Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  “Once wasn’t enough?” Lips brush against my ear, his question hushed but gravelly. He sets me back on my feet, making sure I am steady before he lets go.

  “Th…thank you. I don’t know what happened.” I smooth down my skirt, which rode halfway up thighs that I think are too thick.

  “At this rate, I’m worried about you driving home. Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’ve only had one drink and that was about two hours ago now. I don’t drink and drive. Ever.”

  I don’t know why I feel the need to justify this to a virtual stranger, but I can’t have him thinking I’m both mentally unstable and irresponsible.

  “I didn’t think that.”

  I kick a pebble down the sidewalk. “Oh, okay. I just didn’t want you to think worse of me than you already do.”

  “What I think of you is quite the opposite of poor.”

  Oh.

  He scans our surroundings, noting a group of about ten young men walking toward us. Suddenly I am grateful he’s there. As if we were headed that way anyway, he casually ushers us to the sidewalk on the other side of the street, away from the men. “But maybe I should—”

  “No.” No to whatever it is he is about to offer. “I’ll be fine. In fact, I can get it from here. You can go back to…” I let it hang and simply nod back toward the bar.

  “Not on your life. I’m at least getting you safely to your car.”

  The set of his jaw tells me he won’t take no for an answer. “Okay, then,” I say.

  “Good.”

  We go the rest of the way in a silence that is quite peaceful and serene. By the time we make it to my car less than five minutes later, I sort of wish I’d parked farther away so I had a few more minutes to enjoy it.

  “This is me,” I say, pointing to my spicy red Kia Optima. I unlock the driver’s door and open it. “Thank you, Mr. Keswick.”

  “Roth,” he corrects. “I am not my father.”

  I let an amused smile slice into my cheeks. “Roth.” I nod. “Thank you, Roth. I would say it was nice to meet you, but…” I’m sure you don’t feel the same.

  “It was very enjoyable. Thank you for an eventful evening.”

  I snort. It’s unladylike and sounds like I’m trying to hock a booger. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  “Enough.”

  There is no logical reason for it, but jealousy is difficult to keep at bay. Thinking of him on a date with another woman, her flirting with ease while he laughs at her jokes, is probably a chance I will never get with him. It’s painfully clear I don’t excel at flirting. Or ease. Or people, for that matter.

  “Do I at least get your name before you get into your car and drive off into the night?” he asks, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

  I tip my head to the side, studying him. “You didn’t get a dossier on me from Manny?”

  “A dossier?” He seems sincerely perplexed. Then his face lights up. “If a dossier exists, I would very much like to read it.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh loudly. I relax for the first time since I saw Roth Warren Keswick staring at me from across the bar. I almost wish I would have decided to stay. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one does. Carmen is bound and determined to find mi amado.”

  “Mi amado?”

  “Never mind. I, uh…I should go.”

  “So, your name shall remain a mystery, then?”

  He’s teasing, but he’s also so brilliantly bashful that I offer, “Laurel. It’s Laurel.” He’ll find out anyway the minute he returns to Rudy’s, I rationalize.

  “Laurel.” He repeats my name slowly and deliberately. The deep vibrato of his voice makes it sound like he’s reading a steamy passage from Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

  Time to go.

  “Good night,” I say quickly. Of course, my exit goes about as gracefully as the rest of the evening has gone. I throw my purse onto the passenger seat. It rolls to the floor and spills. I hit my head on the jam in my haste to get space between us and when I close the door, the edge of my dress gets caught and rips at the waist.

  “Leave them wanting more,” my mother always tells me about dating.

  I can’t imagine there’s much more to leave Roth Keswick wanting. Except to run.

  I start the car and am shifting into reverse when a rap on my window startles me. Through the glass, I stare up into kind eyes that would be easy to sink to the bottom of. Roth makes a “roll down your window” motion with his finger. I take in a fortifying breath before I do his bidding.

  “To answer your earlier question, I do like ketchup.”

  Thought so.

