We Were Once

by Scott, S. L.

  “Yeah.”

  I take the door in hand as a not so subtle hint. “I should get back to . . .” I just end it before the lie leaves my lips. I have no plans but to study, and that sounds boring even to me. “Thanks again.” I’m surprised, though, when he doesn’t move. “Don’t let me keep you from those other deliveries.” Hint. Hint. Hint.

  Remaining inches from me, I look up when he says, “Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Shoving the money in his pocket, he rocks back on his heels. “Hope you enjoy the food.”

  Pulling the door with me as he passes, I remain with it pressed to my backside. “I’m sure I will.”

  “Anytime.” I barely glimpse his grin before he turns abruptly to leave. Then he stops just shy of maneuvering down the stairs and looks back. “You need balance in your life.”

  Shock bolts my eyes wide open, and my mouth drops open as offense takes over. Standing in my discomfort, I consider closing the door and ending this conversation. But I step forward instead, leaning halfway out. “Maybe you need balance.”

  Through a chuckle, he replies, “The bonsai. You said your mom gave you the plant. She thinks you need balance in your life. Mine gave me calm. Mom knows best. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Pulling the door, I take a step back, glancing at him one last time. “Thanks, professor,” I remark.

  “Have a good life, Chloe.” His laughter bounces off the walls of the hallway.

  I shut the door, bolting the lock and attaching the chain, not needing the last word. “I will,” I say to myself. After a quick peek out of the peephole again to verify he left, I set the bag next to the stack of books and take a second look at the plant. “By the way he was looking at you, I thought he was going to plant-nap you, Frankie.” He sure was all up in this little guy’s business.

  Must be a biology major.

  I begin to unpack the bag, trying to ignore how his presence and the faint scent of his cologne still linger, but notice how it feels a few degrees warmer. “I wouldn’t blame him,” I tell Frankie. “You’re a beautiful specimen.”

  Getting up, I lower the thermostat before trying to figure out who sent the food. Timed perfectly, my phone begins buzzing across the coffee table. I race back to catch a text from my best friend: If you hear from me in ten minutes, call me right back.

  Quick to respond, I type: Another bad date?

  Ruby Darrow, the heiress to the Darrow Enterprises, and I have been close since we roomed together freshman year. I can’t wait for her to move into her apartment next door. Her return message reads: I’m not sure. If you hear from me, then yes. Yes, it is.

  Me: I’m on standby.

  Ruby: Because you’re the best.

  I take my duties as her friend very seriously, so I set the phone down next to the bag and pop open the plasticware. When my phone buzzes again, I’m fully prepared to make the call, but this time it’s not Ruby.

  Mom: I had food delivered for you. Did you get it? Chicken and dumplings. I’m in the mood for comfort food and thought you might be, too.

  I wish I would have known ten minutes ago. Eyeing the bag, I smile. I can’t argue with her choice of dish, but I’m just not sure if the pain in the ass delivery was worth the trouble.

  Even a baseball cap flipped backward didn’t hinder his appearance because apparently, I just discovered I have a type. Small-town hero with a side of arrogance. Jesus. This is Connecticut, not Texas.

  Despite his appearance, I wasn’t impressed. Dating cute guys has not worked out well for me in the past. The local bad boy doesn’t fit into my plans or help with my “balance” as he points out I evidently need.

  So rude.

  I balance just fine. School. Trying to think of more, I get frustrated. I’m at Yale for one reason and one reason only—to get into the medical school of my choice, and to do that, I need to keep my brain in the game. The school game, not the dating game. “What does he know anyway, Frankie?”

  Returning my mom’s text, I type: Got it. Thank you.

  Mom: Promise me you’ll live a little, or a lot, if you’re so inclined.

  She’s become a wild woman in the past two years. I’m happy for her, but that doesn’t mean I have to change my ways to fit her new outlook on life.

  As I look around my new apartment, the cleanliness brings a sense of calm to me. After living in my parents’ homes over the summer, it feels good to be back at school and on my own again.

