I swear Etta is cocking an eyebrow and asking me to elaborate.
“Well, she’s pretty and all, and her eyes dance with life, and wow, that hair. And that giggle! But … Okay, I don’t want to sound like an ass, but every other girl that has caught my eye has been, well … has been a little more on the athletic side.”
That’s a flat out lie. They have been skinny, regardless of how they got that way. Honestly, I don’t know how I would feel about those few extra pounds if I were handling them, but Lizetta is a gorgeous girl who makes my heart flap like a dying fish.
Etta shrugs. Like I swear she freakin’ shrugs as if to say, “So? They have also all been tarts.” Sometimes living with Etta is like living with my mother.
My head slams back into the chair. My poor mother. When will I face myself enough to talk to her? The only requirement to return to her life was to hit that ninety-day sobriety mark. I’ve accomplished that and so much more. Still, I was such a monster. She raised me better than to be a heartless screw-up who basically abused her.
But I have faced that aspect of my life. I’ve looked in a mirror and called myself out on being an abuser of both substances and people. I’ve called myself a heartless womanizer. I’ve listed the names of everyone I hurt and why, all while looking at my reflection. Still I can’t call my own mother—the woman who would forgive me faster and deeper than I could ever forgive myself.
And there lies the problem—forgiving myself.
A car pulls up, and my heart races in anticipation of seeing Lizetta. When she steps out of the car, I stand to greet her and my knees weaken.
Thankfully, my pipe dream of seeing Jensen outside of his appointment persuaded me to bring a change of clothes. This time I arrive in a denim skirt and a pink, capped-sleeved blouse that is a step above a T-shirt. I also touched up my hair—not too much, just enough to make it look like I took it out of the ponytail and shook it into waves, like in a shampoo commercial. Adding a makeup kit to my purse paid off as well.
When she sees me, Etta struggles to sit. Her tail starts wagging heavily to her right. Her bark warms my heart like I’m Mom coming home to her sweet baby. It is so darling.
Jensen’s smile seems uncertain as he grabs the wagon and heads towards me. Since I can’t pull it together enough to talk to the guy, I came prepared with an icebreaker. I probably should have written notes on my wrist, too. “Hi. We just got a bunch of samples of ridiculously expensive dog food. I brought you some.”
“Wow, really? That was nice. I figured while we were out I would take you to dinner as a thank you for persuading me to adopt Etta. You hungry?”
Whoa! Really? Dinner? Am I crazy for thinking this is kind of like a date? Yes, I’m hungry. I’m always hungry. The name Lizetta must be synonymous with famished.
I nod to his inquiry and he motions us to head off. “Everyone's eating dinner now, so the kids will be out when we get back. You like burgers?”
Another ridiculous question. I practically live at the burger joint down the road. “Yeah, Burger Hut sounds great.”
“I have something better in mind. Have you ever eaten at Bert’s?”
That place is awesome! Before it was a gourmet burger joint, it was an old-time diner. It still has the vintage decor. Since the area around it never really developed, it reminds me of a time capsule on a deserted road. It’s also totally overpriced because they use organic, grain-fed beef and nothing is ever frozen. Unfortunately, it’s also a couple of miles away. I choke back my fear of the trek ahead. “Sounds great.”
Thankfully, I have the foresight to ask Jensen about that equipment in his kitchen. He briefly mentions leaving a band due to immense drama, and then segues into a rambling speech about his love of classic rock. That’s great because my breath is a little shallow, and I don’t want Jensen to realize how out of shape I am. Shoot, I don’t want to realize how out of shape I am. Just to be sure I don’t start huffing, I occasionally stop to point out distractions, such as a patch of flowers that catches my eye, along with a rabbit that runs across the road. None of these really warrant a stop, but taking an occasional break is all I need to hide that I wish he would walk a little slower. However, when we arrive at the restaurant, I’m all too ready to guzzle back down the calories I just burned in the form of a Coke.
“I can't bring Etta in, so I'll go order for us and we can eat outside. What would you like?”
A jumbo burger, gargantuan fries, and two of the largest Cokes they have. While they are at it, can a massage be tacked on? Preferably by Jensen, while naked.
