by Fisher, Kari
“You should come work for me,” he suggests.
“What? Oh. I have a job. Part-time is fine for now while I’m trying to get back into painting.”
“You have bills to pay, Lauren. Christmas is coming up and I’m going to be swamped. The coffee shop has really taken off lately, and I could use the help,” he explains.
“I have no experience in a place like this.” I have no interest in a place like this. I don’t like people.
“You’d be fine. Think about it, and let me know before I end up hiring a couple more people within the next few weeks. I think you’d do well here.” He touches my arm. I shiver, and a surge of excitement rushes through my body. Good god, he is gorgeous. We haven’t done anything more than hold hands so far, but I am definitely hoping it goes further than that. I need him to touch me.
“I’ll let you know.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
Hopefully, you. “I don’t know, I was hoping to clean up the apartment and take a hot bath.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun for a Friday night. Why don’t we go somewhere?”
“That sounds good.” Like my place?
“Okay, I’ll meet you at your place around nine o’clock.” He stands, kisses my forehead, and heads into the back room of the coffee shop.
I sit for a couple more minutes, daydreaming. Our last date had proven to not be an actual date. It had seemed as though he felt sorry for me, knowing that I didn’t have any friends in the area and I’d be sitting at home alone. He had invited me along to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Then he walked me back to my place, just to make sure I got home safe. He never tried to make a move, although with the amount of wine I had consumed, I was more than ready to rip my clothes off. Perhaps tonight will go in a different direction.
I sip the rest of my coffee, and head out.
Chapter Two
I think I want you
But I’m not really sure
I walk downtown. Although money is tight, I should really buy a new outfit. I don’t own very many clothes. I had tons before I moved here, but I got rid of everything when I decided to start over. I took my cat, my books, a bag of miscellaneous stuff, and I left for the big city without looking back. I wanted to start over after my ex-husband and I split up. I wanted a clean slate. Sometimes I regret leaving my life in the country. After all this time here, I’ve only made one friend besides Oliver, if you could even call him a friend.
I shiver and put my hands in the pockets of my jacket. It’s starting to snow. I glance behind me. There’s only one other person on the street: a man wearing dark pants and a black short sleeve shirt, covered by a dark blue vest. He is hardly dressed for this kind of weather, and he’s walking only a couple feet behind me. I can’t see his face but he has a cross tattooed on his right forearm. He’s walking quickly, like he’s got somewhere important to go. Up ahead, I see a store I’ve wanted to check out since I moved here, so I decide to stop in. I’ll probably spend money I don’t have. Then I’ll be back in tomorrow, trying to return the clothes I bought, and I know exactly how that conversation will go:
“I need to return these clothes.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“I was sad when I bought them.”
I’m sad when I do a lot of things and they never end up being the right decision.
Focus, Lauren.
There are a lot of outfits I could see myself wearing out on a date tonight, although I’m not even sure it’s a date. I don’t know where he’s taking me so it’s hard to figure out what to wear, but I know that half these clothes won’t look good on my tiny five-foot-nothing figure. I would love to buy a dress but dresses always look so awkward on me. To be honest, I don’t know what Oliver sees in me. He’s constantly surrounded by these tall, skinny girls, all enthralled by his looks, his broody scribbles, and of course the fact that he owns a coffee shop.
And then there’s me.
I finished school a year earlier than my peers and went on to college. I boast a degree in marketing and an extra year of English Literature, which I am passionate about, as anyone could easily tell from my extensive book collection.
However, I don’t do so well in the looks department. I have wavy brown hair that I hate with a flaming, fiery passion. No matter what I do to it, or have done to it, I hate my hair. I wish I could just cut it all off. I have tried so many different hairstyles and nothing looks good. I even went so far as to go blonde once. Just once. It looked terrible. I have seen the best of the best hairstylists, who assured me I’d love my new look, but I could never. After a couple months of not having enough money to actually have my hair done, I finally caved and threw a box of burgundy dye in it the other night. Once it has faded in a couple days, I’ll probably buy another box of dye and go black. Black seems to be my go-to color when I’ve given up on my hair, and life in general.
I’m short and nothing looks good on me, even though I am athletic and in decent shape. I have large breasts, which one would think I would love about myself, but that just means I have to buy extra-large shirts that look terrible because the rest of me is swimming in it. Despite all of my imperfections, there is one thing I like about my body: I have a fantastic ass. As long as I pick out the right jeans, or leggings, I feel confident.
“May I help you?” the lady behind the counter asks, forcing a smile. I can tell she doesn’t want to be at work. I’m glad I don’t have to work today.
“I’m just browsing. I think I have a date tonight and I’d like to find a dress to wear.”
She comes out from behind the counter and talks as she steers me towards the rack of dresses that aren’t on clearance. I cannot justify spending two hundred dollars on a dress. It’s time to go home, before I end up compulsively buying something I regret. Surely I can find something in my closet to wear. I don’t want to waste her time, or mine, so I nod politely, excuse myself, and run from the store.
