by Stella James
I pick the plate back up and take a mental inventory of my closet as I walk to the front door. Of course Dru never has to second guess any of her fashion choices. She’s a talented artist and a feature dancer at The Nightingale, an intimate burlesque club downtown. She’s got curves and mystique and the kind of beauty that poets write about. I make a second mental note to get the details on this mystery man she’s been seeing recently. I knew something was going on when I showed up over there and borrowed her sofa for the night. She didn’t want to talk so I didn’t push, but something is definitely up.
My other sister Elle is just as beautiful, inside and out. The three of us couldn’t be more different physically, which is obviously the case when you’re not related by blood. But we are sisters through and through.
I reach Sebastian’s door and take a calming breath before I raise my hand and knock. When the door opens I’m surprised to see someone who is not Sebastian, eyeing up the plate in my hands. He’s tall and muscular, his dark hair buzzed short. I can see the beginnings or endings of a couple tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his black T-shirt. He looks up at me and smiles, which makes him seem almost boyish in comparison to his size.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was looking for Sebastian,” I say.
“Ah, he’s still sleeping it off I’m afraid,” he says. “You want me to wake his ass up?”
“No, that’s okay,” I smile. “I just wanted to drop these off, could you pass them along for me?”
“Sure thing,” he says, taking the plate from me and examining it carefully.
“Thanks. I’m Anna by the way. I live across the hall.”
“Mason,” he replies with a nod.
“Okay, well, have a nice day Mason.”
His eyebrows draw together slightly as he tilts his head, as if he’s not quite sure if there’s a catch.
“You too, thanks,” he replies eventually.
I turn and head back to my apartment, feeling his eyes on me. I assume whoever he is, he’s a regular guest of Sebastian’s and therefore one of the people responsible for the bags under my eyes.
Kindness always makes people stop and think, I remind myself.
I brew half a pot of coffee and settle on the couch with my planner and my iPod. I try to ignore the nerves that begin to flutter in my stomach as I glance at the clock and calculate how much time I’ll need to get ready for my date tonight.
I am admittedly, a hopeless romantic. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been dreaming of a fairy tale tailored just for me. A valiant hero who’s smart, kind, generous, fun and charming to sweep me off my feet would be a great start to that fairy tale. Unfortunately, I haven’t had much luck. Not for lack of searching, but the city is big and busy and meeting people can be difficult. Dru always tells me to be patient, I’m only twenty-four, blah blah, but I can’t help the way that I am. I want love and marriage, good times and bad times and everything in between. I want what my parents had.
In high school, I never had a boyfriend and I only kissed one boy, my biology lab partner Clifford. I saved the rest of my firsts for college. I’d been giving online dating a serious consideration the other day when I met Robert at the coffee shop on the way to work. We both reached for the milk at the same time and shared a smile. We chatted for a few minutes and when he asked if he could have my number I decided to give it one more shot before I officially started paying a website to find me a date. When he phoned yesterday and asked if I was free for dinner tonight, I remembered his kind smile and his deep brown eyes and instantly said yes. Not that looks are everything, of course, but Robert is incredibly handsome. I’m just hoping that the attraction runs deeper than the superficial aspect of appearances. I pop in my ear buds as Bruno Mars begins to play and switch my focus to next week’s lesson plans.
Before I know it, most of the day has passed and I have less than two hours before I have to meet Robert. I take my time getting ready, applying just a touch of makeup and twisting my hair up into a strategically messy ponytail. I pull on my favourite yellow dress and ignore Dru’s voice as she pops into my head and tells me this dress is not sexy. I know it’s not sexy, but I sew a lot of my own clothes and this dress is my favourite. The soft buttery shade compliments my hair and adds some pigment to my naturally pale complexion. The cut of the dress is modest but the flare of the skirt swishes when I walk, making me feel feminine and pretty. I don’t bother putting on a sweater right away, leaving my heavily freckled shoulders on display.
It shouldn’t be too chilly tonight and the place we are meeting is only a block away from my apartment, but I snag a soft green cardigan from my closet for good measure and bring it along just in case. I toss a few items into a small purse and take one last look in the mirror, smoothing down my dress and taking a deep breath before I head for the door.
This could be it…he could be the one.
*
I check the time before I walk through the doors of the restaurant, knowing that out of habit I’m probably a few minutes early. I’m surprised when I look up and see Robert sitting on one of the leather benches near the hostess station. He smiles when he spots me and immediately stands, making his way over to me.
“Hi,” I say.
“You look beautiful,” he says, surprising me by leaning in close and kissing my cheek.
“Thanks, shall we sit?”
He places his hand on the small of my back, a bit too far down for my liking and I instantly get the feeling that this date may not be a winner after all. We are led to a small table for two in the far corner of the trendy restaurant and Robert immediately orders us a bottle of Merlot.
“I hope you like halibut,” he says.
“Oh? Is it good here?” I ask.
“Delicious,” he says with a smile. “I’ll go ahead and order for us.”
“Actually, I thought I might get pasta,” I say. “It’s my weakness,” I add with a grin, hoping that he won’t be put out.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs.
