Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld

by Rachel Blaufeld

  College had never really been a possibility for me. Financially, my mom couldn’t swing it, and my stepdad needed help on the farm. Not to mention, I didn’t really care about it. I was all too thrilled to oblige my stepdad after he’d put up with my shit for so many years.

  Sophomoric, yes. By the way, I knew that word long before moving to New York. I might be a country guy, but I’m no idiot.

  A little Footloose-ish, you betcha. And, yes, I’ve seen that movie—both versions—with Moira in my lap, under a blanket, her hands wandering.

  Bottom line, it was hard to see myself doing anything else but dairy farming alongside Bruce until he retired. I’d always pictured marrying Moira. We’d have a few kids, buy the farm from my mom and Bruce, and live the way I’d grown up. Quiet. Peaceful.

  Except, my kids would have their biological dad.

  I’d grown up just fine on that farm until my sperm donor showed up, dust blowing around the tires of his chauffeur-driven town car while he tossed around bribes. I imagined money burning as the driver left the car running.

  Now, here I was sitting in a classroom, listening to some highbrow professor drone on about macroeconomics, Apple versus Dell computers specifically, while nineteen- and twenty-year-old girls whispered all around me. Not in the mood for it, I stood to go, packing up my shit in my backpack.

  “Hey, one sec,” a redheaded beauty with a set of fake tits called to me. “Here.”

  She shoved a slip of paper into my hand. Her number, probably, but I never got to open it because the prof called me out.

  “Have somewhere better to be, Mr. Barnes?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  I shoved the paper back into the redhead’s hand and looked up. “Not feeling so hot. I’ll get the notes.” I half saluted Professor Sykes and made my way up the stairs and out of the lecture hall.

  The hallway was quiet, which was a beautiful reprieve from life in Manhattan. I took a moment to drink in the solitude, yearning for wide-open spaces, blue skies, and a cold beer while sitting on the tailgate of my pickup.

  I’m too old for this crap.

  “But this type of opportunity is like lightning in a bottle.”

  My mom’s words echoed in my brain, making me want to shake my head until they rattled the hell out. Leaning back into the wall, I closed my eyes and breathed in the silence. My heart beat steadily, and I swallowed any regrets I had about accepting this college education and the apartment—essentially, a chance at having more in life than the farm.

  My mom wanted me to be better than Bruce, than her. What she didn’t consider was she’d tried that route, shacking up with my dad for a few years, and what did she get out of it? A toddler and a bruised ego.

  Pushing off the brick, I made my way down the hall and the stairs to the exit. With an hour until my next class, I decided to grab a sandwich. I burst out into the sunlight just as a tiny raven-haired tornado ran right into me.

  “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . . I didn’t see you,” she mumbled. In painted-on jeans, a black tank tied on the side in one of those knot-type things, and the requisite bright-colored Chucks on her feet, she struggled to find her footing.

  I didn’t know why, but my hand moved to swipe the long black hair out of her face as she stood. There was a shit ton of it, falling like a curtain in front of her delicate features. When she looked up, staring back at me were a pair of green eyes the color of sea glass, equal parts bewildered and determined.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Need help?” I asked, despite seeing she was fine and didn’t need anything.

  “No. Are you okay?” She ran her hand up and down in the air, motioning at my body.

  “I’m fine. Would take a lot more than a skinny little thing like you to do damage to me.” I mimicked her hand waving, swiping my large mitt in the air, motioning up and down her body.

  “Okay, then. I’ll just be on my way.”

  It was then I realized I’d been holding the door open this whole time. We were half in, half out of the building.

  “Be my guest.” I waved for her to enter, and then I somewhat sadly exited.

  That was it.

  Good-bye and good luck, sweetie.

  Slouched in the back booth of one of those froufrou café places a little later, I pulled out a book and bit into my egg and turkey bacon on an English muffin.

  Yes, you heard me right. 1. Egg. 2. Turkey bacon. 3. English muffin.

