by Aria Ford
Griffin gives me his card. He presses it into my palm and closes my fingers over it. “In case you ever want to find me. If you want to see where this could go,” he says. He doesn’t know the bite of temptation I feel at those words. Right now I want to stay with him more than I want to breathe oxygen or walk upright. I can feel the sharp need like a beating in my blood, the overwhelming desire for a fix. Because here he is, the one drug that could bring me down.
No one is counting on me. No one but me. I wouldn’t be letting anyone down. All I’d have to do is whisper my name to him, hope he calls me up. I know he can find me if he really wants to, but I also know that’s a terrible idea. All I’d get is maybe two weeks of memories and a broken heart I’d never recover from. It might not even take him that long to figure out that I’m not for him. I’m too ordinary, too lost. He needs someone stronger and more beautiful and more sophisticated. Griffin deserves someone better than me. That’s all there is to it. I don’t have much, but I have this shred of integrity left. It’s telling me that if I try to hang on, I’ll be taking advantage of him and hurting us both. That I know how to do what’s right even when it hurts, and that’s what has to be done.
I kiss his lips very softly. Because I am not about to leave without one more kiss. I make it swift and gentle. If I let him kiss me deeper, my clothes will fall off on their own. I can’t risk it. I whisper to him, thank you. I am thanking him for everything from saving me from Simpson to the orange juice.
Griffin has the softest lips. It is unbelievable how soft his lips are. The other guys I’ve kissed have always had these rough chapped lips, and they always kissed too hard, smashing my lips up against my teeth like that’s supposed to be sexy when you’re basically biting yourself on accident. Griffin kisses like he got his Ph.D. in the subject, I swear. And it’s never been the same twice. I wonder how many ways he can kiss, how many times he’d have to kiss me before there was a rerun. Because there are some I’d like to repeat. All of them, okay. I want all of them again and again. The hunger and protectiveness and wrenching tenderness of the first time he kissed me in the alley—that’s the one I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Because when I die, I’m pretty sure I’ll still think heaven is a place where I get to feel like that all the time—like I’ve been chosen and cherished, and I don’t have to be afraid any more. That’s how Griffin made me feel.
That’s how come I can say it was the best night of my life even though Simpson mauled me in a hallway, and I was afraid for my life. I ducked in the alley to hide. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to escape the embarrassment and pain of being there. Embarrassment that Griffin was responsible for, by the way. As if offering me money would make it okay. He was totally clueless about the kind of person I am, and probably about what is an inhumane way to treat a person who’s just been abused. If I hadn’t been in fight or flight mode, I might have flipped him the bird and walked out. Instead, I ran and he came after me to make sure I was okay. He made me feel whole again like Simpson hadn’t taken any part of me away. And when he realized how he’d hurt me by trying to shove money at me, he apologized.
I could tell by the way he kissed that he wasn’t a cruel man. Stupid, yes, because he’d used me as a visual aid to confront Simpson’s brother. But he wouldn’t hurt me on purpose so I held on to him for dear life. He brought me back to myself. He gave me the most healing closeness, an intimacy I’ve never known before. I’m grateful, I am. I just can’t stay with him for the week or two it would take him to figure out that I’d be nothing to him but a pet, a cute little thing he has to take care of. I wouldn’t be of any use to him as a partner. And I don’t want to be his mistress, his pretty girl he keeps in an apartment for his convenience. I can’t have all of him, and I won’t take any less. So I choose nothing before I end up with nothing and a broken heart to go with it.
I walk back to my apartment. Amy’s there. I wish she wasn’t. All the times I’ve been lonely and wanted someone to make popcorn and watch TV with, now she’s here when I want to be alone. She asks me how it went.
“I had a rough night. I walked out on the job.”
“You what?”
“One of the guys at the dinner groped me, and I left.”
“If you left early, how are you just getting home now?” she says.
I lift one shoulder and shrug it.
“And whose shirt is that?”
“I had to borrow one,” I say truthfully, “Because the guy ripped up my black shirt. It’s in my purse.” I show her.
“I can put buttons on it if you want,” Amy says.
“That’s nice of you, but I’m throwing it out. I never want to see it again.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
I sink down on to our couch, the scratchy brown one from Goodwill that Amy already had when I moved in. I put my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry things went south. Are you okay? He didn’t rape you, did he?”
“He tried. The guy having the party stopped him.”
“You got rescued? There’s really guys like that?” Amy says.
“There’s one at least.”
“That makes me feel better. That men like that are out there who step in when some dickbag’s assaulting a woman.”
“Yeah. He made me feel better,” I say. I put my hands on my cheeks so she won’t see me blush.
“How much better? Is that why you’re just getting in? Did you hook up with the knight in shining armor, girl?” Amy says.
I nod. She squeals and jumps up and down, and my head hurts like I have a hangover even though I don’t.
“I’m gonna get the laundry together. Anything you need washed while you sleep?”
“Yeah, and there’s quarters in the jar. I’d appreciate it. But you’re not changing the subject that fast. Tell me all!”
“He’s just a rich guy who came to check on me and see if I was okay after I left.”
