by Amber Burns
“He’s helping me out.” She makes a reaching gesture and Wes fills her hands with some papers.
“With?” he’s persistent.
“The Sterling dump yard,” I answer for Violet.
“Come again?”
Violet’s smile is wide. I shrug. “Should I fill him in?”
“Please,” she fans out her arms, unsettling the long, swaying sleeves of her kimono-inspired dress.
“Your hoarded stash upstairs. Yo ho.”
My pirate interpretation ailing to impress my audience of one, Wes looks from me to Violet and then back at his screen, muttering, “Not even going there.”
Violet opens the store’s front, passing me in a cloud of spicy perfume. The first customer isn’t too far along either.
“Princess,” Violet greets the equally curvy, but much taller and older woman. I’m caught on her name, not too much to notice the interest in her practiced glance.
Out from under the large umbrella, auburn hair piled partially up by a silver, sparkly clip, the rest of her iron-flattened hair covered the shoulders of her sheer, roomy blouse. A pencil skirt completes the look, and heels, of course. They click-clack further into the room, away from the door, but not towards Wes and the front desk entirely.
“I thought the Sterlings were elitists when it came to the family business. Do you have a new staff member?” she isn’t asking anyone in particular, and I consider answering her.
Trailing behind, Violet introduces her enigmatic customer. “No. He’s just a friend, helping us out.”
Just a friend, my foot. I’m already more to Vanna, and I had no plan to slow or shut down the progress to making her mine and that would make Wes and Violet my in-laws.
“Amos,” Violet repeats my name, smile stretching to breaking point. “This is Princess Kingston.”
“I prefer Charlotte or Charley. My middle name, unfortunately.” She doesn’t have to give Violet a look, but the youngest Sterling’s polite smile is wearing fast, almost as much as Princess wearing her welcome fast.
“Amos Fuller.” Raised right by my grandparents, I accept her manicured hand, but holding for no second longer than appropriate.
Princess doesn’t sense my disinterest. She’s talking and looking at Wes and Violet, but really directing her speech at me, throwing in sly questions meaning to gain information for me.
In between the random nonsense, we understand that she’s forgotten an expensive bracelet. “It’s either I left it here or,” and she names some restaurant in Center Square – what I understand is Albany’s downtown or social hot spot.
“Atlanta? And you’re here for your sister’s wedding preparations?” Princess lights up at that. I don’t even want to wonder why. Still I can’t shake off Princess’ resemblance to the expressions of Iris’ mostly single, twenty- and thirty-something, bridesmaids whenever I was around. I worried that I might have to fend off their advances. Iris confirmed my secret concern, and now I’m wary around the lot of them.
“So, you’ll be one of the groomsmen then.” Princess is saying.
She’s sinking her claws into me the longer I stand there listening to her talk.
Slinking away is hard, but Violet and Wes manage to extricate Princess’ attention from me long enough to slip past her without offense.
The Kingstons obviously have a mean streak, and I didn’t want to provoke Princess’ ire in case she flapped her mouth to Mommy Dearest, and right after everyone worked hard to patch things up for the sake of the store’s profits.
Upstairs I play the waiting game clearing more boxes, more flooring and more covered walls in the Sterling dump yard. The window is still sticking, but I manage to get it open and the rain brings in a cool, refreshing breeze, making the room more tolerable today.
It also helps me stick it out longer.
The front door’s bell jingles, signaling the entrance – or departure of someone. I’m hoping it’s Princess as I carefully measure my weight on the stairs, not that they’re super squeaky, I just couldn’t care right then for uncooperative flooring.
No one’s out front. I follow the sound of laughter, picking out Violet and Wes and…
“Iris?”
She beams from the antique, worn and loved armchair I’ve enjoyed many times. Her dark hair, so much like mine before I started regularly shaving, is sitting shorter and edgier around her plump cheeks.
“You cut your hair.”
“Do you like it?” she’s standing now, keeping her mug out of the way of our quick greeting hug. “I was worried the stylist took too much off.”
Too much was an understatement, even if she kept it up and I barely paid attention to it. In a lot of ways Iris reminds me of Vanna – only my tomboyish kid sister spent most of her child and teen years with the other boys her age, never really distinguishing herself any differently than one of the guys, and I never pictured that of my sweet, shy Vanna.
Thinking about her brings the pangs of separation.
I’m lovesick. Okay, and horny. A little horny.
“It looks good. Different, but good,” I drop the jet-black strands I lift up, confused. “What are you doing here though?”
Iris’ grin frightens me. It’s a hint that I’m probably not going to like anything she says next. She’s had that grin on before, many times when she’s tried setting me up with one of her girlfriends, buttering me up when she wants something and that’s only to name a couple more prominent MOs of hers.
