by Julia Kent
“Why? Is Trevor turning out to have a secret you need to share?”
“No! And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Fair enough. So why buy the sandals?” A slurping sound from the bottom of her drink told her it was done.
She crinkled her nose and gave Josie a long, slow eye roll. “Because they were there, and I think they cost a couple dollars.”
“Just because something’s there doesn’t mean you need it.”
“Gold. Stilettos. Men. Can. Wear,” Darla said slowly. “Besides, they cost less than that overpriced grass water you’re drinking.”
“Speaking of which, Darla, do you know why the exact same set of romance novels your mom won is sitting in there?” She yanked her thumb toward the juice cafe.
Darla brightened. “I asked them if they wanted them. Figured I’d spread the wealth!”
“And will you spread the wealth with those shoes?”
“Like what? Give them to a shoeless man? Of course.”
“Make sure you find a matching gold belt. Only fair.”
“Have you heard from Alex?”
“Way to deflect,” Josie muttered. “As a matter of fact, yes. We’ve been texting.”
“Texting? That’s it?”
“We’re taking it slow.”
“Are you sexting?”
“No. Ewww.”
“Nothing’s ewwww about sexting, you prude,” Darla argued. They began to walk slowly toward the coffee shop.
Josie snorted. “I am so not a prude.”
“When will you two actually decide to get over yourselves and get together?”
“When I figure out how to get over myself.”
The coffee shop was a long, narrow store, and the counter always was three people deep, waiting to order or hanging out to get their drink. On a whim, Josie ordered a macchiato while Darla just got a regular coffee.
“Macchiato?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“I’ll bet that’s Alex’s drink.”
Josie turned away and said nothing. A guy selling a newspaper that donated money to the homeless wore a red t-shirt that was a little too familiar. The logo was—
“Darla, are you handing out t-shirts, too?” She pointed.
Darla’s eyes lit up as she took her coffee from the barista. “That’s Juan! He sells that Spare Change newspaper all the time. I gave him a bunch of Mama’s winnings.”
“I’m glad they’re being put to good use,” Josie said, laughing softly.
Juan gave Darla a quick wave as they left. Headed home, Josie took a sip of the macchiato and screwed up her face. Too dark for her. It needed milk. The flavor was pleasant and she could appreciate the artistry of good coffee, but for her a latte meant comfort. Not just a shot of tasty caffeine. Chucking this macchiato back was a simple affair, and maybe that was the secret: a doctor on long shifts could appreciate the quality, but get it pumping through his bloodstream ASAP.
“When’s the new office ready?” Darla asked.
“Sometime next week. We need to meet up with Laura in the next few days to go over everything. I can’t believe you haven’t met her and Mike and Dylan yet!”
“A sick baby makes the world stop,” Darla said sympathetically. Jillian had come down with a light fever and a stuffy nose and Laura’s world ground to a halt. Nothing serious, Laura assured her, but it meant the three new parents were up day and night, with no time for anything but Jillian.
Meanwhile, the plans for the new business cranked on. A boutique dating service that would spread through word of mouth and very careful targeted advertising, using customized software to help people find not “The One,” but “The Two.”
Darla and Laura loved it.
“I hope Jillian’s feeling better today,” was all Josie could think to say as they paused at a stop light. This part of Cambridge had a patchwork quilt of sidewalks made of bricks, some asphalted, and some concrete. Architecture was mixed, too, from boring brick buildings to 1800s gabled homes and everything in between. As they got closer to Inman Square, the streets got a little less clean, the weeds a little more overgrown on the patches of grass that poked up between pavement, and the stores were decidedly less chic.
“Me too,” Darla added. “By the way, you need to find yourself two guys real quick.”
Halting, Josie gawked at her openly. “I need to what?”
“How can you work for a threesome dating service and have any credibility if you’ve never had a threesome, Josie?”
“How do you know I never—” Clamping her mouth shut, Josie bit off the words.
