You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  Huh. He didn’t look like a William.

  William lowered the box to the ground with a wide smile that extended all the way to his eyes. “You too, Miss Sophia.”

  Our gaze met. He ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Hey,” he said to me. “Listen, sorry about last time. I was late for a class. Which doesn’t really justify being rude but at least explains why I was so … grumpy.”

  Ah. Not too intense on the bad attitude, then. A refreshing change. I smiled and shrugged.

  “No problem. I was the one who scared you.”

  He waved to Sophia again as she slipped back into her office, then motioned with his hand to the boxes. “I figured the counter was the best place. What with your leg…”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks. Sophia puts all the big stuff away, anyway. I just sort through it.”

  He nodded and moved to the back door while I reached into the nearest box and pulled out containers of rainbow sprinkles and candy stars coated with edible glitter. By the time he returned, I’d already unloaded a new assortment of frosting tips, food coloring, and silicone cupcake liners onto the prep table. I tossed the cardboard box to the ground. William paused in front of it, head tilted to the side, then grabbed the box.

  “Does Sophia use these?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He eyed the boxes. “Mind if I take them?”

  “I don’t care. I think she just recycles them.”

  “Sweet.” He stacked his hands on his hips and looked around. With his long-sleeved gray shirt, his bright eyes appeared more sea-foam green than emerald. “Look,” he said, “I have some extra time. Do you want help unloading all this? Then I can get these boxes out of your way.”

  “Sure.”

  For the next couple of minutes, we didn’t say a word. William worked at lightning speed, like he’d been a grocery bagger for years. Each box I unloaded he happily bore away.

  “Sophia gave me some of the macarons you made last week,” he said, breaking the silence. “She dropped them off a few days ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “They were really good. Rivaled Sophia’s, and I don’t say that lightly. Seems like you’re a good fit here. She said you’re working full time now. That’s pretty cool.”

  A rebuttal surfaced. You’re just saying that about my macarons, I wanted to counter, but I stopped myself. I thought of my last session with Janine, when I complimented her perfect calves and she smiled. Isn’t it funny how easily we assign such words to other people but not ourselves? At the time it had seemed like an easy way to defer my compliment, but now I wasn’t so sure. Because I easily accepted that Sophia’s macarons were perfect. By the end, mine looked just like hers.

  Maybe Janine was trying to teach me something then as well.

  Deciding to be kind to myself and accept what he said at face value, I forced a smile. “Thanks,” I managed to choke out. “If I have to make another macaron, I think I’ll throw up.”

  To my surprise, he laughed. Some of the tension drained out of my shoulders. When was the last time I’d been in the room with a man I wasn’t trying to seduce or ignore completely? Far too long.

  “So, what are you going to do with the boxes?” I asked as I loaded two-pound squares of butter into the fridge. He used a box cutter to break a box down, tearing through the package with quick zips.

  “Recycle them.”

  “Oh.”

  A hint of a blush appeared at the top of his cheeks. He ripped the tape off of one box and broke it down into a smaller, thinner piece. “I’m around boxes a lot because of how many deliveries I do. So I started asking people to save them, and I haul them away. The recycling center pays for it. Some of my customers are so happy to get rid of them they actually pay me to take their recycling away. Works out in my favor.”

  “Hard up for money?” I quipped.

  “Yep.”

  His reply, so utterly without apology, silenced me. My expression fell. Although I hadn’t meant it in a bad way, I certainly felt like an ass.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry if that—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good for you for finding opportunity.”

  He shrugged and grabbed another box, as if entirely unbothered by what I’d said. “There’s money everywhere. Not everyone sees it.”

  “Are you using it to pay for college?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your major?”

  He hesitated for a beat, and I couldn’t fathom why. Did he think I’d eat him if he told me? Finally, the ice thawed.

  “I want to get my PhD in cancer biology.”

  “Whoa. You want to cure cancer?”

  He shrugged, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. Even though I saw a hint of nerd in him, I still had the feeling he’d been more of a punk than a debater in high school. Not to mention how hefty a major and career field that would be for a guy well past his mid-twenties.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Seems pretty cool. I mean, it would actually do something to improve the world. Instead of take away from it.”

  That piqued my curiosity, but I silenced my questions. Instead, I shifted to safer ground.

  “Why do you want to cure cancer?”

  He blinked, his brows growing heavy. For a moment, I could see a troubled bass player in his eyes, but it disappeared. “Because … I have a goal.”

  “Did you have a family member die from cancer or something?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have it?”

  “No.”

  “So you just want to cure it?”

  “Yeah. I mean, go big or go home, right?” His eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “If I’m going to make something of my life, I’m really going to make it. Even if I have to recycle cardboard to do it.”

  He’d worn long sleeves again, though I knew what to look for. Curls of his clearly inked wrists showed when he moved. What were the tattoos? Why was he hiding them? The day was hot for a long-sleeve shirt, even if it was cotton and decorated with a surfboard and a few waves across the front. He didn’t strike me as the surfer type. Was he trying to be someone he wasn’t?

  Maybe William didn’t know how to be kind or forgiving to himself, either.