  I’m searching for a reply that doesn’t make me sound pitiful, when he adds, “But mustard is my condiment of choice.” He winks. “Drive safely, please…Laurel.” Then leaving me with my mouth hanging open, Roth Keswick turns on his heel and is swallowed into the night.

  For the longest time I sit there, waiting for him to return, wondering why I want him to. When he doesn’t, I push away unwanted disappointment and pull out of the parking lot, heading toward I-40. Half a block down, there he is. Standing on a corner. Watching for me. Every part of me warms.

  Roth brings two fingers up to his temple when I drive by. I give a small, tentative wave and watch him in my rearview mirror after I pass. I almost run a red light I’m so distracted. He sees, of course, and shakes his head. I watch him watching me until I have to turn to enter the interstate.

  Later that night, after I’ve stripped and showered and settled into bed, my phone vibrates with a text message from an unfamiliar number. The only thing in the text is a link to YouTube. I almost ignore the message and delete it as phishing, as the message didn’t load properly. Only there’s something about it that compels me to click despite the risk.

  When I do, tears instantly spring to my eyes. A shaky smile plays on my lips. And I swear my heart grows three sizes.

  No man has ever sent me a song before.

  My fingers linger over the keyboard, hesitant to respond. What do I say? Should I send a song back too?

  Ultimately, I can’t think of one that doesn’t make me seem clingy or like we should set a wedding date, so I settle for one that I hope will make him laugh instead. I text back a YouTube link to Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.”

  My phone vibrates in under ten seconds.

  Unknown: Warning me off?

  Me: I thought I did a good job of that already

  Unknown: Oh, I’m afraid you’ll need up your game considerably

  I sit on that for a long time. What if I don’t want to up my game? What if I am tired of being invisible? What is it about Roth Keswick that has me feeling completely defenseless?

  I have a thousand snarky comments running through my head, any of which would solidify my song choice, but instead I finally settle on a one-word reply.

  Me: Good night

  Unknown: Until we meet again, Laurel

  I stroke the words a time or two with my thumb, thinking back to our debacle of an evening. Why on Earth would he want to see me again after tonight? I think he’s the one who’s crazy. Then I do something I haven’t done with a man since my junior year of college. I add Roth Keswick to my contact list, because crazy as both of us may be, I’m not sure I can let this man go quite yet.

  I go to sleep that night with Niall Horan’s “Nice to Meet Ya” playing and a grin pasted on my face that is still there when I wake up.

  3

  Today Was A Fairytale

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  March 1, 12:32 p.m.

  * * *

  Despite what Roth Keswick had assumed, I grew up in a small town outside of Omaha, Nebraska, not the South. I went to college at Vanderbilt, a “far too expensive education to be just an elementary school teacher,” per my mother, but it was my grandfather’s alma mater and it thrilled him that I wanted to attend as well. My PooPa, which is what I affectionately called him, wanted
me to experience culture, diversity, and “the grandness of life.” He knew that couldn’t be accomplished in small-town Nebraska, population 1,092.

  “Sow your oats,” he’d tell me. “Just be careful what you reap.” Then he’d smash me into him in a bear hug and tickle me behind the knees until I begged for mercy. He didn’t want to hold me back, like my mother did, but it was hard for him to see me go, and it was just as hard for me to be away from him.

  My grandfather died of a massive heart attack two months before I graduated from Vanderbilt. He was my rock, my guardian, my mentor, and most of all, my best friend. I think about him every day. Six years later, sometimes I still dial his number to tell him about a funny license plate I saw, or I start to text him when I run across our favorite movie, Gremlins, before I remember he’s gone.

  After college, much to my mother’s chagrin and shaming, I made Nashville my home. I’d grown to love it here. Though our relationship was—still is—strained, I am all she has left. There was a teaching position open back in my hometown, mine if I wanted, but there was nothing left for me in Leone, Nebraska but heartache. My PooPa knew a small place wasn’t what was best for me. On my last visit home, only three weeks before he died, he encouraged me to spread my wings, which was his way of saying don’t come back. And my worst fear was ending up like my mother. A divorced, sad, bitter, lonely, tragic gossipmonger who most people in town avoided. She had her reasons. I’ll admit some of them are valid, but some of them are chips she proudly keeps glued to her shoulders. For martyrdom? Pity? I truly don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have strived my entire life to be the antithesis of my mother.

