearded guy on the loveseat again while pointing toward me. “You hear that Duncan? Just black coffee.”
Duncan smiles and raises the ceramic cup in his hand toward me like a toast. “I heard that, Rome. Welcome to the club, new girl.”
Romero’s wide smile is still shining, but he lowers his voice. “No one ever wants just the coffee black.” His accent is thick and I have to concentrate on every word to make sure I don’t miss anything. “They ruin it with extras.” He winks at me. “Very few of us know to enjoy the coffee black.”
As Romero is pouring my coffee, I feel like I’ve broken the ice and we’re friends, after all I’m apparently in the club, so I gather my courage and ask, “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring, would you? I just got into town and I start school on Monday, and I kind of need to generate some cash flow pronto.”
Romero sighs as he hands me a giant paper cup. “Ah, Kate, sadly we are not. I own the shop with my partner, Dan. We only have one employee who helps out most mornings.” He taps his chin with his pointer finger and his smile lights up again. “But, you can try the flower shop, Three Petunias, down on the corner. Mary told me yesterday she needs someone.”
I slide two bills across the counter to cover the coffee and tip. “Awesome, you’re the best. Thanks.” I blow on the coffee and take a sip as I turn and walk toward the door. The coffee tastes rich and bold, just the way I like it. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn and raise my cup to Romero. “Coffee’s epic, Romero. Have a great Tuesday.”
He salutes. “You too, Kate Sedgwick.”
The heat is stifling as I cross the street to head down toward Three Petunias. And then I realize that it’s like ninety-five degrees with one hundred-and-ten percent humidity, and I’m the dumbass drinking a large cup of steaming coffee. But then I smile at the cup in my hand because I can feel the caffeine kicking in and I’ve got a job prospect two blocks away.
I push open the door to Three Petunias gently and damn it if it doesn’t have a bell on it too. I involuntarily let out an exasperated, “Dude!” in disbelief. What is it with small town Minnesotans and their obsession with bells? This one is just a small tinkling variety though. I get the distinct impression that I will become a connoisseur of bells while I’m living here.
The woman behind the counter is a dominating presence. She looks a little older than me, tall and curvy in all the right places. Some girls are cute, some are beautiful, and some are sexy. This girl is sexy. She’s got black hair cut into a severe shoulder length bob with bangs and her dark eyes are lined in black, smoky liner. Her appearance is dark, but not in a gothic, depressing way. More like, in a take-no-prisoners-way. I’m not easily intimidated by anyone or anything, but she’s … intimidating.
“And hello to you,” she says, in answer to my outburst. Her voice is gruff, like she’s smo
ked ten packs of cigarettes a day since birth and she’s been getting over a cold for the past year. I have a feeling her voice could single-handedly kick my ass. It’s like her superpower.
Don’t let her smell the fear, I tell myself. “Oh, hey,” I say nonchalantly. “Sorry, that was rude. But what is it with the bells in this town?”
She takes in my appearance, but she’s not looking down her nose at me the way Maddie does, she’s curious, or amused. I can’t tell which. “Bells?”
“Yeah, on the doors.” I point to the door behind me.
She’s still got that look on her face, but she answers matter-of-factly. “They let us know when someone’s here.”
“Well, no shit, Sherlock.” I realize too late that my comment may have been inappropriate. Things aren’t as casual here as they are back home, and I’ve only just met this woman, this intense, intimidating woman.
She lets out a stunned bark. I don’t know if she’s humored or insulted. “Yup, no shit,” she confirms. “And I’m Shelly, not Sherlock.”
I think I like this girl, even though she kind of scares me. She’s direct and I like direct; it takes out the guesswork. I approach her and offer my hand, though after glancing at her hands I realize that they’re weaved intricately amongst the flowers in the vase in front of her. Instead, I say simply, “I’m Kate.”
“Well Kate, what brings you in?” She looks back down at the arrangement in front of her again, like she’s lost interest.
“I was just down at Grounds.” I hold up my cup of coffee like some sort proof. “And Romero said that Mary might be looking to hire some help.”
Shelly blows her bangs out of her eyes and looks back up at me, almost like she’s trying to decide if I’m worthy of consideration. “Mary’s my mother, she owns the place.”
“So, are you hiring?” I ask hopefully, my cheeks suddenly feeling hot.
“You ever worked in a flower shop before?”