“I see,” Darla said quietly. They walked for three blocks in complete silence. Great. Just great. Now Darla thought she needed a threesome to run the business. And Darla now knew about Josie’s sex life. Could the day get any worse?
As they rounded the corner to their road, the distinct beep-beep-beep of a rather large truck backing up filled the air. Walking to their building, Josie saw it backing up right in front of the house.
Darla looked at her, brow furrowed. “You order something big?”
“No. Maybe another tenant?” The truck driver went around to the back of the truck, where they couldn’t see him. By the time they reached the building, he was unloading a huge, shrink-wrapped pallet of what looked like a hundred bags of something onto the street, using a hand-cart with a hydraulic lift.
“Hey! You Darla Jennings?” he called out.
Darla froze, turning slowly, a smile on her face. “That’s me!”
“Here. It’s for you. Sign.”
“What is it?” Josie asked, peering intently at the enormous pallet. It was half the size of her car, and looked like some sort of yard supply, like bags of mulch or potting soil.
“Cat litter,” Mr. Friendly said, nodding for Darla to sign.
“Cat litter?” Josie gasped. “That much?”
Darla handed back the clipboard and he gave her an envelope. “Okay, then. Bye,” he said, leaving the pallet on the lawn.
“Wait! No!” Josie shrieked, panicking. “You can’t just leave that there!”
“Truck delivery only, lady. You want it in your house, it’s another $150.”
“$150!” Now it was Darla’s turn to shriek. “To leave this thing on our porch?”
He put the handcart back in the truck, jumped out, closed up, and walked to the driver’s seat. “Policy.”
“POLICY?” Josie screamed. “You’re leaving me a half-ton of cat litter in my front yard and it’s POLICY?”
The roar of the engine as he took off was the only answer she got.
A tearing sound as Darla opened the envelope caught Josie’s attention. Darla pulled out a letter, read for a few seconds, and then pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ah, shit.”
“Oh God no.”
“Yep. Mama won us a lifetime supply of kitty litter.”
“Whose lifetime? Edward Cullen’s?”
“Nine lifetimes, from the looks of that pile,” Darla answered, shaking her head. The shrink-wrapped monstrosity sat, crooked, on the scraggly lawn. Most of her neighbors were at work right now, but soon they’d come home, and she did not want to deal with complaints to the landlord or any of the other myriad problems that came with enough kitty litter to fill the city swimming pool across the street.
Or, at least, that was what it felt like.
“We need to move this,” Josie said, starting to pace. The coffee hit her, making her a bit manic. “Let’s cut open the plastic and start moving the bags.”
“Josie, there is no way we can get this done without help. I can handle some of those bags, but not all. And you have the muscle mass of a decaying corpse.”
“Do not!”
“You’re right.” Darla pinched her biceps. “Even less. Damn, I’ll bet my wrist is fatter than your thighbone, girl!”
“Now is not the time to compare,” Josie said menacingly.
Darla pulled out her phone and punched s
ome numbers, then held one finger up to Josie. “Hang on.”
Josie stomped into the apartment, most certainly not willing to hang on. The view outside from the window didn’t make the pallet seem any more appealing. The taste of her macchiato burned in her mouth, reminding her too much of Alex.
Alex.
Light-hearted texting and quick little comments to each other throughout the week had been cute, but Josie didn’t want “cute.” She despised “cute.” What she wanted was more, but didn’t know how to go for it. Something was stuck between her and Alex, and figuring out how to unstick it was driving her mad.
A giant pile of kitty litter didn’t help. Flopping down on the floor, she spotted Crackhead, who was crouched under a small end table next to the couch. The cat’s eyes gleamed in the dark, and it made a mild purring noise.
“Sure, you’re happy,” she said to the cat. “You have enough kitty litter to piss in for the next three centuries.”
“Who are you talking to?” Darla asked, stepping in and closing the front door.
“Crackhead.”
