by Lisa Acerbo
“Now you have Ryan.”
“Right. Ryan.” He ponders his beer glass like it holds the answers to the universe.
He doesn’t speak for a while, and I’m getting concerned.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Remember prom and the after party? I’m shocked everyone survived the night.” He shakes his head in disbelief before ordering another beer.
I had gone with a friend who was a sophomore to prom. My date dropped me home after the dance ended. I’m sure he attended the after party on his own in hopes of scoring a better date. Even a sophomore tried to trade up.
“It was fun all right.”
He doesn’t hear the sarcasm drip off my words.
“And those football games.” John’s eyes glaze over. “Friday night lights, man. Helmets thudding together before the game, all the cheerleaders in those short skirts, and the spirit section all in black. Those games were intense. They were the best.”
I attended a few in my four years, much more comfortable around books and quiet rooms than big crowds and loud noises. “High school was fun.”
“Yes, it was.” John has a dopey beer smile on his face. “This would have been a cool date in high school. Sneaking into the bar and getting served.”
I want to move forward in life, not back. Unlike John, my life did not peak in high school. This was supposed to be a hot date, not a walk down his personal memory lane.
“I guess this would be fun if we were still in high school, which we are not.” I hope he gets the hint. I can’t help but feel annoyed, but then I worry I’m being mean. An anxiety headache starts. I need to be nice. He is, after all, a dad. I study my glass of wine.
“We should go make out in my car?”
My eyes narrow. “This is our first date.” Do I use the headache excuse?
“I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
I swallow hard. Men suck. “Maybe later.”
John shrugs. “Want to order some food?”
I don’t say anything for a few seconds, and silence hangs between us. He isn’t as cheerful now but doesn’t seem to want the date to end. Do I bail now, or give the night a chance? I’m not one for giving up. Therapy taught me to stick through a situation until there is closure.
“Sure. Is there a menu?”
He points up at the chalk board. My options are limited, and everything is greasy. We settle on hamburgers. He places the order. The conversation stalls as we drink and wait for the food. I sit and stare. The bar is packed with an odd assortment of patrons. Most of the old men line the bar, watching a television screen, cheering at soccer goals, and occasionally talking to each other or the bartender. Underage drinkers line the dark corners or sit at smoky tables, trying to remain hidden. Other regulars, like John, play darts and flirt, trying to find a hookup for the night. The food arrives, and John eats like a starving man.
“What are your plans for the future?” I ask, attempting polite dinner conversation after the lull.
“Well.” John swallows a huge bite of hamburger before answering. “I like the restaurant business. I might try to become a chef.”
“That sounds fun.”
“And more stable than being a waiter. Tips are good, crew’s fun to work with, but I need to support my wife and kid.”
The way he says the word wife makes me a little squeamish. I was under the misguided impression that he and Janice were over. But in his mind, she’s still his wife. John really is stuck in the past.
“Good food.” I’m not sure what else to say. I suck at polite dinner conversation.
“Not bad, but I miss Janice’s dinners. She was a great cook and got me interested in becoming a chef. After high school, she got her beautician’s license. She has her own chair at Salon D and does really well. She’s a great mom, too. Loves Ryan to death.” John continues to ramble, praising his previously wonderful life with Janice until his plate is empty.
I sit and pick at my food. I hate to eat in front of strangers, and the conversation is making me uncomfortable.
He inhales the last of his French fries. I make my excuses to go. I’ve seen enough, heard enough, to know this is over. He’s nice enough to pay for the meal.
Once outside, I extend a hand, hoping to avoid making out in the back of his car. “Thanks, John.”
He ignores my extended hand. He kisses me in front of the large diner windows so that the patrons inside can witness the ravaging. He makes sure to grab my ass. I twist away and run to my car.
“I’m still in love with my ex-wife, but if you want another date, we can try it.”
#marriedmen
Chapter 6
January 1
You probably want to believe everyone has a dog growing up. It’s a hard realization that not everyone loves pets. There are actual people in this world who abuse and kill animals for fun and sport. You have to wonder why the dog that gets kicked and abused, keeps returning for more.
* * * *
I’m ready for school to start again after only two weeks with my family, but I have a few more days to go. I busy myself in my room, getting ready for New Year’s. Kyle is between lady friends, so we have a plan to hit a club in New Haven.
It is déjà vu from the summer. I sit at the same desk, applying make-up in the same small mirror. This time, Train plays. Mom and Bob are getting ready to go to dinner with friends, so it’s easier to hide up here. I’ve finally changed the picture of me from one in my high school cap and gown to one with me, Kyle, and Tanya. The piles of books and the poster of a black stallion remain.
Mascara, blended brown eye shadow, and liquid liner accentuate my eyes. I slink into my skinny jeans and over-the-knee boots. My top is made of a metallic material, and the back is little more than a crisscross of x-shapes. I take a series of selfies that I post, letting everyone know I’ll be celebrating with Kyle in New Haven tonight.
