Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances

by Bethany Hensel

  The corner market, or, as the sign says, Korner MarKet, is run by Mr. and Mrs. Giffin, two of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. Mr. Giffin is a retired NBA all-star with Hershey Kiss-colored eyes and hands so big they can easily palm a watermelon and still have room to hold a grapefruit. His wife is mortal-sized with a head of curly brown hair that is always, without fail, held back by a Star of David barrette. A gift from her mother, she tells everyone who makes eye contact with the thing. It’s easy to do; the jewelry is gorgeous.

  “Hi, Mrs. G,” I say as I come in. She’s behind the register tapping away on her phone. A huge pumpkin on the counter nearly eclipses her completely. The store smells like produce and cinnamon.

  “Layla!” She comes around the counter and throws her arms around me, swaying side to side.

  “Where’ve you been?” she asks, relinquishing her tight hold. “The fair trade sugar came in weeks ago for you. Do you know how hard it’s been keeping Frank from that stuff?”

  Frank is her husband, aka, Mr. Big Hands. (Hmmm…I wonder if there’s any way of saying that without it sounding sexual…kind of like when you say the word willy. Or balls. I juggle balls. I love meatballs. Balls are fun to play with. Mr. Big Balls—I mean, hands. Mr. Big Hands. Big Fingers. Mr. Big—nope. No, there isn’t.)

  The door opens and Mrs. G. waves at the people coming in, just as friendly and warm as usual. Then she turns back to me, an expectant look on her face.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been crazy lately.” Reality: I’ve been broke. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and just…one thing after another kept coming up.” Reality: I’ve been really broke.

  “Well, you can pick up the stuff now. I’ll have Frank get it.” She inhales and opens her mouth, about to shout down the store, when I say her name.

  “Thank you, but I didn’t bring my wallet with me.”

  “Oh, just bring me the check later. It’s no big deal. I trust you.”

  I appreciate her faith, I do. But there’s no way I can take that sugar. I mean, I don’t think she understands how later that later would truly be. Much later. And just like my Tell-Tale Turtle, I’d simply feel too guilty.

  Kowabunga…

  I shake my head and smile. “Really, thank you, but I couldn’t. Besides, my oven needs repaired so I’m not even doing much baking. Let Frank have it.”

  Mrs. G., after several more minutes of trying to convince me to take the sugar, finally relents. That’s the thing about Silver Lake. Even though it’s a pretty big city, it somehow feels very small-town, and I say that in the best way possible. People know each other. They seriously do trust each other. Generations of families have lived here and continue to. People may move, but they always seem to come back. Remember that whole “birth to earth” quote from West Side Story? Yeah, that’s applicable here.

  My phone beeps and I take it from my purse.

  Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.

  Natalie.

  I say my goodbyes to Mrs. G. and head back outside. I make the trek to my car as quick as I can, huffing (how pathetic) a bit when I finally get there. I make a mental note to cut back on the potato chips…just as soon as I finish the bag I have opened at home.

  I stand on the curb and await Natalie’s entrance. I do not wait long.

  A gleaming yellow and black Camaro turns onto King’s Square. The roof is down, the radio is up. John Lennon is growling the growliest invitation to twist and shout that ever was growled. And Natalie is behind the wheel, her dark chestnut hair perfectly highlighted, expertly styled and enviably shiny, moving in the breeze as if she were Beyoncé. Her aviator sunglasses only make her cheekbones look that much more pronounced, her jawline that much more sharp. Her lips are the color of candy apples.

  She stops the car in front of me.

  “Shake it up baby now! Twist and shout.”

  I give her a look. “I left my sports bra at home. I can’t.”

  “Come on and work it on out.”

  I roll my eyes and slide in her car. “Do you want a black eye? My boobs will hit you.”

  “You know you twist so fine.”

  “I hate you.”

  She grins and hits the gas. I jerk back a bit at the sudden motion.

  “Where are we going? My car is still—”

  “Don’t worry,” she says, practically shouting over the combined noise of the radio and wind now that we’re moving fast. “I called my friend, Jin. He’ll stop by and take a look.”

  “Yeah? And will he tow the thing or grant me three wishes?”

  She smiles. “Rub his lamp the right way and he might do both.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. But then: “Do you seriously want to shop? I’m broker than a joke right now.”

  Natalie doesn’t answer. Instead, she keeps singing as we turn out of King’s Square and hit Carnahan. She travels down the serpentine road so fast I feel like we’re either going to fly right off it or rupture the space-time continuum. Maybe both. It’s all par for the course with her, but I still strap in and start praying to St. Anthony. Find a way to make sure I get back home in one piece.

  “So where are we going?” I ask.

  Natalie flashes her teeth like a shark widening its maw. “Do you even have to ask?”

  I sit back and push my hair from my face as understanding dawns. (Also, remind me never to wear lip-gloss if I’m riding with the top down. Also, remind to bring force Natalie to put the top up on the way home; the cool breeze is now a freezing tornado.) As I think of our destination, and as Natalie hits the parkway and really puts her car in gear, a boom goes off. It’s either us passing the sound barrier, or my head exploding as I try to mentally balance my bank account, hoping I can actually afford where we’re heading.