Back at home, I’m frantically tearing my clothes out of my closet and throwing them on the floor beside my platform bed—the only thing in this apartment that I truly love besides my books. It was left here by the previous owners. I can’t imagine why—it’s gorgeous. My comfortable queen sized mattress sits on top of a black platform that hangs out a bit further on the right side, where there is frosted glass and LED lighting from underneath. It has two built in nightstands, bright red in color. It matches perfectly with the black sheets I moved here with and this beautiful bed is my safe place, where I lie listening to music and hoping for the inspiration I need to paint.
I stare hopelessly at the pile of clothes on my floor that consist of jogging pants and hoodies. They’re all brand name and presumably quite expensive, but I wouldn’t know; I’ve shopped at the thrift store long before that Thrift Shop song made it ‘cool,’ because there’s no better feeling in the world than getting a Hollister sweatshirt for three dollars. Except, perhaps, the feeling of completing a painting instead of procrastinating and going out on dates?
I find a dress I hope is suitable for wherever it is he’s taking me. It’s a long grey dress with long sleeves and large black buttons all the way up the front. This will have to do, because I literally don’t own anything else. Another thrift shop find. I haven’t ever had an opportunity to wear it out yet. I wonder who wore it before I did, and why she chose to get rid of it. For all I know, the previous owner of this dress had worn it on a special occasion celebrated with her significant other. Maybe they both had just a bit too much to drink, allowing them to speak words they wouldn’t normally say to each other. Maybe the night ended with both of them loudly yelling at each other about things neither of them had any control over. The man worked far too many hours, and was never around anymore; not like at the beginning of the relationship, three years prior, when he purposely made time in his busy schedule to frequently swoop his new girlfriend off her feet. The woman, also at fault, had sought comfort by talking to a close male friend—discussing
things she should’ve only discussed with her partner—and now this male friend was developing feelings for the woman and trying to insert himself into the ‘hole’ of this relationship.
For all I know, I am about to jinx myself by wearing this dress tonight.
Well, it’s the only dress I own, so I have no choice. I justify the possible impending doom of my relationship with Oliver by convincing myself that this isn’t in fact an actual date, anyway.
What is that?
I throw the dress over my naked body, quickly pull on a pair of black tights, and head into the hallway to check out the noise I just heard. I take a couple steps and find myself peering into the study at my cat, NyQuil, who is violently throwing up a hairball. His name suits him. Other than waking up to eat or use the litter box, NyQuil sleeps all day—exactly what I do when I take NyQuil for a cold.
He’s a sleek, black cat. I picked him out at a pet shop nine years ago, and he has been with me ever since. He’s met all of my boyfriends, and disliked my ex-husband—who was never very nice to him—just as much as I did. At one point, when my ex and I had talked about moving to the city so he could find a better paying job, he told me to get rid of NyQuil. He said having a cat did not suit our “lifestyle”—whatever that meant. I think he was just tired of having him around. He was allergic to cats, but he knew I had a cat when we started dating and he chose to enter into a relationship with me despite that, even though I told him the cat would never leave. Years later, this kitty is far more loyal to me than anyone else has been in my life. I have no plans of ever abandoning him. In fact, next time I date someone, if my cat doesn’t like him, I’ll end it. Oliver hasn’t met NyQuil yet. The last time he was over, NyQuil hid under the couch until he left. I’m not even sure Oliver knows I have a cat, or if NyQuil knows I have a date tonight.
Apparently the hairball was a false alarm this time. I watch as NyQuil walks over to the area rug and curls up in the only spot of sunlight in the apartment. He looks so peaceful.
I get a text message. I realize I don’t even know where my phone is, because no one actually has my new number except a few select friends, including Oliver, of course. I follow the noise and find my phone on top of the books cluttering my end table.
For a second I think maybe it’s Oliver canceling our plans for tonight. Maybe something came up. Maybe he was interviewing that Tara chick, and she wanted to hang out tonight instead.
My mind is set at ease when I see that it’s from Shay. She wants to know what I’m doing tonight, and is hoping that she can meet up with me for coffee at some point. I know this means she’s fighting with her boyfriend again. They break up more often than anyone I’ve ever known. It seems their relationship depends on what day of the week it is. Fridays and Saturdays, her boyfriend is usually too drunk to notice she slips out during the night to meet up with an old flame. Sundays, she’s angry that he’s hung over and wants nothing more than to spend the next two days in bed. Tuesdays, they seem to get along, because it’s all-you-can-eat night at Maiko Sushi, so they usually go out on a date and then go home to have make-up sex. The other days of the week depend highly on whether or not they can find other couples to hang out with—they get along well if they don’t spend time alone together.
I’m going out with Oliver.
Who’s Oliver?
That guy I told you about. The writer who owns a coffee shop.
Cliché. Have fun with that. Text me later if you’re free.
I check for other missed messages and it’s a sad realization when I see that I have none, despite not having checked my phone at all in the last three days.
I find myself standing in front of the blank white canvas, leaning up against the wall. I briefly consider choosing what to paint, which means it’s time for a nap.
Some of the best artists of all time procrastinated as much as I do.