I’m aware of Violet and Wes in the background, their expressions just as curious by what Iris has to say, and silent for once.
“I met your girlfriend.”
“You did? When?”
I’m seriously confused. How did…? Not when Vanna was glued to my side for the last couple days, and before that…
“She’s cute,” Iris winks. “Honestly she doesn’t come off your type, but I’m happy that you’re happy and all of that sappy sister stuff I’m supposed to say right now.” She beams.
“Princess!”
My exclamation comes over Wes’ loud snort and Violet’s laugh-turned-cough. I sneak a glare in their direction, all too glad they’re finding humor out of this crazy situation.
“What’s going… Oh, fudge. She’s not your girlfriend.”
I’m shaking my head, adding, “Hell no.”
Iris drops the mug on the counter and covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. She drops her hands long enough to apologize.
“Amos, I’m so sorry. I thought – I fudged it all up.”
“Forget it. What’s done is done. Just tell me what you told her.” I try not to be curt with her, but my tone is hoarse with my impatience.
“Well, she must have heard me talking to Wes and Violet about my wedding, and then she mentioned you. She gushed about you, and I put two-and-two together. But obviously my math skills need work…”
“Iris,” my patience is wearing thin.
“I might have implied that she was welcome as your plus one. Amos!”
I’m heading out, opening the front door by the time she calls my name a second time. I vaguely register her flats slapping after me, my name whipping into the steady rainfall.
A few steps and I’m soaked all over again. I barely got my long-sleeved shirt and cami trousers dry the first time, boots slapping deep puddles, showering more water over my lower half as if I wasn’t wet enough.
The rain isn’t going to stop. The morning’s thunder storm receded, but the clouds are dark and continuing their torrent down on the city.
“Amos!”
I hear Iris, knowing she’s following me now for sure, and I see Princess’ familiar umbrella bobbing up ahead, heading towards a parked car. Picking up my pace I call her and catch up with her just before she’s left with the false information.
“I thought I told you to call me Charley,” she smiles after the comment, her way of greeting. Everything is calculated sultry about her. She traces a finger back and forth over her bottom l
ip, holding me under the canopy of her monster umbrella. “Were you headed somewhere? Need a ride?”
I barely glance at the Infiniti. In another time and place, perhaps if she stopped devouring me with her eyes, I’d admire the luxury sedan. Even wheedle a test spin out of her.
“I have a girlfriend!” I have to talk loud. I don’t think that’s what’s making her unhappy.
“I don’t understand.” And then she tries that smile again, “I see your sister,” she’s jutting her chin to a spot behind me, where Iris has to be standing wondering how to intercede and rectify the mistake she’d played a part of creating. I can’t blame her entirely.
I should have just listened to her earlier and introduced Vanna.
I was worried though – am still freaked out that this isn’t real. That Vanna will let her doubt and fear for living, really fucking living, keep her from grabbing our relationship with both hands, no matter the ups and downs.
“She invited me to her wedding.” Princess steps closer, I don’t move back immediately, not liking the intimidation waving off of her. She can’t threaten her way into my graces.
I have a damn date, is what I want to say. And she’s the most beautiful freaking thing that’s happened to me for a long time.
I’m about to tell her that, too, when I answer my name for the first time after rushing out of Sterling Outfits.
“Vanna?”
Vanna is coming towards me, her mouth closing and opening on my name, gaze moving fast between Princess and me and Iris.
“What’s going…” she cuts off at my tugging her into a hug. Vanna’s struggling against me. I have to be squeezing her tight. It’s all the pent-up frustration and the excitement of seeing her clashing together, intensifying my emotion.
“I missed you.” I whisper against her head, then pulling away to let her breathe, keeping her close by her forearms.
“What is going on?” Princess echoes Vanna earlier. She’s looking from me to my girl and back again, unsure of who to address, but expecting someone to answer her nevertheless.
“Vanna Sterling. You two have met.” I say, determination flip-flopping my gut. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Cue the gasping and waterworks and threats.
They don’t come like that, though. Princess moves me out of the shade of her umbrella long ago, making room for Vanna to cover me under hers. Reminding me to take the umbrella from Vanna and, being taller, hold it over us both.
“Well,” is all she says, like the one word holds all the insult in the world, and she’s in the middle of turning to her car, probably planning her rant to her mother, the infamous Mrs. Kingston when Vanna calls her back.
No, no, no, I want to scream. What are you doing, baby?
She’s moving out of my embrace, that’s what.
“I’m sorry. I – What he means is that we used to date.”
