by Aria Ford
“Is there a particular restaurant that serves—”
“McDonald’s. You can get them in the drive thru.”
I’m dumbfounded. Given a choice between the Le Chat eggs and the french toast, she picks a drive-through burrito in wax paper. It’s unbelievable. Does she think that’s all she’s worth? Or is she seriously this thrilled about the idea of a greasy takeaway burrito? I look over at her in disbelief. She’s grinning expectantly, waiting to see if her wish will be granted. I’m such a pushover for this girl it’s unreal. I’m about to take my Porsche on its inaugural trip to a fast food drive up window. I would laugh at the absurdity of this situation except she looks so damn endearing and happy. So I ask her exactly what she wants. I order her two burritos, a hash brown, a large orange juice. She looks just that way you’d picture someone who’s won a sports car or the jackpot on a slot machine. I can tell she’s trying to restrain herself but she’s practically bouncing in her seat.
“You can eat in the car,” I say, knowing what she’s thinking.
She doesn’t say a word, just digs into the bag and starts scarfing a greasy looking burrito. She breaks off a piece of hash brown and offers it to me. I don’t want it, but I take it anyway and eat it because she gave it to me probably. It’s as salty and oily as I expect, but it also doesn’t disgust me the way I thought it would. Maybe because if she offered me a damned live frog I’d consider eating it. I nearly choke laughing at that thought. I have to take a drink of her orange juice to stop coughing. She laughs at me, and I don’t even mind.
I drive around the city, making a lazy circuit and listening to her talk. She tells me about her little brother, about her professor in college that sometimes lapsed into a fake French accent during lectures, about how she likes to stand in the grocery store to read magazines. “I read them all,” she brags, “Vanity Fair, Cosmo, all the good ones. I don’t read all the articles, but I check out all the clothes and read my horoscope. They’re basically all the same, the horoscopes, but it’s fun to read them anyway. Just in case I skip it one time and that was the time that something horrible was going to happen, and I could’ve been warned.”
“Superstitious,” I scold a little indulgently.
“Yeah,” she says, finishing off her second burrito, “God, I ate too much. But it was so good. Thank you.”
“Is that the way to your heart? Fast food?”
“Maybe,” she says, “why would you ask?”
“I’m keeping my options open,” I say. “I still want your name. Your number. Something.”
“You’ve got more than something. You’ve got the best night of my whole life, so my name shouldn’t matter very much compared to that.”
“Kate,” I say, “I’m serious. I want to know who you are.”
“You know who I am. I was a student and a sister and a daughter, and all that ended with a car wreck. I’m a waitress. I’m trying to get by. And one night I got in some trouble. This guy rescued me. He doesn’t want me to think he’s a hero. I don’t think you’re perfect, Griffin. I know better… but you’re still my hero.”
It makes my chest burn when she says that. My throat feels tight. I have to stop driving. I find a place to parallel park. I manage to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the wheel after a minute and look at her. She is looking at me with these trusting, open dark eyes.
She is in my arms now and we’re kissing. Whether it’s because I want her so much or because of what she just said, I couldn’t decide. My hands are in her hair. I don’t know if I can let her go. That’s how bad it is. I kiss her cheek and top of her head. I am undone by her.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I’m better off not knowing her name.
Because that would make it too easy for me to come back for more.
I might never stop.
I drive her as far as she’ll let me. I give her my business card, in case she ever wants to get in touch. My personal number isn’t on there. But she’d never use it anyway. I know as I hand it to her that there’s no reason. She may keep it as a memento for a while, tucked in the corner of her mirror. She’ll never dial the number, never ask to meet me for coffee. I think of that card for a second, slid into the frame of the bathroom mirror, mute as she puts on lipstick to meet another man. I shut my eyes to that. There’s no point.
She has me drop her off outside a convenience store. Makes me promise not to follow her, not to watch her walk away. I want to break my promise, but if I did that, I wouldn’t be anything close to the man she thinks I am. So I let her go. I drive away.
CHAPTER NINE
Caleigh
If I don’t get out of the car now, I’ll stay forever.
I might have to live in his car. It’s more comfortable than my apartment and cleaner, that’s for sure. It’s about him though. About how we don’t fit in each other’s lives. He’s a CEO or something, and I just lost a part-time waitressing job. Not exactly a match made in the society pages.
I’m crying.
There’s no way to hide it. This is not one of those photogenic movie cries, where the gorgeous actress blinks her huge, beautiful eyes shining with tears and sniffles once bravely. This is crying with hiccupping sobs, wiping my face on my sleeve. It isn’t pretty. I can tell I’m puffy and red and look wretched. Way to give him a romantic goodbye—it would be perfect if not for the weeping and the snorting and gulping sounds I’m making. He kisses my cheek way back by my ear. I clutch at the front of his shirt for a minute.
Griffin gives me his card. He presses it into my palm and closes my fingers over it. “In case you ever want to find me. If you want to see where this could go,” he says. He doesn’t know the bite of temptation I feel at those words. Right now I want to stay with him more than I want to breathe oxygen or walk upright. I can feel the sharp need like a beating in my blood, the overwhelming desire for a fix. Because here he is, the one drug that could bring me down.