  Me: That’s a lot of promises. First, caring for Frankie, and now for my own well-being. I laugh at my joke, but I know she’ll misinterpret it, so I’m quick to add: Kidding. I will. Love you.

  Mom: Hope so. Live fearlessly, dear daughter. Love you.

  Feeling like I dodged another lecture on “you’re only young once,” I smile like a kid on Christmas when I find a chocolate chip cookie in the bag. With just one bite of the food, I close my eyes, savoring the flavor. “Patty sure knows how to cook.”

  I click on a trivia game show and spend the time kicking the other contestants’ butts as I eat.

  Soon, I’m stuffed but feeling antsy about the dough sitting at the bottom of my stomach, so I get up and slip my sneakers on before hopping on the treadmill. I warm up for a mile with that bag and the red logo staring back at me, so I pick up the pace until I’m sprinting. “I’m not trying to go anywhere. It’s good exercise,” I grumble, still bothered by what the delivery guy said. A bleacher seat therapist is the last thing I need.

  I start into a jog and then a faster speed, though my gaze keeps gravitating toward the bag and the red printing on the front—Patty’s Diner. The food might have been delicious, but I can’t make a habit out of eating food that heavy or I won’t be able to wear the new clothes my mom and I just spent two weeks shopping for.

  I barely make four miles before my tired muscles start to ache. I’m not surprised after a day of moving, but I still wished I could have hit five. I hit the stop button and give in to the exhaustion.

  I take a shower and change into my pajamas before going through my nightly routine—brushing teeth, checking locks, turning out the lights, and getting a glass of water. I only take a few sips before I see Frankie in the living room all alone. My mom’s guilt was well-placed. I dump water in the pot and bring it with me into the bedroom. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not staying here.”

  Returning to the living room to grab my study guide for the MCAT, I hurry back to bed and climb under the covers. But after a while, I set the guide aside, behavioral sciences not able to hold my attention against my mom’s parting words.

  Classes. Study. Rest. Routines are good. They’re the backbone to success. I click off the lamp, not needing my mom’s words—live fearlessly—filling my head. Those thoughts are only a distraction to my grand plan. Like that delivery guy.

  2

  Chloe

  Sunshine floods the apartment, waking me. I avoided it temporarily around seven o’clock with a pillow over my head, but an hour later, I’m wide-awake. Opening my eyes to Frankie greeting me, I smile despite the hour. “Your grandmother will kill me if I don’t take care of you, so I think we’re going to have to come to some arrangement.”

  I sit up and then climb out of bed. “I may not need the sun this early, but you might like it, little fella.”

  Carrying him into the living room, I decide to set the small black pot on the windowsill. Patting the top, I say, “Have a great day,” and then get dressed for my errands.

  When my bag is packed, I lock the door and head downstairs now that the shops are open. Something red grabs my attention on the stairs between the third and second floors. Bending down, I pick it up. The safety pin on the back is bent on the name tag.

  Joshua.

  Patty’s Diner.

  My neck jerks back as if the guy from last night is here in person, his words stuck in my head again—you need balance. Still offended, I consider dumping the tag in the nearest trash can, but si
nce I’m not near one, I drop it in my bag instead and go about my day.

  The weather is stuck in summer for a few more weeks—sunny, blue skies, and a gentle breeze. It’s exciting to explore my new neighborhood after living on the other side of campus last year. Ruby found the apartments—a small building with eight units—and we were lucky enough to get the two apartments that take up the third floor. I can’t wait to spend time with her again.

  Our relationship is so different from the people I grew up with. My last name gained me entrance to parties back in Newport, but my lack of interest in petty gossip showed me the exit.

  I traded friends for grades. That paid off for me, but thank God, I found Ruby. She’s the one person, other than my parents, who has become a constant. I don’t know how I would have survived college without her. Coming from a similar background, she understands the pressure that is inherited with a well-known last name.

  I take a breath, keeping my dreams locked safely inside. I don’t have to decide now, so I let it be, not wanting the confrontation that lies ahead to ruin today. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and smell the last day of freedom, trying to focus on the positive of my good friend returning.

