Bittersweet

by Domingo, Sareeta

  I glance about once more and realize he must be talking to me. And that he just had a full view of my ass up in the air. Great. Then again, it’s one stage above a wolf-whistle in the rudeness stakes to call out “hey” to a girl in the middle of the street, and he ought to know it. I fold my arms and glare at him. He has the beginnings of a cocky smile on his lips, but as I look at him, his face falls a little and his super-straight teeth fade from view.

  The Stare must have had the desired effect.

  “Um, could you help me out?” he says, coming down the steps and crossing the street to stand in front of me.

  Wow. He’s tall. I have to tilt my head a little to look up at him, and when I do, I crash straight into his eyes. Huge, and piercing blue—I’m surprised they weren’t sending out light beams from across the street. I unfold my arms and clear my throat. Given his looks and his greeting, I have a feeling he’s used to getting a certain kind of reaction from women, and it’s usually more positive. Still, it seems like he really does need something, aside from a better pickup line.

  He drops his duffel bag to the ground and I watch the muscles in his arm ripple under his thin T-shirt. I’m full-out staring, I realize, and I try to regain control of my eyeballs. Still looking at me, one side of his mouth quirking up a little, he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small square of paper.

  “I’m looking for the, uh, the Fairview Hotel?” he says, reading off the paper, and then looking back into my eyes. His voice is deep, like I can feel it rumbling in the soles of my feet. A trickle of sweat begins to form at the back of my neck, but I tell myself that’s what happens when you’re forced to walk a half-hour out of your way on a hot evening because of all this Bittersweet hoopla. It suddenly occurs to me—he must be something to do with it too. Like a roadie, or a production guy or whatever? Seems like every day there’s some new baseball-capped, too-white-teethed arrival in town having something to do with it, and I think I heard a New York accent, which definitely makes sense.

  “There’s only one hotel in town, and you’re five feet away from it,” I say, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. I meant to sound businesslike, but I must seem like a loon given my too-harsh tone and the mesmerized staring. I blink a few times, take a deep breath … and get a hit of him. He smells like soap, the tiniest hint of masculine sweat, and peppermint from the gum I just noticed he has clamped at the back of his teeth. Don’t stare at his mouth…

  “Oh. OK.” His eyes drift over to the hotel’s façade, and I can see it’s not quite what he was hoping for. We hardly get any visitors, until recently at least, and the Fairview’s not exactly the Ritz. “Sort of … rustic,” he continues, blowing out a disappointed breath and raising one dark eyebrow.

  “Yep. Could say that.” If you were an asshole. It’s stupid, but for some reason I can’t stand it when outsiders are down on my hometown, even if it’s only subtle, and even if that’s exactly the sort of thing I would agree with if a local had said it. I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder, ready to head off, but he keeps looking down at me instead of moving away.

  “You know what, I actually never say that. Rustic? That’s like … something my grandmother would say,” he mutters, shaking his head. I can’t help smiling a little at that, and I take another breath, then realize breathing in is a big mistake. God, he really does smell good. I feel the rivulet of sweat trickle into my collar and down my spine, and I shiver a little in spite of the heat. It’s probably best I head home before I turn into a puddle at his feet. Starting to move away, I give him a quick smile and he steps aside, watching me as he slowly reaches down to pick up his bag and hoist it back over his shoulder.

  “So is the restaurant the only one in town too, uh … Cathy?”

  What? How does he know my— I glance down. My uniform. My name tag. My hand flies up and hovers over it, and I flush as I understand where he must have been looking to read it. Pursing my lips, I arch an eyebrow, challenging him. He looks at the ground for a split second, but then straight back into my eyes unapologetically, with the ghost of a flirty grin playing on his lips. Approaching puddle status…

  “No, it’s not the only one. But it might be a little rustic for your tastes, who knows?”

  He smiles a little and looks at me for a moment as if considering something, but then shrugs. “I’m Greg,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, wishing mine wasn’t so clammy. His is warm and dry and … strong. He holds on for a little longer than strictly necessary, and I have to force myself to pull my hand away.