  It was like one of those riddles on the SAT—which, by the way, I wished I hadn’t taken on a whim in high school, because it made this whole NYC bullshit that much easier.

  Which two of the above three things does not belong?

  If you answered numbers two and three, you win. Ding, ding, ding! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

  Who the fuck ate turkey bacon? Not a soul where I came from. And an English muffin was a poor excuse for a biscuit.

  Just as I sank my teeth into the last bite of nourishment—because turkey bacon couldn’t possibly be classified as delicious—someone took the table next to me.

  Not one for coffee-shop talk, I took a swig of my OJ and lowered my face deeper into my book.

  “Cannery Row? We read that in high school,” a female voice said, interrupting my quiet time.

  “Hmm.” I nodded without looking up, desperately trying to maintain invisible boundaries.

  The smell of fresh coffee filled my nostrils, making me think of my mom. She loved her morning coffee. Every day, she made a big pot and drink her first mug on the wraparound porch, sometimes wrapped in a flannel blanket.

  “You okay?” Another interruption.

  Looking up, I found the black-haired beauty who’d run into me earlier. “Yeah, why?” Slapping my worn book on the table, I suddenly had beef with the pixie extrovert.

  “You were reading, and all of a sudden looked really sad. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just . . .”

  I swallowed, wondering how the hell I looked sad, and then I remembered I was thinking of my mom. So I miss her. I’m no less of a man. It doesn’t make me a mama’s boy.

  “I’m cool,” I said, rather than explaining the truth.

  “We just saw each other.” She paused, obviously wanting to chat more, and I nodded.

  “You go to school here?” I finally asked.

  “No. It’s nice, though. I was just looking for someone in that building. Didn’t find her.” She whispered the last part to herself. Only listless for a second, she brightened back up. “Are you a grad student?”

  “Ha,” I barked. “What? I look too old to play the part of undergrad?”

  I was on the bench seat of my booth, my feet kicked out in front of me; she sat opposite me, on the chair side of her table. I wondered if her feet even touched the floor. Compared to my six-foot-two-inch frame, she’d barely hit my chest when we collided earlier.

  “Um . . .” She looked away, pink rising in her cheeks.

  Leaning forward, I ran my palm over my scruff, trying to remember when I last shaved. “Returning adult student is what I think they call it. School wasn’t really in my cards before, and now it is. So here I am.”

  Sitting quietly, she didn’t respond, just raised her brows as if waiting for more of an explanation.

  I didn’t give her anything more. My story wasn’t all that interesting, anyway.

  Finally, she gave me an embarrassed smile. “Sorry . . . God, that’s all I seem to say to you. I moonlight as a bartender. People just usually seem to want to tell me their troubles. I thought you might.”

  “Nope, not this person. I don’t.”

  “It’s just, you look a little older than the average undergrad. That’s all,” she said, still pecking at me.

  “Anyone ever mention you look a little younger than the average bartender?”

  “I’ll have you know, you only have to be eighteen to legally tend bar in New York State. Ask my boss if you don’t believe me.”

 
Eighteen. I had to keep myself from laughing out loud. Covering my amusement with a smirk, I said, “Does that mean you tend bar illegally?”

  “Not here. But sometimes back at home, I’d run the bar at Smithy’s Seafood, during the off season . . . which, come to think of it,” she rambled, clearly on a roll, “it makes it all the funnier that my dad wouldn’t let me spend the night with my boyfriend, yet I was responsible for serving alcohol at Smithy’s.” She laughed quietly at herself.

  “Sounds like you’re the one in need of someone to tell their problems to. Maybe you should sit on the other side of the bar.” I raised a brow. “Oh, maybe you can’t? Not old enough, right?”

  Seeming unfazed, she waved her hand in front of her face, faint freckles peppering her perfectly shaped nose—although she looked far from all Miss Fancy Pants. “Never mind. I don’t know what’s got into me, chatting to a stranger about my problems. Not really problems. I’m fixing it all.”

  Without another word, she picked up her phone and began tapping away at the screen.