Silence settles between us and I desperately wish it wasn’t uncomfortable, but unfortunately it is. I’m beginning to think that I may have misjudged our chemistry the other day at the coffee shop. A waitress eventually shows up with the wine and takes our orders, killing some of the awkwardness. I try to remind myself that first dates can sometimes be rough, but they still deserve a chance and I shouldn’t be ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“So, what do you do for a living?” I ask, taking a sip of my freshly poured wine.
“I work in sales,” he says.
“Oh! That’s exciting, I teach kinderg-.”
“It is actually,” he interrupts. “There’s big money in Pharmaceuticals when you know how to play the game. Plus, the travel is always a bonus.”
“Hm, that sounds great,” I say.
He continues to tell me about his career and how he’s managed to climb his way up in the company while I do my best to listen and nod at the appropriate times. Robert seems awfully full of himself and I’m sure some women would be more than impressed with his resume, but I don’t think there will be a second date. I’m relieved when the food finally arrives, my pasta looks delicious and I might as well get a nice meal out of this whole thing. I’m about to ask Robert how his halibut is when I glance up and see a very angry woman stalking across the restaurant. It takes me a minute to realize that she’s coming toward us and before I can register what’s going on, my pasta is dumped into my lap and my wine is splashed over my head. I sputter and wipe the Merlot from my eyes.
“You son of a bitch!” The woman shouts. “So, this is your new tart I assume. How lovely!”
“Sandra, calm down,” Robert says.
“I will not, you lying, cheating bastard. I knew it! I knew what you were up to!” she shouts.
I can feel every single eye on us as Sandra continues to berate Robert without a single concern for her audience. Through the distraction of trying to clean mysel
f up with a small fabric napkin, I catch enough of the conversation to learn that my date is married and apparently a perpetual cheater. Fantastic. The restaurant manager and several waiters come to our table, trying to silence the erupted argument between Robert and his wife. I accept a towel from one of them and wipe off as much wine and pasta from myself as I can before I quietly escape.
The hostess offers me a sympathetic smile as I approach. I pull out my credit card, but she waves me away and says not to worry about it. I’m grateful for her discretion as she continues to seat people and distracts the crowd from my current state.
I wrap my sweater around myself tightly and begin the walk home, the scent of garlic and wine already giving me a headache.
How could this night get any worse?
Chapter 2
Sebastian
I lean back against the door and exhale a breath of irritation. My scowl lands on my phone, still discarded on the floor where I tossed it after ending the most recent call from my father. I push off from the door and bend down, swiping up my phone and setting it down on the kitchen counter. I open the fridge and scan the shelves until my eyes land on a lone bottle of beer. I pop the top and take a long sip, closing my eyes and reliving the same guilt-ridden conversation that I’ve been subjected to for most of my adult life. Every couple of weeks, Barron calls under the guise of wanting to catch up or check in, and every time the conversation ends with him not understanding my anger nor my need to withdraw myself from the family. What a joke. We’ve hardly been a family since my mom died seven years ago. We’ve been even less of one since the night I learned that when presented the choice, love’s got nothing on money.
My thoughts wander briefly to my freckled red head of a neighbour. Guilt begins to gnaw at me when I recall the uncertainty in her expression as she tried to set me straight no less than two minutes ago with her eleven p.m. ultimatum. I didn’t mean to be an asshole to her, unfortunately she caught me at the wrong time and in the wrong mood. I smirk at the thought of her showing up tonight. She’d stick out like a sore thumb in her prim little dress. I’ve caught the odd glimpse of her since moving in, but nothing more than the passing flash of dark red hair as she’s coming or going.
Last night when she showed up over here in her pajamas and asked me to tone it down was the first time I’d seen her face to face. I didn’t form much of an opinion one way or the other, but I suppose she’s cute enough, in a plain kind of way. Her size, along with the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose made her seem young, until I looked her in the eye and noticed a kind of wariness that didn’t quite fit with the rest of her. She seems like she could use a drink or two to loosen up, that’s for damn sure. I was about to invite her in when Mallory? Mel? Whatever the hell her name was, wedged herself between me and the back of the open door, leaning against it and shutting it right in her face instead.
Before I can let my thoughts get too pensive and my baggage too heavy, I shoot a text to Mason and let him know that we’re on for tonight. I don’t have to think when there’s too many people around. I don’t have time to remember or feel fucking bitter. And that’s the way I like it.
*
The smell of cinnamon hits me hard as I peel my eyelids open and roll over, facing the large window and the streaming sunlight that beams through it.
“Fuck me,” I mumble.
“I’m pretty sure Jenna did that last night man,” Mason snorts.
Jenna. Fuck.
“Is she st-.”
“Relax, she knows how you operate,” he reassures me. “She was sneaking out of here two hours ago while you were getting your beauty sleep.”
I sit up slowly and look at the mess of red and blue solo cups and empty bottles that litter the coffee table and kitchen counters. Three nights’ worth of partying and probably bad decisions…in the form of trash. I wipe the grit from my eyes and shoot an annoyed glance at Mason, who’s leaning back in one of my dining room chairs, his feet propped up on the table. He’s chewing so damn loud I can hear him from the ten feet that separates us.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I mutter.