Part of me feels I should answer like a stereotypical girl on a date and order a salad, but I’m starving and the fine aroma of one hundred percent Grade A Chuck is wafting past. Besides, when you have a back that looks like a stack of mushrooms, why deny the obvious? “A cheeseburger sounds great, please. American cheese.” Before I can spit out the rest, I’m asked if I want fries. My overwhelming hunger and exhaustion must have kicked in, because right now, even thinking about having a tiny bit of pretense disappears without my consent. “Of course I want fries. Who in their right mind wouldn’t?”
Jensen’s smile makes me goo up a little. “I totally agree. I've been trying to wean myself off of them, but it's nearly impossible. How about I get us an order to split?”
“You know, there are a lot of things that I'm willing to share with a man. My fries are not one of them.” I force it to sound like I’m teasing, but I’m totally serious.
Jensen laughs. “Nope, I will find ways to divert your attention so that I can steal them. I will not be bullied into eating an entire bucket of fries alone. Now, how about splitting a shake? Those things are huge.”
“Are you saying you have no self-control?” I love the thought of Jensen without self-control!
“Only when it comes to fries.”
Dang. “Did you just bring me here so you could pawn off half your food so you won't feel guilty for eating it?” Where has this level of comfort and confidence come from? “Do I even have a choice in the matter? It sounds as if I say I want my own order, you'll just buy one and steal half anyway. I get it. The shake is a diversion. If I'm concerned about you nabbing the shake, I can't keep my eyes on the fries. You're sneaky!”
He bats his lashes and fakes a demure blush. “Who? Me?”
Oh, that’s so damn cute! But I won’t let it take me out of the game. “Yes, you! Quit the mock innocence. I see what's really going on here.”
As he makes for the door, he points at me. “You're awesome.”
I about die on the spot over how incredible that gesture made me feel. Still, what just happened? Did I really let down my defenses and banter with a super hot guy? I turn to Etta for an explanation. She’s unfazed. To her this all makes perfect sense.
When Jensen returns, the banter again flies. Then the food arrives, and the sight of it makes me salivate. Jensen was right about the mammoth amount of fries. I’m a little bummed that I get my own mini-shake though. I was hoping for one of those big metal jugs with two straws so we could sip while staring into each other’s eyes. Then again, if I got that close to Jensen, I’d jump across the table and plant one square on his lips.
Yumm … Tasting a shake off of Jensen’s lips … Yeah, let’s share this shake. I know just how I want to slurp it!
Maybe I should stick to the plastic cup it came in—for today at least.
Unlike how I was on the walk over, I’m now confident enough to start a real conversation. “So, it's time you confessed.” I set my shake on the table for emphasis.
“To what?” He leans back in his seat, relaxed and unaffected by my tone.
“The name of your car.”
With a swoop to grab his shake, he snickers. “What makes you think I named my car?”
“Every gearhead names his car, whether he admits it or not. My stepdad is constantly fixing up cars and selling them. The sixty-five Barracuda was Isabelle. His sixty-seven Mustang was Jacqueline. The sixty-six Corvette
was, of course, Yvette. I gave him grief for years about how unimaginative that was. So, what name did you give a nineteen seventy Challenger?”
His eyebrows cock in surprise at my knowledge of the model of his car. “The Beast.” He dips a fry into some ketchup and pops it into his mouth. He seems rather satisfied with his answer, but I’m pretty sure he’s fibbing.
“Nah, that name is better suited for a poodle. What did you really name her?”
He keeps me in suspense by taking another sip of his shake, possibly while floundering for a creative retort. “Bertha.”
“Bertha?” That name always makes me think of a robust woman that you wouldn’t dare piss off. “Good call.” I tip my shake to him in salute.
“Okay,” he says while dusting off his hands. “Let's talk about something real. Have you found the perfect career or is this a stepping stone?”
This is kind of a rough one for me because I’ve had to accept some things about my life that I didn’t want to. “I’m there. I originally wanted to become a vet, and while my family was very willing to help, they aren’t rich enough to pay for eight years of school. Plus, science baffles me, so my grades were lacking. I’m happy though. You?”