  And a few weeks ago, I failed miserably.

  So, while I don’t suppose I grew up with traditional Southern manners, I am generally a far kinder person than I presented myself to be to Roth Keswick. My PooPa will be turning over in his grave at how I treated a man whose only crime was trying to be kind to me. Despite the trickery involved, he could have been a jerk. He wasn’t. He was a gentleman in every way.

  That’s why I’m currently sitting at the Frothy Monkey, a fabulous café in a historic old house in downtown Franklin, intending to make it up to him. And to make PooPa proud.

  “Your cappuccino, ma’am,” the waiter says, setting down a large creamy cup balancing in a matching saucer.

  “Thank you.” I lift the cup to my mouth and blow on the steaming milk before taking a sip. “It’s delicious, as always.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  I rub my sweaty palms down the sides of my dress. Another from the back of my closet, tag missing. This one is a fairly simple tealish-blue sleeveless smock, with intentionally frayed edges around the neck and hemline. Upon inspection this morning, it’s not as horrible as I originally thought when I shoved it back there. Especially with the cute, shimmery gold long cardigan Carmen helped me pair with it.

  “Some courage maybe?”

  My waiter, who would be a bit dreamy if I were a few years younger, blinks a couple of times and cases the room quickly to see if anyone is in earshot. A shy grin appears, and his cheeks go red, like he’s…

  Oh no. He thinks you’re hitting on him, Laurel.

  I’ve been to this coffeehouse a hundred times. I think I’ve even seen this waiter before, and he’s never paid me a lick of attention. Is it the dress? Maybe the two curls I put in my hair versus the messy ponytail I usually throw up?

  He licks his lips and now they are glistening, which makes him appear as if he’s aged backward five years right before my eyes.

  “My shift doesn’t end until four, but I’d be ah…” His blush deepens. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “Free after that.”

  “Uh—” Crap. He said it. “I—” I don’t want to hurt this kid’s feelings. How do I let him down gently? I’m not used to being seen, let alone hit on.

  “I know a great little dance club downtown,” he throws out.

  I’m wondering if he’s even old enough to get into a dance club when a rough male voice from behind the kid belts, “I think the lady’s dance card may be full tonight.”

  I have to stifle a laugh at how high he jumps.

  “Oh, I…I’m sorry, bro. I didn’t mean…” He motions back and forth, his gaze volleying wildly between us. “I didn’t mean anything. I thought…” He ducks his head, embarrassed, mumbling, “My bad,” before scurrying off.

  “Well, that was awkward,” I say, watching the mortified waiter almost run into a customer on his way down the stairs. “I’ll never be able to come here again.”

  The legs of the chair across from me scrape against the hardwood floor. I feel more than see Roth take a seat. “I’m a couple of minutes late and they’re already buzzing like flies.”

  “No. It wasn’t…” I glance up at him and stop cold. It’s clear he heard this kid asking me out. I take in a breath and change the subject. “You’re not late. I’m early.”

  I’ve actually been here for an hour. This is my third cup of coffee. I am thoroughly, tightly wound. My hands are shaking. I stuff them under my thighs.

  “I was sort of surprised to hear from you,” he announces, unzipping his jacket.

  “Were you?”

  This coffee “date” was my idea, but only after I’d ignored several weeks of texts from Roth. What was possible the night I went to sleep, after the song text, was improbable in the light of the next morning. When this graceful, gracious, confident man got to know me, he’d no doubt wish he’d made a different choice that night, leaving my grannie-panty, gin-soaked fanny sprawled on the floor of Rudy’s.

