by Zeia Jameson
“Not tonight, Luca. These ladies are drunk. We don’t need them making regrettable decisions.”
Kerry looks in my direction with an exaggerated pouted lip. I think I’d really like to bite that lip.
I reach down under the counter again to find the binder with the vagina tattoo. Padraig and Stella begin yelling at each other. I look up at Padraig, and his entire head is beet red. Face, neck, ears. Shit.
Kerry points to one of the compass tattoos and looks over to Stella. “Oh, look at this one!” No one responds to her. Padraig and Stella grow eerily quiet for a few moments as they shoot death stares at each other. I begin to grow a little anxious.
“Let’s go, Kerry,” Stella finally snaps.
“But, Stella . . .” Kerry pouts.
Stella storms toward the door and holds it open for Kerry to follow. “Let’s go!”
Kerry slumps her shoulders and obeys Stella’s request. Just before she leaves, she turns back to me and blows me a kiss. It sounds idiotic, but I swear I could feel it hit me right in the face. I raise my hand in return and offer her a small wave.
And they’re gone.
Padraig grumbles and rubs his hand over his face. He mumbles something and walks back toward the curtain.
“I’m locking up,” I say.
“Aye,” is all he returns, disappearing into his room.
I close up the portfolio book, lock the door, and shut down the lights. I head upstairs to my apartment, all the while thinking about Spitfire Kerry and her fantastic breasts.
I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
It’s probably in her best interest if I don’t.
Three Years Ago
I’m sitting on a park bench in Ellis Square trying to figure out what just happened in the last thirty minutes of my life.
I met Mallory at The Stone Pub for dinner. She was standing outside the restaurant, waiting for me, which was completely strange because the first person to arrive always goes in to snag the good booth in the corner.
Everything is kind of a blur, and I’m having trouble putting what just happened into focus.
There were words such as “not working out” and “seeing other people” that came from her mouth.
I feel like there is a load of cinder blocks sitting on my chest, and all I want to do right now is let them suffocate me.
Focus. Think.
Outside the restaurant, she said, “Wait,” before I opened the door. Then she leaned up against the wall and began to cry, burying her hands in her face. Worry and panic washed over me. I swooped in and wrapped my arms around her. She cried harder. I stroked her hair. I kissed her face. She finally calmed down after a few minutes.
I hugged her close to me and told her that whatever it was, it was going to be okay.
Then she launched a grenade square into my gut.
The explosion leaving a hole so big, so deep, that I felt it completely transform my soul at that very moment. A transformation that would never be undone. I felt myself go numb. Then I felt as though I was floating above the two of us, watching a scene out of a Shakespeare tragedy unfold.
She’s pregnant.
The baby isn’t mine.
I remember her saying a whole lot of words, but I have no idea what they were. She said she was sorry about two-hundred times. She had felt a distance between us for a while. She didn’t mean to hurt me.
“Are you sure?” I remember robotically spitting out. “Are you sure the baby isn’t mine? How can you be sure?”
“I’m just sure, Luca,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be here, like this, if I wasn’t sure.”
She sobbed. She apologized.
I said nothing else to her. She was standing in front of me, crying, pleading. And I just stood there, completely checked out.
She slid down the wall and buried her face in her knees.
As I watched the scene, seemingly from above, I saw bystanders looking at us uncomfortably, wondering if they should stop to help her. No one stopped. Just ogled us like the tragedy that we were.
She’s pregnant.
The baby isn’t mine.
Those two sentences swirled around in my head as I stood there staring at her while she sat there, folded into herself on the ground, sobbing with regret.
I needed to get her indoors. Take her home.
What home? I couldn’t go back there with her.
She’s pregnant.
The baby isn’t mine.
“So,” I choked out, swallowing hard, trying to get rid of the melon-sized lump in my throat.
She looked up at me, tears soaking her face. Smudged black makeup from eyelash to chin.
“So,” I repeated. “This is it? No more us,” I said slowly and quietly. As a statement, not a question.
Her face wrinkled into an ugly cry, and she nodded her head, twice.
I took a deep breath and extended my hand to help her off the ground.
“Let’s get you off the street. People are going to think you’ve been mugged, or worse.”
She took my hand and let me help her up. I walked with her the three blocks to our apartment, other than her occasional sniffle, in complete silence.
At the apartment, I grabbed my backpack and dumped everything out of it. I shoved what clothes of mine I could fit into it.
As I approached the door, Mallory begged me to stay and talk. She said she hadn’t told the father yet, and she didn’t know how. She needed help.
I had no reaction. None.
“Take care of yourself, Mallory.”
I turned around and walked away.
She cried and screamed for me to come back.
There was nothing to go back to.
She ruined everything.
I run my hands through my hair as the sun begins to set. I look in front of me. Kids, happy, splashing around in the enormous splash pad in the middle of the square. Families enjoying time together. Dogs barking, birds chirping. All the while, my insides are crumbling. My heart is obliterated.
My girlfriend of two years, whom I lived with and shared a bed with, no less, just told me she’s pregnant with another man’s baby.