  Something about this firecracker with a long mane of black hair got to me. “I’m not really a stranger. This is the second time we’ve met.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Don’t think you’ve found yourself some desperate little hussy willing to get with the first man who lays eyes on her in this big, bad city. I may be young, but I’m not dumb.”

  “Whoa.” I got up and slid into her booth, sitting directly across from her. “All I meant was . . . it seemed like you needed an ear, and I’d be willing to lend one. Since you can’t go to a bar and all that. I’m not even from this big, bad, piece-of-shit city, so maybe that helps.”

  “Well, I’m good. All good. It was a momentary lapse in judgment. You can go back to your own table.”

  She waved her hand in a shooing motion, and her tank strap fell down her shoulder, revealing an emerald-green bra strap bright against her golden skin. Suddenly, her eyes weren’t the only thing intriguing about her.

  Forcing myself not to stare for more than a second, I raised my gaze to meet hers as she yanked her strap back up. “For the record, I agree with your dad. I know all about what teenage boyfriends want to do, and he was right. No sleepovers.”

  “Apparently, my boyfriend agreed too. So there you have it, Mr. Know-It-All. It’s been nice knowing ya.” She shoved her phone in her purse and stood to go.

  “It’s Price,” I called after her as she hurried to the door.

  Price

  “How was your day, Mr. Price?” George, a different doorman on shift, greeted me by the name I’d finally trained them all to call me.

  “Interesting, more so than most,” I said, tossing him a crumb.

  “Really? You don’t say.” He stared at me, his right eyebrow raised.

  “Yep,” was all I gave up while pushing the button to call the elevator.

  I’d ended up being fifteen minutes late to my next class after exchanging verbal jabs with the chick in the coffee place. Something about her took up residence in my mind.

  She was a deadly combo; one I’d never come across. Confident, yet not entirely so. Bold, but not always. Young and wise—somewhat. She was a confusing blend of contradictions, like an injured bird and a deadly stallion. Remember those tube-shaped kaleidoscope toys from when you were little? You’d squint, look into the small peephole, and see a myriad of geometric shapes and colors morphing into some strangely obscure pattern. That was my mysterious girl to the naked eye.

  I literally shook my head trying to clear any thoughts of her, annoyed that I didn’t even get her fucking name.

  Upstairs in my apartment, I tossed my backpack on the couch and opened the fridge to snag a bottled water and an apple. After kicking off my shoes, I plopped on the couch, my jeans sliding on the leather.

  “I hate this shit,” I mumbled to myself.

  Freaking expensive leather and fancy rugs. My body craved the smell of hay and fresh-turned earth. Crunching on the apple, I pulled out my phone and texted my mom.

  Hey, Mom, how’s it going?

  Immediately, the dot-filled bubble appeared. We might have to drive to Hershey for a mall, but we do have Wi-Fi and iPhones on the farm.

  Taking another bite of my sorry excuse for an apple, I waited for my mom’s reply.

  All good here. Bruce is busy getting ready for the apple-picking season. There’ll be lots of field trips. How’s the big city? School?

  I felt my cheeks puff out with my long sigh.

  City is strange as usual. School is good. Classes are okay. Wish I was there to help. You good? Taking care of yourself?

  Don’t worry, I’m good. Moira is going to help on weekends in September. You do your thing.

  That’s the point: this wasn’t exactly my thing. It was my father’s thing, a man I never knew. How could he know what I wanted out of life? And where the fuck had he been all these years if he was so concerned about me?

  As if my mom could read my mind, she texted again.

  Your dad, whether he was around or not, wanted this for you. Take it.

  That had been my mom’s position since the asshole showed up in the driveway, waving the promise of a degree like holding a bone in front of a dog’s nose. Except, my mom was the dog, not me.

  “I know you love to read, and not some bullshit graphic novels. You like to write and have a mind for business,” my father had said confidently, like he’d witnessed this all firsthand. Which he most certainly hadn’t.

