by Harper Bliss
“Punching above his weight, just like his dad, then,” I say.
“Maybe it runs in the family,” Sean says. “Why didn’t you tell me you went out with Zoe, Anna?”
“Like I always give you a detailed report of my previous evening.” I drink some more. Sean has already emptied his glass. He likes to drink hard and fast on a Friday.
“Usually, there’s not much to report. This was something special. I thought we were best buds, Anna.” He pulls what’s supposed to be a sad face, I guess.
“I was at Bookends. We got talking. I design book covers. She runs a bookstore and used to work for Amazon. She probably thought we had some common ground, so she asked if we could go for a coffee. We ended up here instead. End of story.” I remember—vividly—the bright-red dress Zoe had chosen for the occasion.
“That sounds like the mere beginning of the story to me, Sis,” Jamie says. “How did it go?”
I shrug. “We talked. It was nice. Then the night was over.”
“Will you be seeing her again?” Sean asks.
“Probably around town.” Inside me, dual forces are at war: instant embarrassment when I think of how I abandoned her here, versus the desire to see her again because, before I panic-bolted, I was actually having a lovely time with a lovely woman.
“What is wrong with you, Anna?” Sean says. “She’s hot. She’s new to town. And interested in you. Were you waiting for the many other eligible lesbian bachelorettes of Donovan Grove to ask you out first?”
I shake my head. “You know I’m not looking for anything. For a relationship, I mean. I’m off the market.”
“I thought that was just out of necessity. Or scarcity.” Sean won’t let it go. He might be my best friend, but I don’t often allow myself or my relationship status to be the subject of conversation between us. We mostly talk about work or, when we’re out with Jamie, about superficial stuff that’s going on around the town, making our interactions a source of comfort and easy friendship for me.
“Is it because Valentine’s Day’s coming up that you’re so cranky, Anna?” Jamie asks.
“Tell me about Jaden and Brooklyn,” I say, trying to steer the conversation into another direction.
“Seeing as they only just met, I’d say it’s early days,” Jamie says.
I give him a look—a look he must recognize very well. It’s the get-Sean-off-my-back-please look.
“Just don’t mention Brooklyn at Sunday lunch, Anna,” Jamie says. “You won’t be Jaden’s favorite aunt any longer if you do.”
“She’s his only aunt,” Sean butts in. He’s being particularly antagonizing today. Maybe he’s really upset that I didn’t tell him about Zoe. But there really wasn’t anything to tell.
These guys may be the people I’m closest to, but that doesn’t mean I can give them the full story about running out on Zoe. They’ll only tease me more—and they won’t understand, anyway.
“Why did Zoe move to Donovan Grove?” Sean asks, his tone milder.
“She wanted a change. A different kind of life.”
He nods, as though he fully understands the compulsion, then sends me his warmest smile.
I fight the impulse to leave the bar—I can paint all weekend long—and stick around a while longer, if only as practice for possible future encounters with foxy ladies.
14
Zoe
I spot Hemingway first. He rounds the corner, then sits and waits for his mistress patiently. I feel something twitch in my belly while I, just like the dog, wait for Anna to appear in my field of vision. It takes a while so I just keep walking. I approach Hemingway with caution, because I’m not sure he will recognize me.
“Hello, buddy,” I say, because I can’t help myself. He’s such a ridiculously handsome dog and his fur always looks so soft and eager to be ruffled.
“Oh.” Anna finally turns up. My presence has clearly startled her.
“I spotted this cute thing.” I give Hemingway a scratch behind his perked-up ear.
“Zoe, um, I—I owe you an apology, but, well, they’re just another thing I’m really bad at.”
Hemingway gives himself a full-body shake and a few flakes of snow fly off him.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” This is my standard reply when someone wants to say sorry to me. While her running off was confusing, even rather irritating at the time, I’m sure she had a good reason for it.
“Are you busy?” Anna asks. “My house is right there. I can make us that cup of coffee we never had.”
I’m surprised by her sudden forwardness. Maybe this is her way of apologizing. “I would love that.” It’s Sunday afternoon and Brooklyn’s out with Jaden, doing who-knows-what teenagers do on a Sunday afternoon in a town like this. “It’s not just us,” my daughter assured me. “We’re hanging out with a bunch of kids from school.” I didn’t feel I had any other choice but to accept that.
Anna’s carrying two Tupperware containers in her hand, making it difficult for her to find her key and open the front door.
“Even though I’m in my forties, my mother still thinks she needs to feed me half the time. Sunday lunch leftovers, made especially for me. Could you?” She hands me the containers while she digs her front door key out of her jacket pocket.
“Hem. Wait,” she says. “He’s probably so over-excited by having a visitor, he thinks he doesn’t need his paws wiped.”
She invites me in and while I stand in the hallway, still holding the food containers, I watch how she gently cleans her dog’s paws with a cloth.
“Good boy,” she says, and gives him the go-ahead to enter the house.
My gaze is immediately drawn to a painting of Hemingway on the hallway wall. “You had him painted?” The painting is so lifelike, it almost looks like a photograph.