  “I’ve never met anyone so motivated,” I said. Although Bitsy posed a close second. Before he could respond, Sophia appeared.

  “Will, can you make an extra trip here next week?”

  “Probably. What day?”

  “Not sure. What’s your schedule look like?”

  “Just a second.”

  Although I couldn’t be sure, I thought I saw a hint of relief in his eyes. Probably glad to get away from my grilling, but I couldn’t help myself. Money is everywhere. And go big or go home. In my extensive experience with men of all kinds, I’d never heard a guy say things in such a humble way. There was more to this paradox of a man than I’d first imagined.

  Maybe he could be my first male friend.

  When he returned, he held a rectangular office calendar, the kind that hung in a bland office with a receptionist who always had her hair in a bun. He set it on the table between bottles of vanilla and rum. Words filled the boxes, color coded with at least five different colors. Arrows raced from one day to another, sometimes for a whole week. I hadn’t seen anything this organized since I’d opened Bitsy’s coupon binder. He pulled a pen and a highlighter out of his pocket.

  “I’m open here and here.” He pointed to two different days. “But the rest is pretty booked. If you stay open late, I can come before my night class. Or, if you’re here late working on cakes, I could come after my night class, too.”

  For all his perfection in scheduling, his handwriting looked like chicken scratch. I could just make out a few words. Class and Homework and Visit Grandma. Was this guy for real? He couldn’t be much older than me. Maybe twenty-seven. He was like the male version of Bitsy.

  “Friday is perfect,” Sophia said, straightening. She hooked him in a side hug
that he seemed to melt into. “Thanks for working me in, and tell your grandma that I said hello.”

  Before I could say another word, he grabbed a box filled with the broken-down boxes and deftly avoided my gaze.

  “Thanks for the boxes, Sophia. See you in a week. Bye, Rachelle.”

  With that, he disappeared into the alley. The door squeaked when it closed behind him. I watched him go, startled.

  He remembered my name. Then I turned back to the petit fours, my head filled with thoughts and questions I didn’t quite know how to pinpoint.

  Jealousy cut through Lexie’s voice with oozing intensity later that week. “Are you loving your job at the Frosting Cottage?” she asked through the phone. “Because I hate you for it. Even when you send me those fail pictures. The macarons were funny, but it was the demented eclair that had me really giggling.”

  I lay sprawled on my bed in my underwear, my ankle propped up. I twined a piece of hair around my finger while we talked. A fan blasted at me on full speed, but it didn’t change how stuffy the room was. The A/C had never reached in here, but the moving air made it seem less suffocating. If I opened my bedroom door, cool air would drift in, but so would the television.

  “It’s really fun working at the Frosting Cottage, actually,” I said. “Just learned a few tips on the perfect cinnamon roll.”

  “Anything life changing?”

  “Nothing Mom hadn’t already taught me.”

  “Sweet! Send me one?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s my girl, Rachelle. But only ship like one. Or two, then I don’t have to share with Bradley. That’s understood, right? I’m still engaging in portion control. And you’d be proud—I worked out six days last week. None of them on the treadmill. For obvious reasons.”

  I laughed. “Of course.”

  “It’s so funny looking back on our childhood because you always were talented with food. It’s just … you working there makes sense. Like maybe you didn’t finish college because this is your thing.”

  “As opposed to all eight majors I attempted?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes we take the long road to get where we’re going.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

  The idea of working with food for a living still sent a shock of panic through me but not one that paralyzed me anymore. So far, I hadn’t sampled anything beyond the lemonade. Which had been more of an exercise in self-control to make sure I wouldn’t revert back to my old ways. I didn’t fear food as much as not exercising—but even that hadn’t killed me.

  Perhaps that fear is just a result of my role as marathoner. I scowled and pushed the thought aside. If nothing else, I knew I could work around food without becoming old Rachelle again. Not that Janine would approve of me still hating old Rachelle so much.

  “I’m dying to know how it went with Janine last time. I feel like maybe I can get pseudo-therapy through you. Are you up to talking about it?”

  “Oh, sure.” A ripple of guilt moved through me. My homework to write a letter to myself this week had all but faded from my mind. The idea of writing to myself was too much when I was still attempting to say nice things about myself—and believe them. “It was…”

  Annoying.

  Tough.

  Strange.

  “Different.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured. “She had me do this thing with gratitude and attractiveness with my body. It was weird. I felt like I was lying the whole time.”

  Lexie didn’t say a word as I elaborated on what we’d discussed, and I was grateful to air it all out. When I finished, silence reigned. To my relief, though, I felt better. Something about speaking the thoughts helped me line them up better. When Lexie said nothing, I pressed the phone harder to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry. Just looking at my ankles and trying to figure out if I adore them or think they could use some work.”

  “See? It’s not easy.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. But how cool.”

  “Cool? I was lying almost the whole time.”

  “You have adorable toes!”

  I wiggled them on my left foot. “Yeah, I mean, they’re cute. But the point is that it’s really hard to be that kind to myself. And that’s sad.”

  “You really didn’t find a single thing you felt was attractive?”