“I’m assistant managing a small warehouse while taking night classes. It’s a long road, but I'm an English major because I had a rough time fighting a learning disability and one person changed my future.” Hope fills his eyes, giving me a newfound appreciation for him. “I want to become a teacher and give that same gift to other kids.”
“What about music?” I ask.
His lips press together. For some reason this seems to be a complex question. “That’s important too, but finding balance is always hard. There is more for me, and searching for it hasn’t worked, so I’m trying to let it come on its own.”
I completely understand. Finding balance can be hard. I didn’t just want to be a vet; I wanted to make a difference. Am I really making a difference now, or have I settled? Can’t my dreams still come true, even with modification?
For weeks, Jensen was the guy who had me fighting back hormone rushes while I projected ideals onto him. Now those ideals are turning out to be true. He has solid goals.
Suddenly, my gut feels weighted, and I can’t finish the last of my food. This never happens. Does Jensen tie me in knots that much, or can’t I stomach how I have let myself down? “This is weird. Normally I would lick the plate clean.” Oy! Did I say that aloud? How did I let that happen? I was so relaxed but … Now, I am really disappointed in myself.
Jensen’s eyes go to his lap, and his voice softens in a way that implies discomfort. “A person’s weight doesn’t matter to me. What matters is her heart and how well she takes care of herself.”
I know I am over-sensitive about my body, but was that directed at my weight?
I look for an indication. Jensen’s eyes slowly peer up. His soft features imply that he is sincere.
You’d think being bullied would have gotten me to do something about my body. Instead I slipped deeper into a Ho-Ho’s aided rebellion. I peer down to make sure my blouse is fully buttoned and I am covered; yet I catch how his eyes suddenly widen.
“I’m sorry,” he quickly adds. “That may have come out wrong. All I was trying to say is that you are a beautiful girl and should never lose sight of that.”
Beautiful? Again he seems sincere. No one outside of my family or Griffin as ever referred to me as anything above cute.
“It’s fine. I’m just a little surprised by how this conversation has flowed, since we barely know each other.”
“Actually, we know each other better than we realize. Can’t animals sense more about a person than humans can? When Etta saw you today, she didn’t just wag her tail, she did it heavily to the right. She only does that with you. I looked it up and learned that it is a sign of deep happiness. Etta sees that your soul is beautiful, so it must be true. Sometimes you have to listen to voices other than your own.”
Jensen gives what I can only refer to as a reflective glance to the road. This conversation has taken such an odd turn. First I see that painting in his home, and then the honesty today, and now there is a story in his eyes. There really is something more special here than just a good-looking man. I’m about to ask what is on his mind when his buzzing phone grabs his attention.
For years I haven’t bothered to learn what any of the girls I’ve spent time with were really about because I didn’t want to face that I wasn’t dating girls of substance. I should play the gentleman and ignore my phone, but I’m embarrassed from getting a little too personal with my comments. It makes me feel the need for a diversion. The moment I look at the text, I regret it. “It’s been awhile. Waiting for me to come get you?”
Laura’s timing is always impeccable. I’ve come too far to open that Pandora’s box again, no matter how tempting she constantly makes it. Still, I pinch my lip like a conflicted boy who doesn’t want to try asparagus even though he has been told it will taste like ice cream.
“Jensen, are you okay?”
“Yeah. We, uh … We should get going if we want to catch the kids while they are still playing.”
The three of us begin our trek back. Inside my neighborhood we are flooded with kids that are dying to pet Etta. The three of us being together feels natural. When we reach Lizetta’s car, she thanks me for a fantastic time. I couldn’t agree more. “I had a feeling we would get along. I never expected it to be so easy though.”
My butt vibrates. The perfect timing tells me who is making my phone buzz. “Just for making me wait, I’m going elsewhere tonight. If you are lucky, I’ll give you a chance some other time.”
If I am lucky, the earth will abruptly halt and Laura and her friends will be the only ones to fly off of the planet.