Chapter Three
Pretending I belong in this place
It’s a good thing I set my alarm clock. I wake up an hour before Oliver is supposed to pick me up, feeling like I haven’t even rested at all. I probably would have slept for another three hours if I hadn’t committed to going out tonight. I’m glad I did, though. I am absolutely starving and I have no food in my fridge. I pray whatever he has planned involves some kind of meal, although I know I can’t afford it. He will probably foot the bill again, much like the first night we were out together and spent a hundred dollars on alcohol alone, on top of our meal. When he asks for one check tonight I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to pay for my meal, while assuring him that I will get the next one. Perhaps I’ll be polite and offer to cover us both this time before the waitress even comes by to offer coffee or dessert, and maybe he’ll let me pay—meaning I definitely won’t have enough money for groceries anytime soon. I will have to eat Ramen noodles for two weeks if that happens.
I sit up in bed and throw my feet over the side. I reach down for the dress I left crumpled on the floor and hope there are no wrinkles in it. Since I don’t have a dryer in my apartment, I’d have to hang it in the bathroom with the shower on hot for a couple minutes to steam the wrinkles out, but I really don’t have the patience for that.
I hold it up—it’s not wrinkled. I decide I should probably wear makeup this time. I don’t think he’s ever seen me with makeup on, and I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to impress him. I reach for my foundation, and begin to dab it onto my face. It covers hundreds of freckles on my otherwise flawless skin. I used to love my freckles. My grandmother had me convinced that they were ridiculously cute. I was even proud of them, until my ex-husband told me they looked terrible and asked me to wear several layers of makeup to hide them when we were out with his buddies. Now I am ashamed of them.
The light pink blush gives my cheeks a sheer hue, and my dark purple eyeliner makes my huge hazel eyes stand out even more.
Convinced that I have done all I can to make myself look decent, I sit on my bed, staring into my mirror, and I wait.
He sends me a text that says he’s in the parking lot of my building. Gone are the days when men actually came knocking at the door, I guess.
K, coming out.
He’s wearing a suit. I can tell, even though I can barely see him through the tinted windows of his black Sonata. I can see the dark jacket and the contrasting white shirt. I’m glad I wore a dress.
I open the car door and I have to move his notebook from the seat in order to get in. I put it carefully on my lap and begin to thumb through it.
“Don’t read anything,” he asserts, sounding almost angry.
That’s not exactly fair. He went through my canvases without my permission, but I’m not allowed to glance through his writing? They are each just as personal as the other. They both express our feelings. Suddenly, my cheeks turn red. I comply with his request and I reach back, placing the notebook on the back seat.
“Have you started your painting yet?”
“You saw me just hours ago. I hadn’t started it then, and no, I still haven’t started it now,” I snap, noticeably upset that he had given me attitude for opening his notebook. I had no reason to answer in such a snotty tone; realistically, it was a valid question on his part—I had more than enough time to touch the canvas with the first couple of strokes of my brush, but I was uninspired—or just plain lazy.
“Okay.”
Okay? That’s it? Is this going to be the only conversation we have until we get wherever we’re headed? Where are we headed, anyway?
“Where are we going?” I ask, quietly.
“Vieux-Port Steakhouse. Have you been?”
“No.”
I don’t even like steak, but I assume they have more to eat than just that.
Oliver seems to know all the best places in town. As a restaurant owner himself, assessing the competition is probably a good thing, although a steakhouse doesn’t exactly compete with a small hipster coffee shop.
We make small talk until we arrive. We both seem to be in a
better mood as we walk into the dimly-lit, inviting atmosphere. We are seated beside a giant picture window and a fireplace. This place is beautiful.
Oliver orders two appetizers—one on my behalf, because the waiter has a very thick French accent, and Oliver speaks far better French than I do. A full bottle of wine is placed on our table.
“I have a cat,” I blurt out before I take a sip of wine.
“You do? I didn’t see a cat while I was over the other night.”
“He’s shy. He hides under the bed when I have company over,” I explain.
“Oh. What’s his name?”
“NyQuil, because he’s black. Are you upset?”
“No, of course not. Why would I be upset?” he asks, puzzled.
“Both of my exes hated my animals,” I mumble.
“Laur, you and I aren’t exactly together—and even if we were, I don’t hate animals.”
I’m not sure what to make of that. I mean, I knew we weren’t together but I’m a little hurt by the way he worded that. I’m not sure how any of this works. I never really dated anyone in school, and then I only had the two serious relationships after I graduated. When I married my ex-husband, I felt a sense of relief that the whole dating thing was over—almost like no matter what happened now, at least I knew I wouldn’t die alone. Little did I know he’d hurt me, scar me for life, and prevent me from ever being sane in a relationship again.
At least Oliver wasn’t upset about my cat.
“So tell me something about yourself,” he says, touching my hand. I almost instinctively pull back. It’s been so long since anyone has touched me.
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. I know you’re an artist and a cashier, you just moved here from a small town, and you have a cat. Tell me something else,” he says, smiling warmly.