  “Well … I mean … my calves aren’t bad, either.”

  She snorted. “I’d kill for your calves. Look, even if you’re struggling through your self-hatred, I just think it’s great that you’re doing something different.”

  “Way different.”

  “Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?”

  “Yes.”

  “So? Now you stopped doing that. You looked for happiness in food, didn’t find it. Looked for it in guys, didn’t find it. Looked for it in weight loss, didn’t find it. Looked for it in intense exercise and didn’t find it. Now I get the feeling you’re looking in the right places.”

  Then why did I still feel so lost?

  “You’re doing what no one else in your life—Bitsy aside—has ever done. Not even me. You’re actually getting help to fix a problem, not just putting a Band-Aid on it. Good for you, Rachelle.”

  Her observation gave me pause. I’d never thought of it that way. Most of the time when I spoke with Janine, I felt like I was floundering and hoped that she had the life vest. Not to mention how depressing it seemed that I had looked for happiness everywhere and still hadn’t found it.

  “It’s just … I feel like I’m waiting for something to click, you know? From the outside, it probably seems like I’m doing something great. But inside? I’m just … I feel lost.”

  “I’m going to do it with you then!” Lexie cried. “I’m going to find things I think are attractive about myself and that I’m grateful for. And I’ll write myself a letter, too. Maybe it’ll click if you have someone else to commiserate with.”

  I sat up. “Really?”

  “Yeah! Pseudo-therapy, remember? Honestly, the more we talk about your sessions with Janine, the more I think I need to get out there and find me a Janine. Does she do it over video chat? That’d be awesome. There has to be gobs I could talk with her about. Starting with how smelly male laundry is.”

  “But you don’t need to go to therapy.”

  “So you say.”

  “Enough about Janine.” I flopped back to the pillow. I heard the couch groan—Mom must have stood up. “Tell me about married life.”

  “Blissful in some ways. I really miss home, though. I’m so disoriented here. Like, where’s the Chipotle? Oh, it’s twenty miles away! We only have one car, and Bradley has to take it most of the time while he helps his dad in the fields. That math doesn’t work out well in my favor. Actually, it does. My clothes are fitting better. But still…”

  I laughed, and the feeling of it rolling through my belly sent a shot of euphoria through me.

  “Oh, Lexie.”

  “Bradley is great, though. I may not like living with his parents, and the area is pretty remote, but it is wonderful being with him every night instead of having to be apart. Also, I adore his mom. Still trying to figure out where I fit with his dad, though.”

  “Not to mention you get unlimited sex.”

  “Yeah. But, you know, he’s tired after working in the fields all day. Practice is going to start in August, so he’ll really be gone then. To be honest, when he’s out with his dad, I think he forgets he’s married sometimes.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “For all our sakes, let’s hope.”

  “You sound happy.”

  She sighed again, and I could picture it ruffling her blonde bangs. “I am.”

  “Good. That’s all I want.”

  “Listen, I gotta go. His mom fixed stew and cornbread for dinner, so I need to eat. We’ll talk later?”


  “Right. Of course. Love you, Lex. Thanks for talking with me.”

  “Thanks for the pseudo-therapy. I can’t wait to get started myself. I’m pretty positive I’ll love everything about my forearms. Not to brag, but I have lovely hands. Love you, Chelle.”

  Once we hung up, the quiet aftermath rang like a gong. Even through the fan whirring next to my bed, I could still hear the ceaseless drone of the TV in the background. Mom had settled back in. The channel changed.

  I drew in a deep breath and thought of what Lexie had said. She wasn’t seeing Janine, and even she was going to say nice things about herself and write a letter.

  I glanced at a notebook on the bottom shelf of my nightstand. With a rueful sigh, I grabbed it, fished for a pen in the drawer, and yanked the cap off with my teeth. Before I changed my mind, I started to write.

  Dear Rachelle,

  I paused, already at a loss. Janine had said to act as if I were already the girl I wanted to be. As if I already loved myself. Me, the girl whose father left and mother never left. As if I could love and respect the girl who used to act like she was proud of her brash, outspoken, overbearing personality.

  I slammed the notebook closed around the pen and shoved it under my bed. Far under my bed. Then I closed my eyes, threw my arm across my face, and let my whirling thoughts subside into the safety of sleep.

  “Marriage has changed nothing about my appetite.”

  Lexie peered out of the computer at Bitsy, Mira, and me, a scowl marring her fair skin.

  “Did you think it would?” Bitsy asked, amusement in her voice.

  “Hoped, I guess.” Her shoulders slumped. “I thought once I’d really captured him, it would take the pressure off. I mean, he married me imperfect body and all. But noooo.” She tilted her head back with a sigh. “Sometimes I feel the pressure more than ever.”

  “You know what you need to do,” Bitsy said.

  “I know. I know.” Lexie straightened her head back up and let out a long breath. “Journal it. Talk to Bradley about it. Don’t eat my emotions.”

  “Very good!”

  The pursed-lip smirk on Lexie’s face meant she’d almost rolled her eyes but stopped herself at the last moment. I stifled a grin—Bitsy could see me through the video-chat screen.