Mason is one of my oldest friends and he’s like a brother to me, but I’m battling the mother of all hangovers right now and the last thing I want is company. He pops another bite of whatever he’s eating into his mouth and groans loudly.
“Fuck man, if I’d have known you had Martha Stewart living next door, I would have introduced myself the day you moved in,” he mumbles around his mouthful.
“What are talking about, Martha Stewart?” I stand from the couch and walk to the sink, turning the faucet on as cold as it will go before filling a glass and chugging it back.
“The chick next door,” he explains. “I was about to take off and she was standing outside your door holding this plate of fucking heaven. I told her I’d pass them along.”
Freckles?
“Here,” he says, tossing a folded piece of heavy blue paper taped to an envelope toward me. “She had this taped to the plate.”
I unfold the card and look down at the neatly printed note, written in black felt marker.
Consider this an olive branch. I know for a fact that these cinnamon rolls are delicious. Welcome to Duke Manor.
Sincerely,
Anna Brookes (your neighbour, who really likes to sleep at night)
I don’t think a woman has ever baked for me before, for any reason, let alone to bribe me into being a decent person. I don’t realize I’m smiling until the screeching sound of a chair reminds me that I’m not alone.
“What’s so damn funny?” Mason asks, plucking the card from my hand.
“Hey, do you mind?”
“Nope. Aw, she baked for you,” he grins. “I gotta go, meeting a client at noon,” he says, placing the half empty plate on the counter beside me.
“And by client, you mean…?”
“A lonely middle-aged woman named Lynn who has been searching for love in all the wrong places and needs the solid advice of an expert to guide her,” he says proudly.
“You’re a glorified hooker,” I mutter, grabbing a garbage bag from under the sink.
“I’m a business man,” he scoffs. “I offer premium dating advice as well as continued moral support for a small fee. I’m like a fairy godmother.”
“And if your client just so happens to fall for your bullshit and wants to reward you with a blowjob, that’s just a perk, right?”
“Life is grand, isn’t it?” he says, heading for the door. “Enjoy your olive branch, and try not to be such a grumpy prick.”
The door shuts firmly behind him as I reach for a glazed pastry. I take one large bite and moan. Fucking Martha Stewart. I leave the garbage bag on the kitchen floor and head straight for the bedroom, swallowing the last bite before falling face first onto my bed and passing back out, continuing to sleep off the night before.
*
It’s late-afternoon when I open my eyes again. I roll over and place my feet on the floor, feeling more stable than I did this morning. I throw the covers back in a half-ass attempt to make my bed and head to the bathroom. As the shower warms up, I brush the stale taste of beer from my mouth and grimace at the dark burgundy stain near the base of my neck. Nearly twenty-seven years old and I’m rocking a fucking hickey. Christ.
I wash off my hangover and don’t bother shaving before I throw on a white T-shirt and a worn out, stained pair of jeans. I slip on my Vans and tidy up the kitchen and living room a bit, filling two garbage bags while I polish off the plate that was delivered this morning. I figure the rest of the mess can wait and head for the door. I don’t like to be bothered when I’m working, so I leave my phone sitting on the counter.
I haul the two garbage bags to the end of the hallway and chuck them down the chute before heading to the top of the staircase. My eyes flicker briefly across the hall and I figure I should stop by and at least check to see if she’s home so I can thank her. I pause in front of the door
marked 2A and knock but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably busy, doing whatever it is that prim little ladies like her do. I’ll try again when I get back. Despite the fact that I’ve admittedly become quite careless, I’m not a complete bastard.
I climb into my pickup and drive the twenty minutes to my studio, pulling up right in front of the ground level warehouse space that I’ve been renting for the last six years. The area is pretty much industrial with a couple auto body shops and a U haul rental lot. There’s a floor above the space that I rent but it’s never been occupied. The city owns the building and can’t tear it down because of the intertwining pipes and city water lines beneath it. Which works out well for me, the rent is cheap and it’s quiet.
I unlock the heavy steel door and kick it shut behind me. The natural smell of damp earth fills my nose as well as a metallic scent from the last time I was here firing. I flip on the lights and turn on the stereo, searching for something mellow to listen to while I work. There’s a corner of my studio that has some old furniture and a small table where I can do my invoicing and paper work, a room in the back for drying and the rest of the large open room serves as my workspace.
I turn on the ceiling fans and open the large window I had installed, letting some fresh air circulate into the room. I had to make a few modifications to the space when I signed my lease to make it safe for firing. Luckily, the city planner is an acquaintance of mine and he helped me to ensure that everything was up to code.
In the last six years I’ve managed to accumulate a clientele of partly commissions and partly retail. I refuse to be one of those pretentious asshole artists who sells their shit with stipulations. If you want it and I can make it, consider it done. If I can get a contract with a local shop for an assortment of designs, I’ll take it. Working with my hands and creating something from nothing is all I want. Each piece that I make whether it be a fruit bowl, a tea set or some badass intricately designed vase, is made with care and passion.