Pregnant.
Another man’s baby.
I was going to take her to the Eiffel Tower and propose to her. The cheesiest, most clichéd romantic thing to do, but she would have loved it.
Now all I have is a ring in my backpack along with a pair of tickets to London we were supposed to use in two weeks.
I lean my head back against the bench. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I notice?
I know exactly why.
Senior year. Ten-thousand things to do and nowhere near enough time to do it. Had I been neglecting Mallory? I thought we had a good, balanced routine. Why didn’t she tell me?
As much as I try to fight it, tears begin to stream down my face and into my ears. The cinder blocks on my chest are weighing down on me more and more.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flicker of the neon sign for the bar Taps.
I sit up straight, wipe my damn face, and head over to the bar.
The woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with just splintered my heart into a million irreparable shards.
A few shots of whiskey to drown those shards into oblivion seem like the only right thing to do at this moment.
Present Day
Clay & Soul is a studio I was introduced to when I was in school. I had to take a sculpting class. And this is where we came to work on our projects. We learned everything from the different types of modeling clay to how to kiln your own pieces. The studio comprises a large workshop area, with a few pottery wheels and crafting tables available to the public, an inventory area of premade pieces that customers come in to paint and decorate; and two private studios in the back for larger projects.
I currently occupy one of the private studios. I’ve been working on a large clay piece with a new type of clay that can withstand the weight and size of the sculpture and remains
malleable until it’s kilned, so I don’t have to finish it in one day. I’ve been working on it for three months, actually. It’s a Trojan horse, and it stands about half as tall as I am. I don’t really have a reason or purpose for a clay Trojan horse, but it’s a challenge. Challenges keep me focused.
Challenges and toothpicks.
My biggest concern now is how I’m going to kiln it when I’m done. There isn’t a kiln here big enough for it to fit. But I’ve been Googling some work-arounds that might work out.
As I enter Clay & Soul to put some more hours into my horse, the first thing I lay eyes on is the honey-colored hair of the woman sitting at one of the pottery wheels. Fuck.
I dart behind one of the inventory shelves. I knew I had recognized her the other night. I’ve seen her in here before. I’ve watched her hands mold clay in a way that should be considered illegal. Pornographic. She wears earbuds while she molds. Her body sways slowly right and left while her eyes are closed the whole time. Her fingers delicately slide up and down the wet mass as they pinch and poke the clay into a form.
“Hey, Luca.”
I jump at the sound of my name from behind me. It’s Laura, the owner of the shop. I run my fingers through my hair and turn to her. “Hey.”
“Are you hiding from someone back here? Stalking someone?” Her brow rises as she lifts up onto her toes and looks over my shoulder. “You checking out the girl in the purple smock?”
I instantly shake my head, but my facial expression apparently doesn’t match, because Laura places a hand on her hip.
“Right. I don’t remember her name. She doesn’t come in often, but when she does, sometimes she stays all afternoon. Makes three or four pieces. I think it’s a stress reliever for her in some way.”
I turn my head to watch her for a few more brief seconds.
She’s gorgeous. Graceful. And then my mind sinks directly into the gutter.
I think of about half-a-dozen ways I could help her relieve stress.
“You want to invite her back to the studio?”
I snap my gaze back to Laura. “What? No. I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t—” is all I can get out before Laura taps me playfully on the shoulder.
“Okay, lover boy. Everything is set up in the back. Ventilation is on. Carving utensils are prepped. It’s ready when you are. You going to come out from behind this shelf?”
“Of course,” I say with a little conviction in my voice. I’m here to work, after all. As I turn to walk toward the studio, my shoulder bumps the shelf. I panic to steady it, but a clay pot falls to the floor and smashes to pieces. Kerry opens her eyes and looks up instantly. She looks at the mess on the floor, then her eyes travel up my body and to my face. She recognizes me and her eyes go wide. She mouths the words, “What the fuck?” I stare at her like a creep, unmoving for a few long uncomfortable moments.
I should say hello. Just wave and acknowledge that I see her. But the look on her face has struck me motionless. I can’t read her, really, but I feel like she thinks I followed her in here.
Or maybe she doesn’t remember me. Maybe she’s trying to figure it out. Where she knows me from. Maybe that’s the look.
Just say hello.
No, just walk away.
I avert my eyes away from her and focus on helping Laura clean up the mess.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Well, Luca, you just destroyed a five-dollar, generic, mass-produced clay pot. I’m gonna need you to pay up.” She winks at me, collecting the largest pieces of the broken pot into her apron.
“You want me to come work a birthday shift?” I ask, knowing the weight of that question will be pittance enough. One Saturday a month, the studio is open for birthday parties of children between the ages of eight and fourteen. As organized as Laura is, these parties are always the height of insanity. Extremely loud. Extremely messy. But it’s good business for the studio. I’ve worked a few birthday shifts in the past to show my appreciation to Laura for letting me have studio time for close to free.