I didn’t make a second date with John for obvious reasons, and I’m torn if I should focus my energy on getting Brice alone so we can talk or attempt to find someone new. I’m eager to get Kyle’s opinion on the situation. It’s not long before I’m parking the car in a garage across the street from McDougall’s, where I plan to meet Kyle. I text him to be sure he’s already there. When I’m sure he is inside, I venture forth. My cider and shot of Fireball await.
He’s my best friend for good reasons.
At first, we talk about trivial things, like getting Kyle laid, of course. Halfway through my second cider, he asks a question I’m not expecting from him.
“What’s it like to have anxiety?”
It’s hard to explain to an outsider, someone who doesn’t have it. “You love going out and having fun, right?”
“Absolutely.” His smile is huge. His eyes are curious.
“I should love it, but I hate it. I double-check every word I’ll have to say and wonder if people will laugh if I say something wrong. All those little mistakes haunt me for days. It will keep me awake at night, wondering if people think I’m an idiot.”
“You’re a straight-A student,” he says. “That’s ridiculous.”
“And that’s another thing. Grades. I study and then I want to stop studying, but I don’t. Perfection is my personal torture. I think about not studying a lot while I’m taking notes. I cry about work often…”
“Sometimes to me,” he gently teases, but then, under the table, places his hand on my knee.
“Yes, you’ve witnessed some of my meltdowns.” That alone makes me anxious. “And sometimes, I just have to get under the covers where it’s dark and warm and stay there until I can breathe again.”
“You can breathe under the covers?” He begins to run his hand up and down my thigh.
Kyle’s hand is comforting, but I slap it away. “You know what I mean. I think about how much work I have to do, and sometimes, I just sit at my desk and do it, not caring that it’s four in the morning and I have to be up at seven for my eight o’clock class. Other days, I frea
k out about how much work there is to do and feel overwhelmed, so I spend the entire time creating lists, organizing my life, and goal-setting so a night like that will never happen again. It never works. But I’ve learned to manage it. I don’t have a lot of nights like that anymore.”
He puts his hand back on my thigh. “Really?” He is genuinely concerned, a little dopey-eyed when he stares at me, and slightly drunk.
“Really. I’m handling it. I’m here with you, not holed up in my room at home.” I flip my hair out of my eyes.
“Let’s have some fun then.”
Kyle grabs my hand and leads me out to an alcove where a band plays and masses of sweaty dancers gyrate. We join them, and the night forms a kaleidoscope of images, a procession of drinks and dances, with occasional bathroom breaks thrown in. As midnight approaches, Kyle and I are back on the dance floor. The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four. He leans in. Three, two, one. I lean in. He kisses me. He tastes like beer and smells of his favorite cologne, Eternity Now. His lips are soft and smooth.
I like it.
More than I should.
Something hot ignites inside.
We both strain back, and he wears a startled expression that probably mimics the expression on my face. He gives me a sheepish smile and shrug, then hugs me close as we dance, our bodies connecting at multiple points. When we finally fall apart, the kiss is forgotten, or at least we pretend it is.
The next day, I do exactly what I told Kyle about. I obsess over the kiss, wondering if it will ruin our friendship. I can’t relax until he texts me to let me know that everything is fine between us.
I spend the rest of my winter vacation either taking the dog on long hikes anywhere but the park where I might run into John, or I hole up in my room, writing bad poetry about the trails in the woods where I’ve been hiking with the dog. I post the poems online for all my friends to read with a link to the rail trail where I usually escape. I even get some nice feedback from an anonymous stranger.
* * * *
Go to the Trail
Lightly stepping to church found in ancient pine groves
Deep silence pounding my ear disturbed by a running hound calling for attention
The impossibility of capturing a scent grounded brown and yellow leaves
Yankee Candle needs to bottle it
I need to bask in it
Walking the dog waking the soul
Same moment
Sun-lit leaves above, lack of light below
My feet stick to mud
Humidity rises, sweat falls, problems remembered.
Returning, each step a burden.
To understand the splatter on my rain jacket, I gaze up.
Gray, warm drops fall into my heart.
* * * *
It’s still light when I enter the tree-lined rail trail. I’ve attempted to put the date with John and New Year’s Eve with Kyle out of my mind and make myself focus on my new regime exercising the dog, returning to school, working at Brice’s office, and upcoming classes.
The dirt, packed hard and frozen, makes each step from my boots jarring. With the last light slipping away and the wind chill nearing zero, I decide this might be a quick romp, rather than a calorie-reducing exercise session. Bitsy, her flannel coat snugly Velcroed, doesn’t mind the cold.
Wide enough for four people to stroll shoulder to shoulder, the trail is nearly empty as most sane people hike in the nicer, daytime weather. I like coming here all the time. Nature provides peace. I don’t have to deal with people, say the right thing, do the right thing, or meet other’s expectations.
Earlier, I had tweeted out that I’m hiking the rail trail, but now, with the sun settling behind the trees, I’m able to snap some selfies on my phone that I post to Facebook and Instagram. A Snapchat to my friends is always a must do.
“Cute dog.”
I glance up from my phone, startled. “Thanks,” I manage to squeak out before the man, hidden behind layers of clothing, sweeps by me.