“I painted that myself.” Anna holds out her hand and I give her back the containers. She puts them on the cabinet beneath the painting of Hemingway and shrugs off her coat.
“You painted that?” I half-exclaim.
She does this funny thing that’s halfway between a nod and a shrug.
“That’s amazing. Wow. You’re so talented.”
“Mwah,” she groans, as though it’s physically hurting her to accept my compliment. “Can I take your coat?”
“Sure.” While I take off my coat, I keep my eye on the painting. It’s only now that I’m starting to discern little details in it that I hadn’t noticed before. The wallpaper behind him, consisting of the most delicate little flowers, painted in such a way that they appear out of focus. I take a step closer. “I’m by no means an art buff, but this is a truly exceptional painting.”
“I’m just a crazy dog lady painting pictures of her dog,” Anna says, and leads me into the living room. It’s not what I had expected from someone who is, as far as I can tell, always dressed in the least fashionable clothes. Her living room looks like it could be in a home design catalogue. The couch is dark-green velvet. The wallpaper behind it has a subtle pattern of shiny brown leaves, matching the color of the couch’s legs.
One wall is entirely covered by frames of all shapes, sizes, and colors, some of which contain paintings that she surely must have painted herself.
“I should have asked you to help me with the decor of the shop,” I say, once I’ve been able to match the preconceived idea I had of her and how things actually are. “Your home is absolutely gorgeous.”
“It’s where I spend ninety percent of my time, so,” she says matter-of-factly.
Hemingway has jumped onto a very soft-looking maroon ottoman. Lying there like that, he looks part of the plush, opulent decor.
“I can see how it would be hard to leave here.”
“Please sit. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back with the coffee.”
“Do you mind if I follow you into the kitchen? I’m just really dying to see it.” I feel as though I can be a little bit forward with her—and after seeing the living room, I am really cu
rious to see more.
“Oh.” She always sounds so surprised, but in quite a demure way. “Of course.”
She leads me to the room adjoining the living room. Light pours from the doorway, even though it’s not particularly bright outside.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I stammer, as I walk into Anna’s kitchen. The entire back wall is made of glass, letting in all the light from outside. “You were going to keep this from me?”
“Not deliberately,” she says. “I just get really clumsy when someone watches me make coffee.”
“I only have eyes for your kitchen. I promise.” Hemingway has turned up as well. He’s standing next to his food tray, looking at us with big, sad eyes.
“Hemingway’s favorite hobby is pretending he never gets fed. Don’t let him persuade you that he gets anything less than two healthy meals a day.”
Standing in Anna’s beautiful kitchen with her dog, I suddenly get such a sense of the kind of person she is. A fierce animal lover. A very talented artist. Someone who struggles to let the humor and kindness she has inside her come out. I also get the feeling she doesn’t invite that many people into the privacy of her home.
“Espresso? Cappuccino? Latte?” she asks, making me feel like I’m in some sort of home-version of Starbucks.
Just black coffee, I want to say, but since that wasn’t on offer, I decide not to confuse her. “Espresso, please.”
“I read this article the other day,” Anna says, as she turns away from me. As promised, I don’t watch her prepare the coffee. I can’t keep my eyes off the rest of her kitchen, anyway. Every single surface is spotless. All the counters and cupboards are in the brightest, cleanest, sparkliest white, reflecting the light streaming in. If this were my house, I’d never leave the kitchen. The kitchen is completely different from the lovely and cozy living room, but its starkness is broken up by a myriad of trinkets on the built-in shelves on the wall across from the stove. There’s even a reading corner by the window. If this were my house, I’d never leave the kitchen.
“Sorry.” I have no idea what Anna has been saying. “How rude of me. I’m just in awe of your kitchen. Of everything I’ve seen so far. Are you sure you’re not some highly sought-after interior decorator?”
Anna doesn’t seem to mind that I didn’t listen to what she was going to say about coffee. “I have considered it, but I can only ever do this for myself. Not for anyone else.”
There’s a mustard-yellow armchair by the window that I’m drawn to. A navy ottoman and a small side table containing an impressive stack of books stand next to it. A large soft-pink dog bed is placed next to the chair. I can just see Anna sitting in her chair, her feet up, Hemingway sleeping next to her.
Through the window, I see a wooden deck with a couple of red Adirondack chairs. At the end of the garden, there’s nothing but trees. I feel like I’d like to sag into that armchair, grab one of those books, and just sit there for an hour or two.
Behind me, I hear the coffee machine hiss. I wait until silence has returned, to say, “You don’t happen to be looking for a couple of roommates are you?”
“God no,” Anna is quick to say. She hands me my espresso, presented in a tiny, bright-yellow cup. “I hope it’s not too strong.” She’s holding one of those tiny cups herself. “We can stay here. Please, take the armchair.”
“Oh, no. That’s fine. It’s your chair.”
“Take the chair, Zoe.” Anna pulls back a kitchen chair and sits in it. That was suddenly very forceful.
I turn the armchair away from the window and sit down. It’s so soft and comforting, I forget where I am for a moment. Then I remember why I’m here. Anna wanted to apologize to me—even though, as far as I’m concerned, inviting me into her home is more than enough to make up for running out on me last week.