  “OK,” I murmur. OK? OK? But I don’t really know what else to say. There are probably a million things, but I can’t think of them right now, because he’s staring into my eyes like he lost something in them. But then his jaw clenches a little.

  “Gotta go,” he says, then turns and strides away toward the Fairview without a backward glance. Huh.

  I finally remember how to walk, and head off toward home. What the hell was that? I roll my eyes at myself; a brief, totally generic exchange with a stranger and suddenly I’m like a freaking schoolgirl? It really has been too long. Besides, he’s just passing through. How long do they shoot a TV show for anyway? And he was kind of arrogant—borderline rude. I mean, the restaurant-name-tag thing? Not so much as a thank you for your help?

  Fine, he was kind of handsome.

  OK, very handsome.

  But it doesn’t matter, right?

  *

  When I finally get home, I find Maxine sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table in the living room, poring over a dazzling array of fake fingernails.

  “Which shape?” she asks as I sink into the bliss of the couch and kick off my shoes. She holds up a set of nails so pointed they look like they could be used as weapons, and another with long, square tips.

  “How do people wipe their ass with those things?” I reply, and she grunts in mild irritation.

  “I’m prepping. I’m expecting more ladies coming into the salon wanting to pretty themselves up for the Hollywood types,” she says, grinning ironically. I laugh.

  “Hungry?” I gesture toward the take-out from the restaurant I’ve left on the counter. We hardly ever cook. “You’ll have to heat it up though—I had to walk about a mile out of my way because they’re setting up for filming over on Bakersfield.”

  “Ooh, really? It’s getting closer!”

  I should have known my inconvenience would only elicit excitement from Max. She jumps up and heads toward the kitchen to heat up the food. “You know what, I saw more trucks this afternoon too. And word is they’re starting to rent out places for the cast and crew. They must be arriving soon, huh?”

  I sit up a little to see her over the kitchen island from the couch. “Yeah. Matter of fact, I ran into some guy just now who must be production crew or whatever, asking for directions to the hotel. Real tall guy. He kind of had an arrogant New York thing going on, you know? I mean, he called the Fairview ‘rustic.’ It seemed like he just expected women to be a certain way around him? And he was, like … tall. And his teeth were real straight, like, why do they all seem to have had crazy amounts of dental—”

  “He was tall, huh?” Max leans over the counter and pulls a face at me, and I know I’m blushing.

  “Anyway,” I say, trying to move on. “I can’t imagine Johnny Lincoln or Bethany Wheeler—”

  “Bethany Keeler,” Maxine corrects me. “God, Cathy! She was only ‘one of our country’s brightest child-stars, now looking to break out of her cutesy image with what’s sure to be TV’s newest hit…’”

  “Are you quoting Entertainment Weekly articles at me again?” We both laugh. “As I was saying, I can’t picture any fancy LA actors staying at the Fairview, so I guess they better figure out their accommodation soon.” I sigh. “Jeez, it’s like an invasion.”

  Maxine brings the food over and sets the plates down on the coffee table. “Uh, exaggerating,” she says sternly. “Besides, I don’t get why you’re so against the whole
thing. Without the show filming here, you wouldn’t get sexy, tall production crew guys asking you for directions.”

  “I never said he was sexy.”

  Max fixes my gaze with a devilish grin. “You didn’t have to…”

  Chapter Three

  My eyelids drift open lazily, and for a split second I panic, realizing I haven’t heard the screech of the alarm Carl got me for my birthday two years ago. That thing would raise the dead. But my heart rate slows again as I remember two glorious words: day off. I let my eyes close again, but then remember why I’d put my running shoes right next to the bed. It’s been three weeks since my last workout, but I decided last night to stop using the excuse that I’m on my feet all day. Even though I probably cover five miles in the restaurant every shift, I know a run will be worth the endorphin boost, even if a few hours extra sleep sounds very appealing right now.