Peering around, I march. For a few minutes, I lose myself in the solace of the trail, but Bitsy breaks my reverie, repeatedly peeking behind her. I peek, too, but nothing appears unusual. A couple holds hands as they stroll slowly, more invested in each other than actually taking a hike. Behind them, a lone man, face hidden under hat and scarf, saunters. There are no dogs, nothing to draw Bitsy’s attention.
I try to set a brisk pace, but Bitsy keeps focusing on what’s behind me. Because she does, I glance back, too. I wonder if a dog is roaming off leash or a deer in the woods commands her attention, but I see nothing.
Snap.
Bitsy twists at the noise.
“It’s just a twig,” I say to the dog. She stares at me as if I’m stupid, and then behind her. I tug on the leash, forcing her forward again. “You’re annoying, but I love you anyway.”
The cold blisters my fingers, making them tingly. Bitsy continues her antics, stopping and staring. The hike sours as the trail rises steep, and I decide to head home. As I do, Bitsy crouches low and growls.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts. My heart races as I squint, eyes scanning one side of the trail to the other. The couple has passed me. A group of three people are closing in from behind. The lone man slowly makes his way toward us. None of the people on the trail act suspicious. I flex my freezing fingers while every scary movie I’ve watched runs through my mind.
“This is silly.” I say it more for myself than for the dog, sure my anxiety is making me expect a supernatural stalker.
I squint, but nothing moves except the few people on the trail, and none of them are close. I need to reign back the paranoia. Thank you, Dad, for your truly wonderful genetic gifts. When people laugh, I always believe they are laughing at me. When people stare, they are staring at me. Even though I intellectually understand this is false, I believe all negative attention is mine.
For a few precious seconds, I inhale and exhale and wait as the cold air burns my lungs. Nothing happens. Still the goosebumps rise. No one springs from behind to strangle me. No one attempts to take the little money in my pockets. No one on the rail trail notices my sudden stop, except for Bitsy, who now strains on the leash.
Jace’s face pops into my head.
Just my imagination.
I head back to the car, still insecure and wondering if something is amiss. I pass the man on the other side of the trail, his face cloaked in shadow, without incident. Once inside the car, I lock the doors and blast both the heat and the radio, hoping noise and warmth will eliminate the apprehension that the hike has not.
#paranoia
#pleasantexcusions
* * * *
School after the holidays will be the best therapy, but that day feels like an eternity away even if it is in less than a week. While my anxiety is better managed at home thanks to reduced stress, my family monopolizes my time. Gramps needs me to take him shopping for new orthopedic shoes, Mom has daily chores she wants me to complete, and Dad wants to visit me one more time before I head back to school.
Finally, the day draws near. I’m leaving tomorrow, but before heading to CCSC, I climb up the steps of non-descript ranch house I once called a home. Dad sits on the top step, waiting for me. He’s chain smoking as usual, which cannot be good for a man who recently had cataract surgery. I’m struck again by how much older Antonio appears than his actual age, with his yellowed gray hair peeking from under a paint-stained baseball hat, but at least he can see well now. The lit cigarette sits snuggly between his fingers.
For a while, he refused to have surgery. But after many long conversations on the phone and the loss of his sight impeding his daily activities, he gave in, and I thanked the gods when he finally visited the doctor and went through with the operation. As for today, we’re having a post-holiday send-off breakfast feast at the local diner. Lots of food for low prices. It’s a favored place for my family to gather.
“How are you?” I ask, waiting for him
to slowly stretch and make his way down a few steps to meet me.
His green work shirt, missing a button, is partially tucked into brown corduroy pants. He’s never given up the idea that one day he’ll return to work and get off disability, which he started to receive after falling off a ladder and suffering a severe concussion and three small transient ischemic attacks. While it wasn’t a stroke, it sure wasn’t good.
“Good. Thanks for coming by Christmas Day,” Antonio says in greeting. “I had my best meal in days.”
“No problem.” I had delivered him a tray of ham, mashed potatoes, fixings, and apple pie for dessert. I’d claimed I cooked it all, but really, Grandma had. He must have known, having had their food for years, but followed along with the ruse.
“The post office messed up my mail.” The lit cigarette twitches in his hand.
“That’s not good to hear,” I say.
“I’m waiting for an important letter and my disability check.”
“Anything I can do?” I’m really concerned. He lives off that check.
“Can we stop at the post office after breakfast?”
“No problem. Hop in the car, and we’ll go get some food.” I lead the way.
“How’s the apartment?” he asks.
“I love it.” Part of me secretly wishes I was there now, and then the worst daughter ever feelings arise. I wonder how I will ever find a serious boyfriend, one who can put up with my family. “How’s your place?” I peer up at the house. Camouflage green paint flakes off the wood shingles.
He shrugs. “Hanging in there. But I need that disability check for my medicine and the mortgage payment.”
“We better get it figured out.” And I mean it. The last thing I want is for my father to get foreclosed on and end up on my doorstep. Believe me, it’s one of my scariest nightmares.