  I browse five stores unsuccessfully, not finding any curtains I like. Continuing to walk down the street, I’ve covered quite a few blocks and begin to feel lethargic. Caffeine wouldn’t be bad either.

  A text from Ruby comes in as if she knew I needed an injection of happy: Miss me?

  Me: Get here already. I giggle as I wait for her next text.

  Ruby: If it were up to me, I would. The going away dinner I didn’t want is tonight. And being a Darrow means nothing less than fancy and over the top. My mom decided she couldn’t do pizza and a movie like I wanted. Nope. All of her friends and their kids must come over. I don’t think they’d even notice if I wasn’t there. Oh! You should come. Hop on a train and save me, Clo.

  Me: As delightful as that sounds, not, I don’t have anything to wear to a Darrow affair. Also, I’m getting a jump on the syllabus and plan for a quiet night of studying. Thank you, though.

  Ruby: Lucky. Gotta run, but I’ll see you soon.

  Me: Have fun tonight.

  Ruby: Oh, yeah. Sure. Rub it in.

  I tuck the phone in my back pocket and continue my search, switching gears from curtains to caffeine. With no sign of a coffee shop on this block, I settle on a diner up ahead. Diner. The name tag . . . Joshua.

  More importantly, coffee.

  Yep, according to the red logo on the door, here is the infamous Patty’s Diner. Just underneath that, another sign reads come on in, so I do.

  When the waitress calls from a table in the back, “Welcome to Patty’s. Sit anywhere.” Scanning the place, I see it’s fairly packed. Since I need my coffee to go, I hustle over to the counter, getting out of the way of the door.

  I take a seat at the end, hanging my bag on a hook under the counter, and wait. I swivel a few times before pulling out the MCAT guide to make use of the extra minutes for studying. Setting it next to the menu pulling double duty as a placemat, I start eyeing the pictures of food, suddenly hungry.

  Nope, that’s not why I’m here. Coffee is good. I’ll do my good deed for the day, and then I can grab a sandwich at home. Stick to the plan.

  A bony finger that has years of life creased into the knuckle points at the right side of the menu. “These are the specials,” says the waitress who greeted me. When I look up, her dark eyes look tired but still welcoming. Gray and blond strands fall from the clip she has loosely secured at the crown of her head. Despite the other servers wearing jeans and matching T-shirts, she wears her white shirt with a denim skirt instead. “What can I get you?”

  “I’m just here for coffee. To go please.” Remembering the name tag, I dig it out of my bag, and add, “Oh, and I found this, so I thought I’d return it.”

  She takes it from me and a gentle smile comes over her as she strokes the engraved name.”

  “Joshua’s lost a million of these.” She leans against the counter, seeming ready to share more. “I think you should try the chili.”

  “Oh, um . . . I was just going to have—”

  “It was very sweet of you to bring this by.” Holding the tag up, she says, “Chili’s on me.”

  “No, you don’t have to do that. It was the right thing to do. I don’t need anything in return.” I start to feel bad for almost throwing it away when it means so much to her.

  Tapping the counter twice with the tag, she sets it down and gets a determined look in her eyes. “I insist.” Rushing off, she pushes through a swinging silver door.

  I swivel to look around. This diner is like the ones I’ve seen in movies. It’s comfortable with a homey feel to it. Warm wood tones in the booths are offset by black and white tiles on the floor in a bold pattern.

  There are no metal spatulas hitting the grill or orders being shouted, but it’s noisy from conversation and the music wafting overhead. Sounds like jazz but it’s hard to hear. The waitress returns with a mug and saucer in one hand and a coffee carafe in the other.

  She sets it down and starts to fill it. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine. Thank you.” It’s already full before I realize it’s not in a to-go cup. I’m thinking she was serious about the chili. I don’t remember the last time I had chili if I have ever.

  Silverware rolled in a napkin is placed on my mat before she disappears again into the kitchen. Flipping my guide open, I turn to where I left off last night and read the next question. My mind is either rusty or I need a caffeine IV to get me going.