  I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, washing my face quickly with cold water and brushing my teeth, then attempting to drag a hairbrush through the long dark tangles that pass for my hair, pulling it into a high ponytail. I glance out the window at the already-bright sunshine, but it’s not even nine yet—the curse of being used to getting up early; anything past six a.m. feels like sleeping in. But I figure it’s early, so it can’t be too hot, right? I pull on some stretch running shorts, wrestle myself into a sports bra, and pull on the University of Virginia tee I got at the store when I visited the campus in senior year, stifling a sigh at what could have been as I check my reflection.

  Still, I jog down the stairs and out of our building actually feeling pretty good. I was wrong about the heat though—a few blocks from the apartment and I’m already starting to sweat. I decide to head down to the riverside where it might be a little cooler, turning up my iPod and sipping water from my bottle as I squint against the morning sunshine. The grass glows emerald-green as I head toward the river, which sparkles invitingly. A memory of my mother taking me down here to swim as a little girl flashes into my mind, but I swat it away. That was a long time ago, and there aren’t too many happy memories following on behind it. I don’t want to ruin what’s starting out to be a pretty good day, so I pick up my pace and pound along the path in time to my music—until a van and people with director’s viewfinders block my path. That TV show, again? I slow down a little and look at the crew guys a little more closely, but none of them are tall enough to be that Greg guy I met yesterday. Which is fine. I don’t want to run into him anyway, especially not when I’m even sweatier than I was last night.

  I swallow more water and jog around them quickly, but then almost collide with Mayor Castellano and his PA, who are striding over toward the TV van with fixed, grateful grins on their faces.

  “Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry, Mayor,” I say, jogging on the spot.

  “No, no, my fault, Cathy. In my own world there. Just going to glad-hand some of these TV execs. Tell your father I’ll be stopping by later for one of those bacon burgers,” he says, patting his ample stomach. I’m not sure his wife would be too happy with the idea, but I grin and wave anyway before I carry on with my run. I see a couple more guys with viewfinders and clipboards up toward the Nelson property as I run alongside the slow-moving river—it doesn’t surprise me that they might use it as a location. I remember thinking the house on the water, now owned by the Dogwood Historical Society, looked like a palace compared to our little home on Peyton Street, where my dad still lives with Carl. I know Joe doesn’t quite get why I moved out, but it’s hard enough living an adult life in the town you grew up in without your dad breathing down your neck at home as well as at work.

  But even so, I decide to head back up into town and grab a coffee at the restaurant before I go home. Joe Johnson’s does a lot of things better than anywhere else around here, and coffee is one of them.

  As I make a left and run back up past the pharmacy toward Main Street, I hear a familiar rumbling engine coming up behind me. I smile and pull my earbuds out, not breaking my stride as Hal’s beat-up truck pulls up alongside me. He leans out of the window, giving a low wolf-whistle and slowing down to a crawl.

  “Yeah, that’s not at all creepy,” I say with a grin, but then I hear footsteps pounding up the sidewalk behind me, and then past me.

  “Hi, Hal,” calls Sonya Thompson, former head-cheerleader, and a woman still clearly committed to being cuter than everyone in the surrounding area. She ignores me, of course.

  “Oh, hey, Sonya,” Hal replies.

  She jogs away in her crop top and minuscule shorts, her dark-blonde hair bouncing, her body barely perspiring. I swipe at my drenched brow and shake my head, but Hal just chuckles. I narrow my eyes at him, but I guess I can’t blame her for flirting—he’s rolled his overalls down to the waist because of the heat so he’s just in his wife-beater, and I swear his arms get bigger every time I see them. Sometimes I think if we weren’t buddies, he’d be a pretty good plan B… But that would be kind of like dating Carl. I grimace internally. Besides, Hal’s something of a man-skank. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Sonya have been hooking up lately and he’s too scared to tell Max and me.

  “Heading to the auto shop?” I ask, panting.

  “Yeah. Want a ride home first?”

  I gesture to my sneakers. “Would kind of defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, C, you look good to me already,” he says with a smile. “Who needs exercise?”