“Wait—he followed you? He made sure you were safe? This is a fairy tale. Men don’t do that crap.”
“He did,” I say. “He could have stayed and had his dinner like he planned, and I’m sure he would have paid a small fortune for it. But he—”
“Went to make sure the waitress was okay. That’s…unexpected. Did you sleep with him? Was it amazing?”
“I’m not discussing this,” I say, my face flaming.
“That’s a yes. So, amazing?”
“No, it was nothing like that. I didn’t,” I say. I’m lying, but I have my reasons.
Reason one is I don’t want her to know I had a one-night stand. It sounds nasty to me, and cheapens what it was. I want it to be a secret. The other reason, which is even worse than my refusal to own what I did is the fact that I want to keep it to myself because it’s special. I don’t want Amy giggling over it. I don’t want to pretend it meant nothing. I want to keep the memory of it for just myself.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I lie, “I’m too much of a good girl, I guess. It was really nice of him to check on me, though. I told him thank you.”
“Why’d you have to tell me that? I could have had some good dreams,” she laughed and went to bed.
I change clothes. I do the laundry, run the vacuum, check my bank balance. I go through all the motions of a normal Sunday. I fold his shirt and put it under my pillow. It doesn’t smell like him because it was clean when he gave it to me. I wish it did. It’s the thing I get to keep. I know I should have it dry cleaned and send it back to him at his office. But I don’t want to let it go.
The next day at work, I get a call. I check the voicemail on my break. It’s a message from Marilyn. I dial her number, slump back against the wall as I wait to be fired.
“Ah, Caleigh, good to hear from you. I trust you have no ill effects from the incident on Saturday?” she says.
She’s afraid I’m going to sue her, so she’s acting nice. That’s what I realize as she talks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry f
or running out—”
“No, no, think nothing of it. I understand the situation. The catering manager that night informed me as soon as it happened. I sincerely apologize for what happened to you. This is not a common occurrence at EA. We would never permit an employee to be abused, and we are prepared to press charges on your behalf. EA will cover all legal fees, I assure you, and this matter will be settled in a manner that punishes Mr. Simpson for his actions.”
“No. Please. I don’t want to press charges. I never want to talk about this again. I didn’t go to the police or the hospital or anything. I want to forget it ever happened,” I say, my heart pounding, sweat breaking out all along my skin.
“Are you certain? Would you like one of our attorneys to call you and explain the process?”
“No. I really wouldn’t. I’ll sign anything you want that says it wasn’t your fault, because it wasn’t. I’m not going to sue you. I just want to put this behind me. It was horrible and I hate that it ruined a great opportunity for me, but I understand that you can’t keep an employee who runs out in the middle of a job. I’m sorry about all of it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Caleigh. This is something bad that was done to you, not by you. I have already taken steps to ensure that Randy Simpson and his wretched brother Nathan are blacklisted by every decent caterer in the city. When I’m finished they won’t be able to get a buffet at the Marriott, much less dinner for an event.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say because I don’t see how having trouble hiring a caterer is really punishment for trying to rape someone, but I don’t want to be rude. Marilyn was nice to hire me, and she’s doing her best to be decent about this.
“I intend to keep you as an employee if you’re willing. You’ll be paid for the full night on Saturday. There’s also a rather shocking amount of money left as a tip for you that you can pick up at the office. I can promise you that neither of the Simpsons will be in attendance at any event I assign you—not only because I refuse to serve them or to cater any event to which they are invited.”
“That would be amazing, thank you,” I say. “I don’t want the tip, though. Give it to the others who worked that night.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on it, Caleigh. Put it in a savings account if you like, or buy yourself a nice pair of shoes. It’s your money.”
Marilyn hangs up. I can’t believe I still have a job with her. I’ll go by after work and pick up my paycheck and whatever blood money Randy Simpson left for me. It makes me sick to think about it, but I’ll stick it in a savings account like Marilyn said. It can be for emergencies.
At the EA office, I get my paycheck and an envelope of cash. I don’t count it. I stuff it in my purse and go home. Once I’m inside behind a locked door where I’m not afraid of getting mugged, I take the envelope out and dump the money on the table.
The envelope contains nearly a thousand dollars. I’ve never seen this much cash. I’m not even sure I can take this into a bank to open an account without someone thinking I stole it or sold drugs to get it. I don’t look like somebody who has eight hundred bucks lying around the house. I stuff it under the mattress. I feel nervous having it here. I take a quick shower. Afterward, I put on his shirt. The one I was keeping under my pillow. I needed to wrap it around me. I loved the way the sleeves covered my hands, the fabric soft and smooth, a perfect pale blue. I wouldn’t be in his arms again, but I could wear the shirt. I could remember all the good things.
I spend the next weeks working catering jobs on Saturday nights and Sundays at lunch. It’s working. I’ve added a couple of hundred bucks to the savings account. I’m even looking online at the classes available in fashion design and merchandising.