  A bowl is set next to me, and yep, that’s chili with shredded cheddar and a dollop of sour cream on top. “Do you like jalapeños? I can get some,” she says.

  “I can’t eat spicy food.” I rub my stomach with psychosomatic symptoms while eyeing her name tag. “Thanks, though, Barb.”

  Laughter rings out, and a smile invades her expression. Covering the name tag, she leans in. “My name’s not Barb. The rules state we have to wear a name tag, and I forgot mine at home, so I borrowed Barb’s. She’s off on Mondays.” Resting her hands on the counter like she intends to spend a little time here, she says, “I’m Patty.”

  “Patty as in Patty’s Diner?” I ask dumbly.

  “One and the same.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you. I had your chicken and dumplings yesterday. They were very good.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Dumplings yesterday and back today, but only for coffee? I’m not sure if I’m doing something right or wrong.”

  “Right. My stomach growled when I walked in, and the chili looks really good.” I don’t mention her annoying son since he’s no concern of mine any longer. The badge has been returned to its rightful place. Now, I just get to enjoy the meal.

  I take a sip of coffee while she fills a mug two stools down. Leaning against the counter with the carafe in hand, she asks, “Are you a freshman?”

  I laugh, a lot lighter than hers from a moment ago but entertained all the same. “I’m actually a senior this year.”

  “You are? My son’s a senior this year. What’s your name, hun?”

  “Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” she says with a kind smile. When a server cuts behind her, she surveys the counter. “I should let you eat before it gets cold. Let me go check on that cornbread.”

  The chili will be heavy enough. Now she wants to add bread into the mix? I’m stuffed just thinking about it. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t need it.”

  “It’s the best part.” Too late. She’s off again.

  I spoon a bite of chili and then blow on it, watching the steam dissipate when I hear her say, “Perfect timing.” I look up. She’s not speaking to me, but to the man with the plate of cornbread heading my way. Patty detours into the dining room, leaving me to plot my own escape.

  “Oh, God,” I mumble under my breath as soon our eyes meet. If nothing else is confirmed from seeing t
his guy a second time, that he’s cocky as all get-out is.

  “Well, well. Well. If it isn’t Chloe with the bonsai.”

  I huff. “He did nothing to you, so kindly leave Frankie out of this.”

  He chuckles. “Frankie is feminine.”

  “Can you be more offensive?” I turn in annoyance, unable to look at him.

  His laughter picks up. “You don’t understand. Bonsai plants don’t have genders. Their shape determines in generally accepted terms if they’re masculine or feminine.”

  Staring him down, I tilt my head, trying not to let the irritation he brings out in me surface. “And mine is feminine?”

  “Yes. Thin branches, a curve to the trunk. I’m no expert, but Frankie is feminine, in my humble opinion.”

  “Why do I get the feeling nothing about you is humble, especially your opinion?” I hate that I notice that his hair isn’t hidden under a cap, and with an unruly cowlick, his dark hair keeps falling in his face, drawing me back to his eyes.

  He smirks.

  I roll my eyes and tap my book. Scrunching my nose, I say, “If you don’t mind,” and then take another bite.

  “I don’t at all. How’s the chili?”

  Patty comes around the counter. Not all heroes wear capes. Some have coffee. “You met Chloe.” She picks up the tag and hands it to him. “She was sweet enough to bring this back to you.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?”

  Ugh. And here I thought Patty was here to save me, not throw me under the bus. “I found it in my building and just happened to be in the area doing some shopping.”

  “Shopping, huh?”

  “Does everything you say have to be in the form of a question, or is that something you enjoy doing?”

  Patty says, “Guess you two know each other.”

  “Nope,” he replies. “Just met last night.” Those dimples of his are really annoying—ly distracting.

  “Could have fooled me.” Turning to me, she says, “Your mother placed that order for you. She wanted to send you something comforting.” Holding up a finger, she adds, “I steered her toward the special. Nothing makes me feel better than home in a bowl.” She looks at her son. “Right, Josh?”