Etta places a paw on Lizetta’s hip. I don’t want Lizetta to leave either. “Goodbye, sweetie,” Lizetta says. “I’m sure I’ll see you again at your next appointment.”
Why am I blowing it by reading a text from someone who tried to bury me in the ground with her and still lives in a world that almost cost me everything? This stops now. “Um … Actually, I was hoping I could see you sooner. Are you free Saturday night?”
“Sort of. I have tickets to the Shark’s game. My stepdad and I usually go, but he can’t make it. Wanna join me?”
She’s a hockey fan? Yes!
Wait. She’s a pretty hockey fan with an adorable giggle. She knows about cars, I can be honest with her, and she can keep up with my banter. I am so screwed.
And I love it!
I try to drown out the crappiest music ever made by burying my head under a pillow. Sending Jensen a text was a preemptive strike, because with how shitty that new guitarist sounds, it won’t be long until my pissed-up brother staggers in, sits on my chest, and goads me into doing it anyway.
Dammit, Jensen! You left, knowing I needed you. You were the only person who I ever thought gave a crap about me, then you packed up and left in the middle of the night without a word. I woke to a deserted motel room, an empty garage, and a shattered heart. The real mystery is why this surprises me.
My head peeks out just enough to be sure that my bedroom door is locked. The last thing I need is to be expected to make an unwanted visitor happy. Why couldn’t those jerks have left instead of the one person I trusted?
“Ya hear that, Jensen?” I scream. No one will hear me above the racket outside. Even if they did, they wouldn’t care if I were being murdered. “I trusted you, you stupid ass!”
I throw the pillow so hard that it smacks the lamp right off of the nightstand. The bulb breaks, and the room goes dark. “Fucking shit!” Screw it! It’s better this way. If any of those guys do get in here, I don’t want to have to look at him. At least the bottle of tequila didn’t knock over, not that there’s much left to spill.
Tequila … I miss Jensen and our tequila nights.
The rest of the bottle gets downed, and I bury my head back under the pillow while
praying for the mercy of passing out.
Where did everything about me go wrong, and why can’t I wise up enough to fix it? Can’t there be a way to right my wrongs like Jensen did? Or am I destined to live the life of a drunk, bitchy, blow-up doll?
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, April 22
Houses like this still exist around here? I knew this was an old part of town, and that Lizetta said she lived in a farmhouse, but this is nothing like what I expected.
Bertha’s V8 engine and dual exhaust command the attention of two guys in a barn at the end of the driveway of Lizetta’s Victorian-era home. The two-story house has several peaked mini-roofs and a porch that wraps from the front all the way to the side. A huge lot sits behind it where dogs run freely and chickens are penned. Just a few blocks from here, the biker scene is alive and well among antique stores, a decades-old head shop, and a refurbished train station.
A robust guy of about sixty, with tied-back, salt and pepper hair and some serious scruff, comes out to greet me. If he were wearing something more intimidating than coveralls, I’d think that wrench in his hand might have my name on it. Then again, he’s got one of the toothiest smiles I’ve seen. “Now that’s a wicked engine! Nice wheels!”
I like this guy already.
Even though it looks perfectly clean, the guy wipes his hand on his leg before extending it. “Nice to meet you, Jensen. I’m Paul, Lizzie’s second dad.” That’s got a great sound to it. It’s so much better than stepdad.
A thinner (some would say gawky), male version of Lizetta comes out and introduces himself as Jimmy, Lizetta’s little brother. He can’t be younger by much.
“Good to meet you.” What is that weird snorting sound? Do I hear a pig? Forget what I am hearing, it’s the taillights on the car in the barn that are screaming at me. “Oh, I have got the check out this fifty-seven beauty.” My combat boots hightail it to the Larkspur Blue jewel. “Where did you get such pristine trim?” For each of its three years, Chevy refined the Bel Air body style, tweaking it into perfection. Though the Bel Airs have their differences, what it really comes down to is how the sharper fins and side trim’s flare make the fifty-seven the sexiest. The two bikes sitting in the corner, a Harley and an ancient Indian, aren’t bad either. That Indian is sixty, if it’s a day.
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