Princess looks as incredulous as I feel. Only difference is I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut by Vanna’s words, and she isn’t even done talking.
“I, I have to get going. But I do hope you can work this out,” Vanna actually looks between us, or the floor between Princess and I like I’d even consider the other woman.
Not in hell’s chance; not with you around Vanna.
I try to catch her wrist, and I do for a second before she wretches herself free, passing Iris and heading for Sterling Outfits. I’m not sure what just happened.
Without looking back, Vanna – my Vanna ran away from me.
9
The curving banner of Sterling Outfits is glaring down at me, like its dim display window, demanding to know why I’m darkening its store front.
I’m not usually so weepy, but the melodrama comes with being rejected, kinda publically, by my girlfriend. Part of the turf and all.
“Hello, world,” I mumble, watching the reflection of my mouth moving, barely hearing a word of the nonsense I’m spewing.
Not only heartbroken and lonely, I’m bored too.
Somebody put me out of my misery. I can’t help the thought. It’s there – has been there, hovering, post break-up circa two nights ago.
“Seriously. Where the fuck is everyone?”
It’s not any earlier than usual, but the streets are emptied and though it’s past eight, most of the neighboring stores are closed. Sunday mornings don’t bring crowds in Albany, New York. Back home in Atlanta, the city would be long awake and humming this hour.
At this time I’d been returning from my jog, hitting the showers and heading to the gym to train my first scheduled client. If it’s a new gym recruit, I’d introduce myself. Amos Fuller, fitness trainer-slash-magic worker. What I wouldn’t share is how I spent eight years as a Marine – the last three of those as Sergeant Amos Fuller – and the past two years as a civvy.
Most of those two years were adjusting to the ebb and flow of a life outside the battlefield, a life incompatibility with a go-go-go mentality.
I kept some part of my typical schedule: My jogging brought me to the city up from my grandparents’ house in Cold Springs, a small town an hour away.
On the outside this looks normal enough. Only thing is I know I could have run just as easily in Cold Springs. Frankly, coming to Albany for a morning jog was entirely illogical.
The rain storm and chilly end of September isn’t helping bring people out. Any sane person would be spending his or her time wrapped up in bed. I’m not entirely sane right now.
Blame my freaking bleeding heart.
I’m wearing an outdoor vest over my long-sleeved shirt – just one of many I keep in stock – but I can still feel the chill piercing through to my bone. As fucked up as my mind is, my body reacts by shuddering, gooseflesh caressing me, balls shrinking in my drawstrings.
I stare at my glaring reflection, hating the small progress I made with my beard, wondering why the fuck I don’t do something crazy and grow out my shaved head. Better yet, keep the shaved head…
“And get that new ink I wanted.” I rub a hand over my stubble, imagining the needle piercing the skin, tracing the outline of a fire-breathing serpent or something equally wicked.
I can do whatever I want; thirty-six year old bachelor that I am again and with the prospects of marriage and family looking bleaker with each annual blowing of the candles.
My cell ringing brings me out of the start of the pity party. My kid sister, Iris, checking in on me, making sure I haven’t found some ditch to hurl myself into, some cliff to fling myself off of, or something equally drastic.
“Yeah?”
She wants to know if I killed myself.
Kidding.
What she really wants to know is if I want to hang out with her, the few of her bridesmaids who are with her, and some of our old family friends tonight, by which she means ‘we’re going to a club’ and ‘let me hook you up’.
I can think up of a lot of other ways I could spend my day.
No, killing myself isn’t one of them.
“I have plans,” and I realize as I say it that I do.
I’ve been tip-toeing around it, but I need to talk to her.
The ex.
Iris seems to sense what I’m angling at, and she’s easy enough to convince, hanging up much quicker than I thought. I’d been preparing to answer a barrage of her questions, sit through her love-guru-shit advice, and then ‘yes’ my way through a closing pep talk.
As soon as I click off with Iris, I’m heading to the open parking lot a couple blocks from Sterling Outfits. I drive my grandfather’s Silverado to a familiar building and finding outdoor parking easy enough – the city’s hiding inside, remember? – I jog up to the front door, searching and locating the number I need on the buzz pad.
“Hello?”
I don’t reply immediately. She repeats herself the second time, the grogginess in her voice clearing up, sounding as tense as I can picture her.
“It’s me…Vanna.” I tag on her name, trying and seriously sucking at anything close to th
e casual, aloof aura I wanted to exude. It’s definitely one of the longest seconds in my life.
The door buzzes its signal of entrance.
I’m in.
She let me in.
It doesn’t make me any less nervous. But on the ride up to her floor, her apartment, there’s hope mixed in with the sorrow and apprehension plaguing me.
“Morning.”