No one is counting on me. No one but me. I wouldn’t be letting anyone down. All I’d have to do is whisper my name to him, hope he calls me up. I know he can find me if he really wants to, but I also know that’s a terrible idea. All I’d get is maybe two weeks of memories and a broken heart I’d never recover from. It might not even take him that long to figure out that I’m not for him. I’m too ordinary, too lost. He needs someone stronger and more beautiful and more sophisticated. Griffin deserves someone better than me. That’s all there is to it. I don’t have much, but I have this shred of integrity left. It’s telling me that if I try to hang on, I’ll be taking advantage of him and hurting us both. That I know how to do what’s right even when it hurts, and that’s what has to be done.
I kiss his lips very softly. Because I am not about to leave without one more kiss. I make it swift and gentle. If I let him kiss me deeper, my clothes will fall off on their own. I can’t risk it. I whisper to him, thank you. I am thanking him for everything from saving me from Simpson to the orange juice.
Griffin has the softest lips. It is unbelievable how soft his lips are. The other guys I’ve kissed have always had these rough chapped lips, and they always kissed too hard, smashing my lips up against my teeth like that’s supposed to be sexy when you’re basically biting yourself on accident. Griffin kisses like he got his Ph.D. in the subject, I swear. And it’s never been the same twice. I wonder how many ways he can kiss, how many times he’d have to kiss me before there was a rerun. Because there are some I’d like to repeat. All of them, okay. I want all of them again and again. The hunger and protectiveness and wrenching tenderness of the first time he kissed me in the alley—that’s the one I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Because when I die, I’m pretty sure I’ll still think heaven is a place where I get to feel like that all the time—like I’ve been chosen and cherished, and I don’t have to be afraid any more. That’s how Griffin made me feel.
That’s how come I can say it was the best night of my life even though Simpson mauled me in a hallway, and I was a
fraid for my life. I ducked in the alley to hide. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to escape the embarrassment and pain of being there. Embarrassment that Griffin was responsible for, by the way. As if offering me money would make it okay. He was totally clueless about the kind of person I am, and probably about what is an inhumane way to treat a person who’s just been abused. If I hadn’t been in fight or flight mode, I might have flipped him the bird and walked out. Instead, I ran and he came after me to make sure I was okay. He made me feel whole again like Simpson hadn’t taken any part of me away. And when he realized how he’d hurt me by trying to shove money at me, he apologized.
I could tell by the way he kissed that he wasn’t a cruel man. Stupid, yes, because he’d used me as a visual aid to confront Simpson’s brother. But he wouldn’t hurt me on purpose so I held on to him for dear life. He brought me back to myself. He gave me the most healing closeness, an intimacy I’ve never known before. I’m grateful, I am. I just can’t stay with him for the week or two it would take him to figure out that I’d be nothing to him but a pet, a cute little thing he has to take care of. I wouldn’t be of any use to him as a partner. And I don’t want to be his mistress, his pretty girl he keeps in an apartment for his convenience. I can’t have all of him, and I won’t take any less. So I choose nothing before I end up with nothing and a broken heart to go with it.
I walk back to my apartment. Amy’s there. I wish she wasn’t. All the times I’ve been lonely and wanted someone to make popcorn and watch TV with, now she’s here when I want to be alone. She asks me how it went.
“I had a rough night. I walked out on the job.”
“You what?”
“One of the guys at the dinner groped me, and I left.”
“If you left early, how are you just getting home now?” she says.
I lift one shoulder and shrug it.
“And whose shirt is that?”
“I had to borrow one,” I say truthfully, “Because the guy ripped up my black shirt. It’s in my purse.” I show her.
“I can put buttons on it if you want,” Amy says.
“That’s nice of you, but I’m throwing it out. I never want to see it again.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
I sink down on to our couch, the scratchy brown one from Goodwill that Amy already had when I moved in. I put my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry things went south. Are you okay? He didn’t rape you, did he?”
“He tried. The guy having the party stopped him.”
“You got rescued? There’s really guys like that?” Amy says.
“There’s one at least.”
“That makes me feel better. That men like that are out there who step in when some dickbag’s assaulting a woman.”
“Yeah. He made me feel better,” I say. I put my hands on my cheeks so she won’t see me blush.
“How much better? Is that why you’re just getting in? Did you hook up with the knight in shining armor, girl?” Amy says.
I nod. She squeals and jumps up and down, and my head hurts like I have a hangover even though I don’t.
“I’m gonna get the laundry together. Anything you need washed while you sleep?”
“Yeah, and there’s quarters in the jar. I’d appreciate it. But you’re not changing the subject that fast. Tell me all!”
“He’s just a rich guy who came to check on me and see if I was okay after I left.”
“Wait—he followed you? He made sure you were safe? This is a fairy tale. Men don’t do that crap.”
“He did,” I say. “He could have stayed and had his dinner like he planned, and I’m sure he would have paid a small fortune for it. But he—”
“Went to make sure the waitress was okay. That’s…unexpected. Did you sleep with him? Was it amazing?”