“Maybe. I’ll let you know,” Laura replies. She motions her head in Kerry’s direction. “You gonna go talk to that girl or not? She’s still staring at you.”
“I assumed. I can feel it in the back of my head,” I say, picking up another piece.
“I shouldn’t,” I continue. “I don’t want to disturb her any more than I already have.”
I know what it’s like to be interrupted during a project. It completely breaks up your creative spirit and your train of thought. I’ve probably already done that by playing my rendition of Greek plate smashing with Laura’s stock pots.
Say hello. Apologize.
Laura stands and walks over to the checkout counter. She chucks the broken pottery into a box. “Maybe I can figure out a mosaic or something with these.”
I add the pieces I’ve gathered into the box. Laura grabs a broom and a dustpan.
“I’ll get that,” I offer, reaching for the broom.
“No way. You need to go over there and talk to her. She’s still looking over here.”
I can’t bear to turn around. I’m not a chickenshit. I’m not a coward. But all the scenarios of how this could go wrong are playing in my head.
Why, yes, it is me. Luca. The tat shop owner. I just happened to show up in this obscure location, completely by accident, at the exact same time you are here. Not weird at all.
Hey, yeah. Luca? Remember? I was going to show you that vagina tattoo the other night? Oh, you don’t remember that? Never mind.
How is Stella? Is she still pissed at Padraig? He hasn’t really talked about it. Oh, they hate each other now? Okay, so, good talk.
Nothing positive is floating through my head. I don’t know how drunk she was the other night or what exactly she remembers. Maybe she’s embarrassed, and I don’t want to add to that embarrassment by approaching her.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m just going to pretend that I’m not Luca. And since I’m not Luca, I don’t know Kerry and I don’t have to say anything to her.
“I’m heading back to the studio, Laura. I’ll be in there a while.”
She gives me a side glance and shakes her head. “Okay. What do I tell her if she asks about you?”
“Tell her my name is Ramon.”
“Okay, Ramon.”
Present Day
Cleaning solution
Leather patch
Bandages
Typing on this insipid phone while walking along the root-damaged sidewalks of Abercorn Street proves to be challenging. I don’t normally try to attempt walking while my face is buried in my phone—there are way too many people who do that around here, and it annoys me to no end—but I’ve fallen behind on things I need to order or buy for the shop. I take Padraig’s suggestion from a few days ago and use the notes app on my phone to make a list so I don’t forget everything I need. I’m sure he didn’t mean I should do this while walking, but nevertheless, I am.
Dial soap
Transfer paper
Before I know what’s happening, my phone is jolted from my hand and flies a good three feet in front of me. As I watch it crash to the pavement, I sidestep to keep my balance from the force of whatever just broadsided me. My foot catches on some shrubbery, and I fall backward, landing square on my tailbone. Pain shoots up the length of my spine. I look up to my left just in time to see the object that caused my fall coming toward me again.
A person.
A woman.
Falling . . . on top of me.
My heroic instincts kick in, and I open my arms to grab her as she falls, to attempt to soften her blow, despite the fact that moving those arms causes my back to scream in pain. When the woman lands in my lap, I wrap my arms around her waist and clutch her to me. She lets out an “Oh!” and an “Oomph” as we both settle awkwardly into the bushes.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I loosen my grip on her and help her shift into a seated position. I then adjust myself as well, trying to keep my pain
from being visible to her.
Her hair is blocking her face. I reach over to pick out a leaf from it as she brushes her coat off.
“Am I okay?” she says. “I’m the one who tripped over my own feet going down the stairs and then straight into you. Are you okay?”
As I remove the foliage from her honey-colored hair, she reacts to my touch and looks up at me. Only then do I realize who just pummeled me to the ground.
Kerry.
I show her the crunchy yellow leaf. “You had a leaf in your hair,” is all I manage to say.
Not “Hey, Kerry, how are you?” or “Hey, Kerry, great bumping into you.”
“Luca! Oh my God, I am so sorry! Holy shit.”
I place my hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s all right. I’m fine. Are you?”
She sweeps her hair behind her ear, her face showing her embarrassment from the blush of her cheeks. I scramble to my feet and extend my hand to help her up. She grabs it and I pull her up. She looks at me, and I can see tears welling in her eyes.
“Hey, are you hurt? Where?” I try to visually assess what damage has been done to her beautiful body.
She looks down at her buttoned coat. She brushes it off again and then brushes her backside. “I’m fine.” She sniffles. “I just . . . I don’t know how this day could get any worse.”
I begin to reach out to lift her chin, when I hear my phone chime in the distance. I look past her shoulder to see it still lying there on the sidewalk. The chime catches her attention as well, and she looks back at my phone on the ground.
“Is that your phone?”
I walk over to pick up the phone, praying it’s not cracked. I have the good protective case. Hopefully, it’s done its job. I survey the damage, and it still seems to be in the same condition as before my crash with Kerry.
“Oh no, is it destroyed?” she asks with worry thick in her voice. “Because that would really make this shitty day perfect. Please tell me it’s okay.”
I hold up my phone to her and show her no damage was done.