“And did he tell you you’re being stupid about Alex, too?”
Josie stood and huffed off without saying a word. Storming into her bedroom, she ripped off her overly warm shirt, threw on a tank top, and stopped with her arms up as her eyes noticed something hidden under a stack of papers on a small table in her bedroom.
The book.
That fucking book.
Click. Like a telescope that shifts to focus, the movement so acute it leaves you a bit confused, Josie’s brain rotated into a position of sudden, extreme clarity.
The book.
That was the key.
Snatching it up, she stared at the cover. A Wrinkle in Time. How could time wrinkle? Closing her eyes, she willed her breath to slow, her pulse to follow, and her mind to stay clear. A picture of Alex, smiling and accepting, was part of that sharp focus.
As silly as it seemed, her baggage really was enormous, like Darla said.
Except most of it was in her hand. Right here.
This fucking book.
Eighteen years of messy internal chaos floated away and she realized she needed to open the book, start reading, and then—
Then what?
Didn’t matter. Just…then.
She would actually have a then. A future. A more.
As if on cue, her phone rang. Grabbing it from her pocket, she groaned when she saw the number. Mom.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Josie. This a bad time?”
“Actually, yes.”
Silence. Josie didn’t do that. Always accommodating, always deferring. Marlene’s voice came through with a mixture of aggression and confusion. “Well, it’s a bad time for me, too.” The whining was louder, though, than anything else.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Her voice was dispassionate steel. “If this is a bad time for you, too, then perhaps we can talk later.” Be officious. Clutching the book in her hand, she held it like a talisman, as if it could ward off evil spirits. Funny how an item she’d carried around her entire life, one she’d never been able to bring herself to open and use, could be a source of comfort in this moment.
“Well, aren’t you being a smartmouth.” Josie closed her eyes slowly. That word. There it was. Marlene began the slow burn, her words punctuated with sharp drags off her cigarette, the smoldering that Josie knew all too well. “Too busy for your poor old mother, huh? Maybe that’s why you didn’t send the money you promised? Too busy,” she spat, “playing around with Darla?”
Say nothing, she told herself. Just like when she was eleven. And fourteen. And seventeen. And twenty. Hunker down and weather the storm and just go on like nothing happened. It was easier that way.
Safer.
“You there?”
No, she wanted to say. Nope. Not here. Gone. Long gone, hiding away where you can’t hurt me, can’t snap at me, can’t bring strange men home and kick me out into the cold. Hidden in the abyss inside me that cracked open the day Daddy died, when you came home from the hospital six weeks later and told me I was the worst thing that happened to you. Far, far away from the you that you became, spiriting myself off to where the old you lived. Where the old you loved me.
“I’m here.”
“Whatcha got to say, then? I need my money, Josie,” she wheedled. “The gutters don’t fix themselves. You can pay for Darla to come out there in your fancy city, in an apartment I haven’t even seen. The only time you helped me visit was when you graduated college, and that was what? Five years ago?”
“Six.”
“How’s that music guy from your college, anyhow? He really took a shining to me.” Pause. Drag. “Might be worth moving in with you if I can see him.”
“Moving. In?” The words choked out of her as if she were on the receiving end of the Heimlich maneuver, forced out of her with a resounding gag.
“You got room for Darla. Why not me?”
“No.” The word came out before any filter could even try to catch it. Before her brain could process it. Before she could even gasp at the monstrous idea that Marlene would move to Cambridge and live with her. Her palm clamped over her mouth in shock. Had her mouth really done that?
Come to her own rescue?
“What?”
“No.” This time, it came out with deliberate force. Always evasive, using jokes and sarcasm to blunt Marlene’s pleas and demands, this time she just decided it was time to face her head on. No bullshit. No dancing the two-step while juggling live fish and doing it all spinning on top of a basketball. No worrying nineteen steps ahead, like a chess player moving not chess pieces, but her own emotions, constantly putting them in danger and making calculated moves to get just enough space to breathe—
No.