“I’m not discussing this,” I say, my face flaming.
“That’s a yes. So, amazing?”
“No, it was nothing like that. I didn’t,” I say. I’m lying, but I have my reasons.
Reason one is I don’t want her to know I had a one-night stand. It sounds nasty to me, and cheapens what it was. I want it to be a secret. The other reason, which is even worse than my refusal to own what I did is the fact that I want to keep it to myself because it’s special. I don’t want Amy giggling over it. I don’t want to pretend it meant nothing. I want to keep the memory of it for just myself.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I lie, “I’m too much of a good girl, I guess. It was really nice of him to check on me, though. I told him thank you.”
“Why’d you have to tell me that? I could have had some good dreams,” she laughed and went to bed.
I change clothes. I do the laundry, run the vacuum, check my bank balance. I go through all the motions of a normal Sunday. I fold his shirt and put it under my pillow. It doesn’t smell like him because it was clean when he gave it to me. I wish it did. It’s the thing I get to keep. I know I should have it dry cleaned and send it back to him at his office. But I don’t want to let it go.
The next day at work, I get a call. I check the voicemail on my break. It’s a message from Marilyn. I dial her number, slump back against the wall as I wait to be fired.
“Ah, Caleigh, good to hear from you. I trust you have no ill effects from the incident on Saturday?” she says.
She’s afraid I’m going to sue her, so she’s acting nice. That’s what I realize as she talks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry for running out—”
“No, no, think nothing of it. I understand the situation. The catering manager that night informed me as soon as it happened. I sincerely apologize for what happened to you. This is not a common occurrence at EA. We would never permit an employee to be abused, and we are prepared to press charges on your behalf. EA will cover all legal fees, I assure you, and this matter will be settled in a manner that punishes Mr. Simpson for his actions.”
“No. Please. I don’t want to press charges. I never want to talk about this again. I didn’t go to the police or the hospital or anything. I want to forget it ever happened,” I say, my heart pounding, sweat breaking out all along my skin.
“Are you certain? Would you like one of our attorneys to call you and explain the process?”
“No. I really wouldn’t. I’ll sign anything you want that says it wasn’t your fault, because it wasn’t. I’m not going to sue you. I just want to put this behind me. It was horrible and I hate that it ruined a great opportunity for me, but I understand that you can’t keep an employee who runs out in the middle of a job. I’m sorry about all of it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Caleigh. This is something bad that was done to you, not by you. I have already taken steps to ensure that Randy Simpson and his wretched brother Nathan are blacklisted by every decent caterer in the city. When I’m finished they won’t be able to get a buffet at the Marriott, much less dinner for an event.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say because I don’t see how having trouble hiring a caterer is really punishment for trying to rape someone, but I don’t want to be rude. Marilyn was nice to hire me, and she’s doing her best to be decent about this.
“I intend to keep you as an employee if you’re willing. You’ll be paid for the full night on Saturday. There’s also a rather shocking amount of money left as a tip for you that you can pick up at the office. I can promise you that neither of the Simpsons will be in attendance at any event I assign you—not only because I refuse to serve them or to cater any event to which they are invited.”
“That would be amazing, thank you,” I say. “I don’t want the tip, though. Give it to the others who worked that night.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on it, Caleigh. Put it in a savings account if you like, or buy yourself a nice pair of shoes. It’s your money.”
Marilyn hangs up. I can’t believe I still have a job with her. I’ll go by after work and pick up my paycheck and whatever blood money Randy Simpson left for
me. It makes me sick to think about it, but I’ll stick it in a savings account like Marilyn said. It can be for emergencies.
At the EA office, I get my paycheck and an envelope of cash. I don’t count it. I stuff it in my purse and go home. Once I’m inside behind a locked door where I’m not afraid of getting mugged, I take the envelope out and dump the money on the table.
The envelope contains nearly a thousand dollars. I’ve never seen this much cash. I’m not even sure I can take this into a bank to open an account without someone thinking I stole it or sold drugs to get it. I don’t look like somebody who has eight hundred bucks lying around the house. I stuff it under the mattress. I feel nervous having it here. I take a quick shower. Afterward, I put on his shirt. The one I was keeping under my pillow. I needed to wrap it around me. I loved the way the sleeves covered my hands, the fabric soft and smooth, a perfect pale blue. I wouldn’t be in his arms again, but I could wear the shirt. I could remember all the good things.
I spend the next weeks working catering jobs on Saturday nights and Sundays at lunch. It’s working. I’ve added a couple of hundred bucks to the savings account. I’m even looking online at the classes available in fashion design and merchandising.
I feel good. I mean, I cry a lot, but that’s not the worst thing. I hadn’t really cried much since the burial. But I read a lot about grief and sometimes a triggering event can help you access all those emotions you’ve locked away, so I’m guessing that almost getting raped or even spending the night with Griffin unlocked my bereavement, and I’m grieving at last. Like every day. Something stupid will make me cry. A diaper commercial. Spilling my iced tea on my break. The dryer being broken at the Laundromat. I let it happen. I embrace it even. Because if I’m ever going to make peace with losing my family, I think this is just a process I have to go through.
