These Things About Us

by Laura Beege

  “He’s an ass,” Wes whispered and grabbed my plate, too, carrying it back to our table and abandoning Trace’s tea and Panini.

  I had to remember that I was the nice girl here. It really was Trace who behaved like an ass, not me. So I balanced Trace’s order with my coffee and wobbled over. At least I made sure to clonk his stuff down hard, almost making the tea spill.

  He grumbled something that didn’t sound like thanks.

  “You’re welcome,” I said anyway.

  “You’re not,” he said.

  My therapist had said to avoid toxic situations and toxic people to have the best possible fresh start. I wondered if she meant people like Trace, too, or only people like my father. Criminals. Then again, violence was a crime, so Trace was toxic. I’d have to find a way to move around him, and I’d have to keep that in mind before I’d run over to his room to confront him again.

  Nobody said a word for a couple of minutes. At least the chewing and sipping excused the lack of conversation, until Wesley’s phone rang and he jumped out of his chair.

  “Okay, you two have to promise not to rip each other apart. I’ve got to run. A friend needs to see me before class.” Wes carried his plate off, grabbed his paper cup and stepped around the table to press a quick kiss to the top of my head. “See you later.”

  “Uh… yeah. Bye.” Apparently we were still playing this game. My fake One Night Stand turned into a fake relationship and I hadn’t even been noticed.

  The second Wes was out the door, Trace jumped up without a word and stormed out, too, leaving me alone with the barista and his half-eaten Panini. I cut off the part with his bite marks and claimed the rest for myself. I didn’t mind him leaving, and even less so him leaving me half his food. This girl was having a royal breakfast. I even popped the lid off his cup and tasted the tea, but spit it right back into the cup.

  “God, that’s horrible,” I mumbled.

  A guy with that many tattoos didn’t strike me as one to drink his tea this sweet. I hadn’t even noticed him pouring a bucket of sugar into it. I’d definitely stick with my coffee.

  Once I’d stuffed myself, I bought another cup of coffee to go and wandered around Clapham sipping off it.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The houses were rows and rows of the same run-down architecture. It wasn’t noteworthy anymore after rounding the second corner. And the shops weren’t exactly exotic either. Small supermarkets, a barber shop, a couple of restaurants.

  There was really no use in walking around here. I wouldn’t magically spot my mother on the street, unless she ran up to me and shoved her hand with the birthmark into my face. She wouldn’t look like the woman in the picture anymore. But if she did still run around with hair that reached her hips, two rings around every finger and deep purple lips, I didn’t even want to find her. She wouldn’t be much better than Dad.

  Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop myself from reading the name tags on mailboxes and doors, not spotting a single Lawrence in the two hours it took me to get back to The Dirty Dungeon.

  The lights were on, but it was the first time I saw the bar completely empty. No one stood behind the counter and not a seat was occupied. You’d think someone had to stay close to the booze and the money, but I was alone. I was just beginning to feel misplaced when the door slammed open and Trace ran in, immediately frozen the second he spotted me. Way to make me feel welcome.

  “You’re going to kill me, Kitty.”

  “I’ve decided to avoid you at all costs. So relax, you won’t have to worry about your death just yet.”

  He ran his hands over his face and pressed past me. With a single blow of his fist he almost knocked down the door to the office. Trace had already disappeared into the hallway leading up the stairs, when Alex poked his head out the door.

  “You’re back,” he smiled. “I was worried you might not find back on your own.”

  “I’m actually pretty good at navigating my way around.”

  “Trace didn’t bring you?”

  “No, but he just came in…”

  He’d ordered his son around for my benefit. Again. There was no way I was going to live in ignorance and bliss if Alex kept pushing Trace. Somehow I doubted Trace would snap at his father when he had me to hate.

  “I’ve got to do something upstairs…”

  “Sure. It’s good to know you’re back safely.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed and escaped to the top floor.

  Trace just stepped out of his room, having changed into sweat shorts and well… nothing else. Except running shoes. But I still had a great view of the spider on his neck, his tattoo that embraced his arm up to his shoulder, the poppy on his left chest and some jagged swirls that ran down his side, to the front of his hips and into his pants. And beneath all those tattoos were tense muscles.

  “Do you want to take a picture?”

  My head snapped up. “Uh, no, uhm, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to stare. I just…”

  “Wasn’t the plan to avoid me?”

  “Yes. I just wanted to apologize. Your dad shouldn’t have made you go look for me. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I’d have Wesley up my ass if you went missing.”

  “Right,” I breathed, forcing myself not to freaking look at his chest. Oh, God, I was failing at this. Couldn’t he put some clothes on? “Well, I can look after myself.”

  “Whatever you say. Are you going to let me go now or do I have to carry you out of my way?”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “And I’m not joking about moving you away myself.” He stepped forward, his hands already outstretched. He was so not going to touch me. I bolted to my room, before he could get another step closer.

  Avoidance was the new black.