I feel good. I mean, I cry a lot, but that’s not the worst thing. I hadn’t really cried much since the burial. But I read a lot about grief and sometimes a triggering event can help you access all those emotions you’ve locked away, so I’m guessing that almost getting raped or even spending the night with Griffin unlocked my bereavement, and I’m grieving at last. Like every day. Something stupid will make me cry. A diaper commercial. Spilling my iced tea on my break. The dryer being broken at the Laundromat. I let it happen. I embrace it even. Because if I’m ever going to make peace with losing my family, I think this is just a process I have to go through.
Okay, so the thing that makes me want to cry the most is thinking about Griffin. Maybe I have a little crush on him that won’t go away. Maybe I sleep in his Armani shirt every night. Maybe I wrote it all down in a notebook so I wouldn’t forget a thing. And sometimes I read it, like a favorite movie I can’t quit watching or the dirtiest diary on the planet. It doesn’t just turn me on, though. It makes me yearn for him. Like a throat-squeezing, misty-eyed longing in my chest. I do need to get over the Griffin part of the crying, but that should end pretty soon, I think. How long can a girl cry over someone she only knew for less than twenty-four hours? Surely not more than the, let’s see, six weeks or so since I saw him. I bet I quit missing him any day now.
I’ve been thinking that for weeks. That I’d just forget to think about him all day. That I wouldn’t look for him in the restaurant whenever there’s a dark-haired customer. That I wouldn’t stop and hope so hard every time my phone gives me a text alert—maybe he’s tracked me down. Maybe he’s found me and wants to see me. He could track me down if he wanted to. I’m not stupid. I know he could have his secretary call Marilyn’s office and have my contact info in about six seconds. It’s obvious that he knows as well as I do that we’re not meant for each other. We had one amazing night together, but we don’t make sense. That he’d only break my heart. My dumbass heart that keeps scanning every crowd of people for his perfect face.
My alarm goes off on Friday morning. Instead of hopping up and making my bed like I usually do, I lay there. My head hurts. Not a little, but like that dull, horrible headache you get when your whole body hurts and you can’t drag yourself up to get Tylenol. I had some kind of virus. One of the kitchen crew at the restaurant had a sick kid last week. I bet she brought the germs in. I groan, wishing for sleep, for Tylenol and a glass of water. I stagger up and get to the bathroom. I have two pills in my mouth when I start throwing up in the sink. It’s miserable. It’s like some monster just stuck its finger down my throat. I drop to my knees and lean my head on the cabinet. I have to get up and go to work. I pull myself up and then retch again. I manage to get back to the bed and text Dominic. I’m too sick to go to work. I flop back on the bed and try to sleep, but I’m too wretched.
When Amy gets home, I moan loud enough she can hear me and she comes in the room.
“What’s wrong? You’re supposed to be at work.”
“Sick,” I mumble, “Do we have any ginger ale? Please, please take money out of my purse and go buy some.”
She goes, comes back and brings me a glass. I try to sip it and bolt for the bathroom to throw up again.
“So much for that settling your stomach,” she says. “Just try to drink when you can. You don’t want to dehydrate.”
“I know, Dr. Amy,” I say.
Amy’s a CNA, which means she does the dirty work and doesn’t get paid very well. She rolls her eyes at me and leaves me in peace. Hours later, I wake up to an alert from my phone that I have a catering event at seven. I can’t. I’m too exhausted. I message the manager and go back to bed. It’s much later before I feel like taking a shower and trying to eat. As soon as I do, the ginger ale and cracker come right back up.
I spend the whole weekend sick. I’m so weak I can hardly even move from the bed. When Amy checks I don’t have a fever. She tries to get me to swallow a sports drink and talks about my electrolytes and I just curl up miserably. Monday morning, my alarm goes off. I feel so tired. I message Dominic and tell him I’m not better yet and I’m sorry. I really don’t want to lose my job. But I can’t do it. There’s no way I can get dressed and carry food and talk to people. I might make them sick, for one thing. For anot
her, I feel like I’m going to vomit again.
Dominic issues me a stern warning about my hours being cut if I don’t show up tomorrow. I start to cry. I want to wear Griffin’s shirt for the comfort, but I don’t want to get vomit on it when I inevitably start throwing up again. So I lay it on the bed beside me and hold the cuff like I’m holding his hand. I don’t bother to worry about how pathetic that is.
Amy bursts in when she gets home. “You’re going to the doctor,” she says.
“No,” I say, “I’ll be okay. I just need to rest.”
“That’s all you’ve done for three days. If it were a virus, it would’ve run its course by now.”
“It’s the flu. The flu can last over a week,” I say.
“Yeah, but two problems there. One, the actual flu is respiratory, and you’ve been puking. Two, it’s not flu season. There have been zero cases of the flu in like two months. So it’s not the flu.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, “I’m getting better. Last night I ate three crackers and kept down some water.”
“You don’t look good. No fever. Sick as hell. You need to see a doctor.”
“No,” I moan, “I just got some money saved.”
“I know. You look at that bank app like three times a day to gloat.”
“It makes me feel good,” I say.
“You have to take care of yourself. It’s not like Dominic will let you keep that job if you don’t show up.”