“Look, um, Zoe. I’m not very good at… chat. I like to use the front-end/back-end metaphor when trying to explain it to someone. I’ve actually stolen it from Sean, because he’s a web developer. What goes on in the back end, in my head, is not always what you see in the front end, as in what comes out of my mouth.” She taps a fingertip on the table. “There are a few bugs in my system.” She chuckles. “And customer service isn’t always what it should be either.”
“Okay.” I’m not entirely sure what she means by that—or what to do with it.
“I’m sorry for storming out of Lenny’s. It was totally uncalled for. You must think I’m some sort of whack job. But please don’t think it was anything you said or did. You’re so lovely and warm and kind and, I don’t know, I… I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, just because we were two lesbian having drinks.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, that just because we’re both gay, we need to at least go on a date together.”
I burst into a chuckle. “That’s not what I think at all, Anna. Is that why you ran off?”
“No. Yes. Partly, I mean.” She pauses to drink from her coffee. I do the same. It’s delicious. All floral and chocolaty notes with not a hint of bitterness, but strong nonetheless. “It’s really hard to explain. Something in my brain short-circuited, I guess. The situation suddenly got too intense for me.”
“Did I make you uncomfortable?”
“Not really. It wasn’t anything you did. It’s all me. It’s why I don’t date anymore. I’m just so sick of all that pretending. It just takes too much energy.”
“What are you pretending to be?”
“Normal,” she says.
“Am I normal?” I’m not sure what I’ve walked into here, nor what Anna is trying to tell me.
“I don’t know you very well, so I can’t answer that.”
“What would make me ‘normal’ in your eyes?”
“That it’s effortless for you to make conversation with people—even people you like spending time with.”
“That’s not something you feel you’re very good at?” Yet you’re doing it now, I think, although it’s impossible for me to know how much sitting here with me is taking out of her.
“Forty-three years of living have given me more than enough evidence that I royally suck at it.”
“I don’t think you do, Anna.” Maybe she’s being a bit hard on herself.
She doesn’t respond, just digs her fingers into Hemingway’s fur.
“So you’re an introvert? There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I dare say it’s all the rage these days.”
She huffs out a chuckle. “I am most definitely an introvert, but it’s not just that.” Again, she doesn’t say anything else.
I don’t get the impression we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon hanging out at her house and making conversation. In fact, I suddenly get the distinct impression I’m already about to overstay my welcome.
I sit up a bit straighter, indicating that I’ll go if she wants me to. “Tell me this, Anna. Would you like to go for another drink with me some time?”
Her cheeks flush the same hot pink as they did a few times when we were at the bar. “I—I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Okay.” I believe I’ve let her know my intentions. All I can do is ask. “If that’s how you feel.”
“Yes, but Zoe, please know this is not a reflection on you. You seem perfectly lovely…”
“And normal?” I push myself out of the chair, which is hard, because it’s low and plushy and built so that all you want to do is fall straight back into its warm embrace.
“I’m not like you. And I’m not looking for anything,” Anna says.
“Not even a friend?”
“I’m… not much of a friend.”
“Look, Anna, I’m not sure why you feel compelled to say these things about yourself, but—”
Anna rises, making me lose my train of thought. She takes a deep breath. “Will you please stay a little longer?”
“I’m not sure if I’m welcome to.” As if he’s trained to remove the tension from these kind of situations for his owner, Hem
ingway walks toward me, as though he, too, is asking me to stay.
“You are. I just got in my head again. Running into you earlier was already a surprise—”
“Because you’ve been avoiding your usual dog-walking route past the shop?” I sit back down.
“Yes. And I also hadn’t exactly planned beforehand to invite you over. It’s a big day for me.” She manages a smile. It looks real enough. “Would you like another coffee?”
“Do you have anything stronger?” I ask.
“Of course.” Anna stays standing. “I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t ask me what I want. I guess she is full of surprises then.
While she’s out of the kitchen, my eye is drawn to the stack of books next to the armchair. I don’t recognize them as anything I would sell at Bookends. When I look closer, I notice that all four of the books are lesbian romance novels. Didn’t Anna explicitly tell me that she was a hard-core literary fiction lover? And that A Little Life is her favorite book ever? A smile spreads on my lips.
15
Anna
One-two. One-two. While I stand in front of the liquor cabinet, I count my breaths. I need to do something to stem the swirl of emotions inside that threatens to spiral out of control. Did Zoe just try to ask me out? For the life of me, I can’t fathom why she would do that. It must really be a case of me being the only lesbian in town, although I’m probably not. In a town of nearly twenty thousand inhabitants, Zoe and I can’t be the only ones. I start counting my breaths out loud to stop my thoughts from spinning out of control even more, even though it doesn’t appear to be working very well. I focus my attention on the bottle of booze in front of me. I didn’t even ask her what she wanted to drink. I’m in no state to be mixing elaborate cocktails, so it will have to be something extremely simple. I reach for a bottle of vodka. Then I remember she drank white wine at Lenny’s the other day.