  Considering that motto, I grabbed the box from my bed and shoved it beneath it. I didn’t dare look what might hide under there, so my mother’s maybe-helpful box was safely tucked away from my itching fingertips. I’d try the phone number. Again and again and again, and only if that turned out to be the ultimate dead end, I’d get the box out again. I could save myself from disappointment this way. At least I’d postpone it.

  All I needed now, was something to take my mind off the box and its contents. Like finding an adapter for my phone charger. That was a good task.

  I clapped my hands together. It was time to take a look at London and its tech stores. And I’d have to be done by 6pm, unless I wanted to sleep on the street because I didn’t turn up for work.

  Okay, I was late. I was really, really late. Five minutes already. I was never again taking the bus, especially not the one that went in the wrong direction.

  I ran into The Dirty Dungeon and sprinted into the office to get the apron. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I pleaded to Alex who was sitting behind the glass desk of his, staring intently at his computer screen. “I was getting on the bus, but it was the wrong one and I changed onto the right one eventually, but the schedule was all messed up and it took forever to get here. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Tony.” His voice was stern. He was going to throw me out. He hated me being late. Or worse, he’d found out about me kind of doing it with his son. “Take a breath. You look like you’re about to be sent to prison. I just opened up a minute ago. You can relax.”

  “Oh…” My lungs deflated.

  “Just don’t make it a habit.”

  “Of course not.” I nodded.

  “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

  “Can I leave my bag here? I’m going to take it upstairs later.”

  He nodded and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. It was the most distant response I’d gotten from him since I came here on Thursday, but he was my boss after all, not a friend. I wasn’t in a position to question it, so I went back out to see Trace joking with the French guy, Jean, while popping open a bottle of beer for him.

  The new black told me to go and pick some music and not make eye contact under
any circumstances. I’d pull off working next to him without ever glancing in his general direction. There were enough other things to focus on.

  I took my time letting my finger travel up and down the tower of CDs, until I picked one with a mostly black cover. I’d heard of the band, but I wasn’t sure if I’d ever heard a single song of theirs.

  “I hadn’t picked you for a Black Sabbath fan.”

  I turned around to a thirty-something guy sitting down in a bar stool. Drops of paint were dried in his messy black hair and his smile was cigarette yellow. Waitress mode had me smiling and stand across from him, even if I wanted to run and fetch him a tooth brush and a shower.

  “I’m glad you like it. What can I get you?”

  “Bulmers Pear,” he said, and then as if he just remembered his manners he added, “Please.” If you started working in a bar, you could hardly go around judging people for downing alcohol in the afternoon. A lot of people were drinking way earlier. I knew that but I had to restrain myself from pointing him towards support meetings anyway. “I hope you stay longer than the last one. It would be a pity to lose another girl because of that guy.”

  He probably nodded towards Trace. I couldn’t check, because I wasn’t going to look in that direction. “How long did the last one stay?”

  “Three days.” This guy knew his waitresses.

  “Then I have only two more days to go to beat her. That won’t be a problem, I think.”

  “I’m Reese, by the way.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, so I put my hand in his and introduced myself. Right afterwards, I went for the couple that just entered and could not possibly have picked anything yet, but it gave me the opportunity to wipe Reese’s sweat off my fingers unseen.

  The rest of the night was pretty uneventful. The pub filled around seven and didn’t start emptying until past 1am. Wesley had joined us but we barely talked thanks to customers yelling orders from every corner. He didn’t seem very surprised at the full house, so I took it this was a Saturday thing. And when we were finally wrapping up, I had no energy left to word a single syllable. Even my tongue was exhausted. I just took my bag from the office and followed Wes upstairs.

  “You did well today,” he smiled.

  I hoped an appreciative “Hmm…” was enough thanks for the compliment.

  He bumped his shoulder lightly into mine, before he forked off into his room. Back in my own four walls, a white paper bag waited on my bed. I hadn’t been up here since this morning, and I was sure that this bag did not belong to me. I was equally sure I’d locked the door.

  Maybe it was a prank, and I’d get slimed if I opened it. Maybe it was a bomb.

  I was willing to take my chances with either option, as long as I’d get into bed. I grabbed the bag and ripped it open, almost letting the bagel fall to the floor. I caught it just in time. It smelled deliciously like cinnamon and a smudge of white creamy stuff on my hand proved to be vanilla chocolate spread. The only thing keeping me from devouring the bagel right away was the certainty that Trace had somehow broken into my room and put the bag on my bed.

  Maybe the thing was dangerous after all. It could be poisoned.

  I was exaggerating. Probably. But I’d managed to barely glance in his direction all night, so I wasn’t about to accept possibly lethal gifts from him. I smashed the bag and the bagel with it into the trash can and crawled into bed. Somehow I managed to strip my clothes off, too, but I didn’t even bother putting on my night shirt. I just. Needed. Sleep.

  I wasn’t sure if I had slept five minutes or five hours. My limbs were still out, but my lights were on. I probably left them on. My drowsy brain didn’t remember. Why was I even awake? Just as I rolled over and hugged the pile of pillows and blankets, the knocking picked up again.

  Someone was outside my door. I shot up in bed. My clothes were missing. I was practically naked and someone was about to break my door with their very urgent fist.