  It wasn’t until Carmen chewed me up one side and down the other that I decided to reply to Roth. She rightly pointed out that I was being unfair and rude and just plain chickenshit. I told Roth I’d lost my phone. I’m sure he knew I was lying.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I’m just glad you found your phone.” He closes one eye in a quick wink. Buuusted.

  A pretty young waitress interrupts, setting down what I recognize is a Monkey Cristo in front of Roth, a delicious mix of ham, swiss, and strawberry jam on bread, dipped in egg and grilled to perfection. He opted for the breakfast potatoes instead of the fruit. My stomach protests. Loudly.

  “Did you eat?” he asks me.

  “No, I—” I was too nervous and jacked on caffeine. “I’m good.”

  His brows scrunch together momentarily before asking our waitress, “Could you please bring an extra plate?”

  “Of course, sir.” She nods and hurries off around the corner, returning in a flash with an extra plate and set of wrapped silverware. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, another side of the potatoes, please.” He eyes me. “And some yellow mustard?”

  I cover my smile with my coffee cup.

  “You got it.” She bops away, leaving us to be.

  And it’s at this time that I allow myself a full take of Roth Keswick. He’s clean-shaven today. His hair is mussed a bit from the wind outside. He has on a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses he didn’t have on when we met. They make him look smart and sophisticated. Apparently glasses on men can be hot. Who knew? I could sit and stare at him all day.

  Then I notice the T-shirt he’s wearing. At first, it was unremarkable because it’s charcoal gray, but the yellow mustard bottle only now jumps out at me as if it’s slapping me across the face screaming, “See? I told you I’m a mustard lover.” There’s something written underneath the bottle, but the table and his food are in the way so I can’t read it.

  “What on Earth…” I stop and giggle. I can hardly get out the rest of the question. “What do you have on?”

  “What do you mean?” He adjusts his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then sets half his sandwich on the plate in front of me. He spoons some of his potatoes onto my plate as well.

  I nod to his mustard bottle. “Your shirt.”

  Our waitress stops by with Roth’s condiment, t
elling us the extra potatoes will be out in a couple of minutes.

  “What about it?” He licks a splotch of yellow off of his pinky finger.

  “It has a caricature of a mustard bottle on it,” I articulate slowly, as if I’m speaking to a child who doesn’t realize he’s put his pants on backward.

  Roth sets down the half sandwich he’d picked up and places both palms flat on the table. With a completely straight face he tells me, “I like mustard, what can I say?” Then he holds it out from his chest so I can read what’s written below.

  Oh. My. God.

  The Mustard Whisperer.

  In big, chunky, yellow letters.

  This manly man is out in public in a mustard whisperer T-shirt. On purpose. It’s a statement. A declaration. For me. It’s ridiculous. And goofy. And insanely endearing. And what I will discover is the perfect representation of his personality. Bold. Daring. Uncaring of judgment.

  I snicker.

  “I thought you liked mustard.”

  “I…” I can’t stop laughing. What a ludicrous conversation. “I don’t.”

  “You don’t like mustard?” He seems taken aback, likely thinking we are united in our love for this versatile condiment. Go team mustard! He’s really going to think I’m a basket case.

  “Nope.” I shrug. “I hate it, actually. My sister and I…”

  Mentioning Esther sobers me right up and I have to take a couple of moments to collect my thoughts. I don’t talk about my sister with just anyone, because if I mention her, I ultimately have to talk about losing her, which is still devastating all these years later. But Roth…he seems like a safe space, so I swallow hard and make the decision to forge ahead, ignoring the sweat that’s gathered in my armpits.

  “My sister and I…we had a hot dog eating contest one year. We took two packages of hot dogs my mother had bought for a barbecue the next day, along with a giant bottle of French’s mustard and we snuck down to our treehouse in the backyard. Esther got seven of her hot dogs down before they came back up, but she was smarter than me.” She always was. “She didn’t use mustard. But see, I didn’t like hot dogs to begin with, and the only way I could eat them was with loads of mustard. I got all eight of mine down.”