  I ignore his flirting. “Believe me,” I say in between breaths, “if Sonya Thompson does, then I sure as hell do. Aren’t you going to be late for work, anyway?”

  He shrugs, and we both glance back as a car honks its horn and passes Hal’s truck. I guess I’m not running fast enough for the traffic.

  “Hector knows I’m his best mechanic,” Hal says, ignoring the guy in the car. “He doesn’t care if I’m a few minutes late.”

  “Wish my boss was that soft,” I say, and we both laugh.

  “Hey, I saw Mindy Carver last night—”

  “Last night, huh?” I interject with raised eyebrows.

  “Yeah. Anyway, she’s going to start teaching over at the high school in fall, and she says they’ll be setting up the TV production office over there for the next few weeks. They’re going to shoot there and everything. Don’t you think it will be crazy to see Dogwood High on TV?”

  “I guess so.” I shrug and pick up my pace. “Hey, you better get going. I’m not paying your ticket if the cops give you a traffic violation.”

  “Hah. I’ll see you later, Cath.”

  “Yeah—and you should give that thing a tune-up while you’re at work, huh?” I gesture to his rust-bucket and he laughs.

  “Don’t insult my baby.”

  “Bye, Hal.”

  He pulls off, honking his horn, and I laugh as the strains of “La Cucaracha” echo away down the street. I finally slow down as I reach the corner where the restaurant is, and do some stretches outside before I head in. I hope my father listened to me and finally took the day off as well, and as I look around the restaurant floor and into the kitchen, I’m pleased to see no sign of him.

  “Hey, Bobby,” I call through the pass. “Joe’s not in, is he?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good,” I murmur, then smile at Jenna as she strides past, tucking her pencil behind her ear.

  “Coffee, hon?” she asks, already heading over to the machine.

  I nod, but then do a double-take when I see a figure with long limbs and a mop of dark hair sitting at the end of the counter.

  Shit. Shit.

  I reach up to my own hair and attempt to smooth my flyaways. I’m almost certain I have sweat patches. Giant, damp, gross sweat patches. There’s no salvaging this look. Maybe he won’t notice me? Of course, the minute I think that, he looks up and finds me staring right at him. My stomach does a weird lurch.

  “Oh. Hey,” he says. Hey again? But that voice… Nonchalant. Low. Sexy.

  “Hi,” I manage.
>
  “Cathy, right?”

  I nod. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember without the name tag,” I retort without thinking. Why did I say that?

  He looks at me for an agonizing moment, then gives a short, velvety laugh, and I sag with relief.

  “No, I remember,” he says quietly, then takes a breath. “I was actually just telling the lovely Jenna here about the sterling job you did drumming up my business last night.” He turns and smiles over at my fellow waitress, blinking those baby blues. How did that sound like both an innuendo and an insult? Jenna sets my cup of coffee down on the counter with a giggle.

  “You want a refill?” she asks Greg.

  “Not just yet, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? Normally Jen would fling a burning bra at a guy trying to charm her like that, but for some ridiculously good-looking reason, she lets that one slide.

  “Uh, I actually was thinking I’d get that to go…” I begin, pointing to my coffee, but Jenna’s already heading off to her next table. I’m forced to move closer to where Greg is perched, with a half-eaten plate of breakfast in front of him. Why oh why did I pick today of all days to start running again? I try to smell myself subtly, but that’s just weird, so I stop and edge the coffee over to me while trying not to raise my arm too much.

  “So you’re not working today?” he asks offhandedly, eyes on his food.

  He looks over when I don’t say anything, and I glance down at my sweaty running gear then back up at him, raising an eyebrow. He hasn’t shaved today, and for some reason that makes his cheekbones look even more— Stop it, Cathy.

  “Obviously not,” Greg answers himself in a murmur, and I feel kind of bad. I take a sip of my coffee as a distraction, and decide I probably shouldn’t just stand up and drink it, so I edge onto a stool.