  “Just a second,” I croaked, hoping they’d hear.

  I quickly jumped out of bed. I still had to cover up. Whisking the blanket out with too much power, it swung over my head, and my arms got tangled up in it, and my soggy legs were not up for the task of balancing the swing just yet. I lost balance and crashed into the dresser. The wood bit into my back. A muffled cry escaped my throat. Something crashed to the floor. And the blanket didn’t cover me up the way I’d hoped.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  That was Trace’s voice. Why was Trace in my room?

  “Get out!” I shrieked. “I’m not dressed!”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m not,” I screamed and tried to find my way out of the blanket.

  “Stop flailing.”

  “I’m not.”

  I felt the weight of his hands above my head and around my face as the covers were lifted and pushed back. I’d expected him to rip them off, if at all, instead he freed my head first. His long fingers picked away some loose curls, before he finally adjusted the giant thing around my shoulders like a poncho. I just blinked at him but he didn’t look at me, not really, he was looking at the outcome of his meticulous work.

  “Don’t fucking move. I’m getting toilet paper before you bleed all over the floor. – Don’t deny it again. You are bleeding.” He pointed down and I bent forward to see what he was referring to.

  There was a slim gash on my ankle. Red was pooling next to my foot. It didn’t hurt. Or maybe it did but my brain was still too busy, trying to make sense of what I’d just witnessed from Trace. He’d been almost as careful with me as with the CD.

  Trace rushed back into my room with a plastic bag and a toilet paper. I only now realized that he was still dressed from yesterday in the same dark green band shirt and faded black jeans.

  Okay, so I remembered what he’d been wearing. Maybe I had stolen a glance at him a couple of times.

  “What time is it?” I rubbed at my eyes and kneeled down with one leg, taking the toilet paper roll from him. I ripped off big chunks and dropped them onto the blood, watching the color spread through them in slow motion.

  “Around four, I guess.”

  “You should go to bed.”

  “I don’t have any pills left. Give me that.” He ripped the roll from my hand and started wiping up the blood, instead of letting it soak through the paper first.

  “You take sleeping pills?”

  “Them or the girls, whichever’s around.” He punched the stained paper into the plastic bag and threw the bag into the trash can. “You didn’t like the bagel?”

  “I don’t usually eat stuff that pops up in my room out of nowhere.” I wrapped some toilet paper around my ankle like a bandage. It looked like Dr. Frankenstein had taken to my foot.

  “It’s just a bagel.”

  “Why did you put a bagel in my room in the first place?”

  “It was a test.” He brushed his hands off on his shirt, furrowed his brows at me and stepped towards the door. “You should put some clothes on, Kitty.”

  And just like that he was out the door. “Wha…” I would have jumped after him but the toilet paper began to unfurl from my ankle the second I took a step forward.

  How did you test someone with a bagel?

  Five

  On Monday, Sierra was introduced to me as ‘the other waitress’. She was very freshly married and, according to her own words, not the least bit interested in Trace. He wasn’t her type, was what she said, but I caught her openly staring at him over the course of the evening. Not that I didn’t see where she was coming from. If you could look past the studs and rings and the ink, Trace was, objectively viewed, quite handsome. The second I considered such things, however, he shot me a dark glare and reminded me that I was still all about avoiding him, even after the strange bagel incident and witnessing his helpful side.

  “What you doing tomorrow night?” Sierra stopped beside me. Her jet black hair dangled freely in dozens of tiny braids. I wondered if she’d
gotten those on her honeymoon or always wore her hair like this.

  “Uhm, working, I guess.” I shrugged and handed Trace my notepad, so he could make the drinks on the list.

  She rolled her dark eyes. “The pub’s closed on Tuesdays.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged again. “Then I don’t know.”

  “You coming out with us,” she grinned. “I’ve got to get to know my new work BFF, and there’s no better place to do that than on a dance floor.”

  “I don’t really like partying.” Anymore.

  Sierra helped unloading my tray and setting the used glasses down in the dish washer. “I’m taking you dancing, not partying. There’s a big difference, Darling.”

  She’d picked up the ‘darling’ from Alex. Anything was better than Antonia, really. If I could get Wes to think of a nickname, too, I could drop my name altogether. It was the last thing, DNA excluded, that linked me to my father.

  “Okay.” Frankly, I had no desire to go either partying or dancing, but I might be out long enough to miss the loud climax of Trace’s next bedfriend.

  “Perfect. You just need a boy, now. ‘Cause you can’t tango alone. Anyone in mind? I could just hook you up with a friend…”

  She had to wait for my response, while I served a couple of girls their cider. They were fawning over Trace, giggling and asking for his name. The second it was over my lips, I regretted it, because two of them started cooing it loudly in his direction.

  On my way back to behind the bar, I passed by Sierra, who was collecting a couple of plates. “I’m going to ask Wes.”

  I dropped back against the sink and let out a sigh. My shift was almost over and I couldn’t wait to run to my room and check if the phone book’s last Theresa Lawrence had called back. With my phone charged, she’d hopefully have my number displayed. If someone called me ten times a day, I’d check in with them.