  I’d given my mom the side-eye for even speaking my name, let alone sharing my interests with this man. Clearly, my parents been in touch without my knowledge, which was a swift punch to the gut.

  “Christ, Price, you don’t want to be stuck here on the farm for the rest of your life,” he’d said. “Be a filmmaker, an Indian chief, a journalist who travels.”

  I’d stared at the man, not able to conjure up one inkling of similarities between us, other than I could see where my olive skin and thick, dark hair came from. Otherwise, absolutely nothing called to me from this man.

  With Moira tucked into my side, her hand pushing into my back, silently telling me to go, take what was being offered, I knew she’d known this was coming. Obviously, my mom had known and told her. Bruce had known and not said a word. It had all been decided before I even knew about it.

  I was going to college, the first on my mom’s side of the family to go.

  Clearly, I wasn’t going to be the first not to go on my father’s side.

  I’m going to come home for a weekend too. I’ll let you know when.

  I sent my mom one last text before tossing my phone on the coffee table.

  Lounging back into the couch, I closed my eyes, and the raven-haired beauty came to mind again.

  What was she looking for? Why was she bartending at eighteen and not in school? What was that sad look in her eyes when she’d mentioned not finding who she was looking for?

  Deciding I couldn’t dwell on a girl—especially one I really knew nothing about—I went for a run and came back to my book and a plate of pasta.

  Emerson

  Bev sat across from me at the bar. “Crap, this is a schlep coming out here. I’m taking an Uber home. No E train for me.”

  “Thanks for coming, though,” I said, wiping the bar in front of her.

  I didn’t know why or what had possessed me, but I’d stopped at the bakery this week to say hi. I guessed I liked her; something about Bev drew me to her. I wouldn’t say this aloud, but she felt like home to me. Plus, I didn’t really have anyone else in this big city, so I sought her out like a bee to honey.

  This past Wednesday, when I didn’t have to bartend until five, I’d spent some time in the city searching for Paula Philip since my lead at the college didn’t pan out, and suddenly found myself hangry for a cookie. I’d gone to the bakery, catching it during a lull, and Bev and I had sat for an hour, just laughing and, and it felt good. When I’d told her about my two jobs, she’d
promised to come see me at the bar today. I’d promised to sneak her in, and here we were.

  “Place is nice, though,” Bev said, looking around. “Yuppie crowd. Bet you make good money.”

  “It’s decent. What can I get you? It’s on me after you schlepped all the way out to Astoria.” I rolled my eyes in jest, checking on Trey, my supervisor and the head bartender. He was busy making an Instagram post, which would take him ten minutes until he got it just right.

  “Whiskey sour, extra cherries.”

  I tossed a napkin labeled TVRN on the table in front of her and grabbed a lowball glass. “Interesting choice in drinks.”

  “Eh, seemed fitting, plus it’s been a shit day. I need something to knock it out of me.”

  “What happened?”

  See? Like I told that douche back in the bakery, people love to tell bartenders their problems.

  Setting her drink in front of her, I said, “Spill it. It’s quiet right now.” I looked at my watch, noting it was a quarter to five. “We won’t be for long, especially on a Friday.”

  “My mom is bad again. Found a lump under her arm. They don’t know what it all means, and she’s a wreck, trying not to show it. But I know. I just know she’s a mess.”

  Leaning on the bar, I rearranged my messy bun and listened. “That’s rough. What will they do next? I don’t know your mom, but she sounds like a fighter. She’ll attack this.”

  Bev took another sip of her drink, sniffing back her fear and the impending onset of tears. “Surgery, maybe chemo.”

  “Ugh, gotta be rough. I can’t imagine something like that happening to my dad . . . even if he’s been a dick.”

  She blinked several times, swallowing hard. “All she has is me to take care of her, but she wants me to go stay with a friend, so I don’t have to see her like that. I can’t do that. You wouldn’t, would you?”

  “Of course. I mean, I don’t know what it’s like to be close to a mother, but yeah, you need to be there for her.”