Fuck no.
She was done. Where was she supposed to have anything left over for her? For Alex? For friends and family and to build her own life? Moving six hundred miles away was supposed to give her space, but she’d made one crucial mistake in her concept of what it meant to get away: if you let the people you’re trying to leave behind live in your head, you never lose them as roommates.
“No what?”
“No to everything, Mom. No, you can’t move in.” Her heart raced, and her peripheral vision started to fade to white. Textbook panic attack, she knew, her nurse’s mind kicking in. Only it was a shame that she couldn’t be objective and couldn’t just see this for what it was.
Subjective and raw and all too viscerally real, she had to feel it. Not watch it.
“But Darla can—”
“That’s right. Darla can. Because Darla views me as a human being. Not as some object she can manipulate to get what she wants. It’s like you’ve seen me all these years since Dad died as some thing you can move around and use at will, but if I don’t comply with your demands I become an enemy.”
“That’s not—”
“So I’m done. You know that researchers did studies years ago on how to trigger mental illness in a kid, Mom? You move the goal posts. Constantly. You make sure they never feel like they’re good enough, and when you tell them how to do something and they do it that way, then you pull the rug out from under them and insist that you never said what they damn well know you said. It’s a damned miracle I’m not more fucked up than I am.”
“Oh, honey, you’re not fucked up.” Marlene’s voice had turned unctuous, a fake affect that made Josie’s fillings hurt. This was the voice she had used publicly when Josie hurt herself, a “doting mother” tone that made others smile in approval. The same tone she used when Josie won awards. Or impressed an adult. A far cry from real life and so painfully different from Marlene’s authentic self that it could be crazymaking.
“I’m not giving you the money.” Much more of this and her vision really would disappear. Her shoulders were above her ears, and a strange pulsing sound was starting to swallow the room. Was that her pulse in her ears? Would she descend into a fugue state if
this went on much longer? Blacking out wasn’t her idea of fun, but she wasn’t sure she could stand much more of this.
Click.
Oh. Well. That was that.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Josie couldn’t get the thought out of her mind. Never. Never had she stood up to Marlene. Never ever. Slinking around, hiding, running away—those Josie could do. Standing and facing a problem? Nope. That meant you got hurt—physically or emotionally. Being emotionally honest about feelings? Pfft—what were those? Marlene made it aaaall about her anyhow, so why bother? And when you made yourself vulnerable, it just gave people one more way to spear you.
Alex. Alex wasn’t like that.
The book’s pages were crushed in her hand, half the paperback wrinkled.
Grabbing her keys and sprinting out the door past Darla, who now sat on the porch, she reached her car and that clarity she felt earlier came back.
She knew exactly where she was going.
“Where are you going?” Darla shouted. “I got Trevor and the rest of the band coming to help with this,” she said, pointing to the kitty litter. Josie stared at her, at the pile of bags, but didn’t really connect with what Darla was saying. She had to get out.
Now.
“Great. I’ll be back.” She got in the car.
“When?”
“When I finish unfuckupping myself.”
“That could take years! Where are you going?”
“To the library!” she shouted, revving the engine and pulling out of her parking spot, everything in her aligned for a single purpose, her clarity turning the abyss inside into a minimalist shelter from the storm of what was about to be unleashed.
“Crackhead! Hey, Crackhead!” Darla shouted from the porch as Alex rounded the corner. Trevor, Joe, and two other guys about their age were in the front yard, moving large bags of sand from a pallet in the yard on to the porch.
“I might do ’shrooms and some pot, but I don’t touch crack,” a red-headed guy said drolly.
“Is that a term of endearment, Darla?” Alex called out.
She planted her hands on her hips and smiled. “I feel right at home when I'm shouting for that cat.” She laughed, the sound eerily similar to Josie's cackle. “Dr. Perfect. How’s your head?”
